Twenty seven years later and I am more of an urban geographer than I ever was as a seven year old child. I am making the journey from Vantaa into Helsinki. I look up nervously as we pass under motorway bridges mimicking giant reed flute caves armed with solid ice stalactites heavy and sharp enough to impale this number 615 bus. I manage to arrive safely on the north side of Rautatientori Square, the pumping heart of another new city and the farthest east that I have ever ventured. I am belittled by the Finnish National Theatre and even at night this Art Nouveau statement is impressive with its sober facades carving out the political legitimacy of National Romanticism.

I glance up at the illuminated Rautatientori clock tower that times the dense ganglion of trains, trams and buses that branch out into Helsinki and beyond. At first there is nothing much to be seen here except snow and elevated neon signage under a velvet black sky, the dirty snow has already installed itself and the clean snow is moving in behind. On the short walk to Kruununhaka the childhood stage begins on the icy streets where walking has to be relearned. In the sub zero temperatures water has temporarily lost its battle with gravity as I step over icy tongues hanging out of the mouths of vertical drain pipes.

Any city is a labyrinth for the newcomer. I start thinking about the simplicity behind Anton Corbijn’s photos and I would later be captivated by his ‘Retrospective’ exhibition in Tennispalatsi. Corbijn’s black and white shots of U2 in Death Valley encapsulated the Irish in America in a place ‘where the streets have no name’.
In Helsinki however, it is not that the streets have no names but rather strange and bewildering ones. My Belfast pronunciation of Mannerheimintie, Kaisaniemenkatu or Pohjoisesplanadi will surely always sound a little odd to the Finns.

After some urban walking and anecdotal observations I notice that the streets are yoked together by squares around Rautatientori and at Hakaniemi where market stalls are scattered across coble stones. The secondary bus depot is also based at Rautatientori Square that feels busy but more open on the eastern side extending towards Mikonkatu. I have since exited from the main south entrance of the Central Railway Station to feel four pairs of eyes on my back. On either side of the massive castle like doors Eliel Saarinen’s muscular upper body statues hold glowing spherical lamps that radiate a soft glow on to the faces of the commuters who pass between them everyday. Directly across the Kaivokatu I am stuck by Makkaratalo’s decorative railing coiled around the third floor parking lot. I was not surprised to learn that this ‘sausage house’ topped a Helsinki Sanomat poll as the ugliest building in the city.

The level of pictorial advertising in Helsinki is noticeable much in the same way as it is in American or British cities. Image laden walls around office buildings and scaffolding offer the finest static surfaces for informing the denizens of the latest fashion trends. Adverts are not always so static. Now and then you see trams painted all over with some brand, Ray-Ban ‘Genuine since 1937: never hide’. People are encouraged to appreciate the hue of Helsinki’s sky through the latest sunglasses, Outsiders Original Wayfarer, Aviator Large Metal, Original Clubmasters or the slick
Jackie Ohh II design.

Travel by tram should be more than anything else a journey into a past that I never experienced. Belfast’s electrically powered trams provided service until the system closed in 1954, nineteen years before I was even born at the Ulster Hospital. In Glasgow’s Museum of Transport I would sit on the No. 3 Coronation tram that used to travel south along Union Street at Gordon Street. With its rounded front panels and enclosed top I could only guess at how many of the twelve million people that this eight wheeled bogie carried to the 1938 Empire Exhibition in Bellahouston Park.

It’s March 2008 and I am making my daily commute to the geography department at the University of Helsinki. I am listening to the Blade Runner ‘End Titles’ on my iPod. I am on a low floor tram snaking up Hämeentie* *towards Kumpula where I see the giant football shaped radar that balances on top of the observatory tower. The giant football looks like it could be kicked off its elevated penalty spot to win some cosmic world cup final making one player the brightest star in the galaxy. It is quite something to watch a city burst into life to Vangelis’s synthesized futuristic music that still sounds ahead its time. I saw motorways carry heavy traffic under bridges from Junatie, a gateway to the Leposaari. All that cellulose caught in the Finnish sun is lost as cars belt under the tram and the smell of kerosene fades east towards Alppila.

Perhaps I don’t have to be able to properly pronounce the strange names of Helsinki’s streets and districts to truly appreciate it as a city. As for learning the language, well that’s an entirely different matter.

I allowed one hour for travel, one hour to check in and a 15 minute safety margin. At 5am in the morning the roads were clear and the journey took 45 minutes. I parked, crossed the road, exchanged my pre booked parking ticket for a pass out of the car park (to use when I return), checked in and passed through security all within 10 – 15 minutes.

The experience is so easy when compared to the pain of flying from one of the big London airports like Heathrow or Gatwick that I sit in the departure lounge holding a cup of coffee wondering what I’ve missed. I have a moments panic as I look for my suitcase before I remember I’ve already checked it in.

The shopping opportunities at Bournemouth are minimal as the whole airport facility seems to consist of three portable cabins bolted together. They haven’t even levelled the ground so there is a ramp between each of the prefabricated units.

I’m determined to be calm about the flight so as we charge down the runway I focus on my book and ignore my clammy palms. The flight leaves on time and two and a half hours later I arrive in Alicante, Spain. It’s overcast and not very warm. I get the keys to my hire car but although I find bay 23 there’s no car there. Just as I’m thinking about whether I know enough Spanish to complain I realise that there are two sets of numbers, one where all the hire cars are and one where I am.

Eventually I find my car and head north towards Calpe. I’ve written the directions down carefully because this is the first time I’ve travelled to our property on my own. I’ve written out a sticky label with “DRIVE ON THE RIGHT” in bold letters to remind me which side of the road I’m supposed to be on. I stick the label onto the steering wheel and set off. I find the most dangerous time for driving on the wrong side of the road, is when I’ve been in the country a few days and I have a break for say lunch. When I get back in the car I’m relaxed everything seems normal and if there’s no other traffic I might set off on the wrong side.

For the first few miles I drive slowly to the annoyance of local motorists as I adjust to the new conditions. I don’t feel confident about the exact width of the car and I’m concerned that I might hit the wing mirrors of the kerb side vehicles.

The thing that I always notice when I come to Spain is how it seems to be so dry yet fertile. The earth along the coast is just like yellow ochre straight out of a tube of paint. The ground is sparsely covered with tough skinned plants which look like they are built to survive drought, but if you travel just a few kilometres in from the coast the hills are covered with orange groves. Along the coast route there is little of the old Spain remaining the buildings are mostly modern, constructed of concrete painted in bright yellows and white often topped off with red tiles. The coast is built up for miles here except where there are cliffs.

The most noticeable item along the way are the skyscrapers of Benidorm a little fishing village in the 1970s it is now a sprawling metropolis with many tall buildings (I guess about 100) mostly apartment blocks.

An hour and quarter later I arrive at out property. Unlock the gate, walk to the front door, it looks OK from outside but last time I came water had got through the roof and part of the ceiling fell on me. But … that is another story.

During those six minutes you will have more than enough time to contemplate the horror of what is just about to happen to you and to ask the question ‘why me?’ On the plus side this is the only time in your adult life that you’ll be able to piss your pants without being embarrassed, you’ll never have to join an airport check in queue again and you’ll be in no doubt that this is the right time to ask God to forgive your sins. Even if you don’t believe in the Christian God there’s no harm in having a cost free insurance policy, is there?

Such are my thoughts every time I set off to the airport. On one particular occasion I remember returning from Chicago to Heathrow, London on an Air India flight on the day the terrorist plot to detonate liquid explosives on a flight from the UK to the USA was discovered.

We arrived at about 6pm for the flight at 8pm to discover that our flight was delayed at least 4 hours and that the baggage check-in was being especially thorough. Now instead of just checking our bags and seeing them disappear onto a conveyor belt we had to pile them up in a sort of luggage mountain so the security guards could practice their climbing skills and open a proportion of the bags to trawl through their contents. Contrary to instructions one or two bags had locks on them which were cut off with wire cutters. Don’t security guards know that a locked zip up suitcase, which most of them are these days, can be easily opened by sticking a biro into the zip and waggling it about? The suitcase can then be rezipped and will be as good as new.

Travelling from large airports is never a pleasant experience due to the endless queuing, the restrictions, the fact that we all have to be treated as terrorist suspects, the boredom and our own deep held need to compete with our fellow human beings. To which we now added the fear of being blown up by terrorists. Our response was to laugh bravely making weak jokes about the explosive dangers of eating bean curry.

The endless queuing starts in the carpark where we wait for the bus to airport, then for the check in, then for the security, then for the bus to the aeroplane and finally we queue to take our seat on the plane. If the queuing is not well organised tensions arise as people try to guess which queue will take the shortest time, casually join the queue not at the back but part way down at the side. Sometimes people with knowledge know that the signed route is not the shortest one and can skip ahead of the queue. All people have an acutely tuned sense of fairness so anyone seen to be gaining an advantage generates irritation in fellow passengers.

On this occasion we watched as a particularly pushy family of four, each with an enormous bag bulging at the seams and big enough to contain a baby elephant weaved their way to the front of the queue and tried to claim their bags were hand luggage. The check-in girl was having none of this and firmly but politely advised them that the bags had to go in the hold and they’d have pay for overweight bags. There was a bit of tension before the family accepted the decision. You’ve got to sympathise with the check-in staff its often not a nice job.

Our flight was called and we sat down at the departure gate, where this same family started a queue so as to be first on the plane. It was with some satisfaction that I noticed that they had to stand for nearly an hour before we were allowed to take our seats for the flight.

Eventually we took off, 5 hours late, for the long journey back to London. Back in my car in London the petty squabbles of the airport behind us I ponder the fact that 100 years ago this journey would have cost me several years salary, could well have taken months, most of the time spent in enforced idleness on a ship with a much higher risk of dying at sea that we run now even with terrorists. Perhaps we all need to make sure we’ve thought about what really matters before entering a major airport.

No, not possible.
Not possible to get a ticket for Jhelum or a ticket for Lahore to change?
Not at all possible. Ticketing problem.
But you have a computer ticketing service.
Ah yes, but the system is down today. Saturday, you see.
The system is always down on Saturdays?
…hmmmm…usually.
So where could I get a bus that goes to Jhelum?
At bus station.
Any bus station? Any one in Bahawalpur?
No…only one.
So which one?
I am not sure.
Not sure?
…hmmmm…maybe by Farid Gate there is bus station for Jhelum.
There is no bus station at Farid Gate, only rickshaw stand…
…ahhh…yes you are right. Maybe further up road…
But you think that is where I can get Jhelum bus, maybe?
…hmmm…maybe…maybe not…
Thank you.
No problem Sir.

Sargodha?
No, Jhelum. Jhelum…near ‘Pindi.
You want bus for ‘Pindi?
No Jhelum.
…ahhh! Jhelum! Yes, over there…Niazi travels…they bus go Jhelum.
Thank you.
No problem.

Jhelum? Hmmmm…maybe.
C’mon, you must know if you have a bus to Jhelum.
Yes, Sir, we do.
OK I want to go on Monday, at what time does it leave?
Maybe you don’t want to go to Jhelum, sir.
Yes, I do, I want to go to Jhelum.
There are no tickets, sorry Sir.
You are fully booked for Monday and today is Saturday?
No Sir, not book full but no tickets.
Why?
Problems…many problems.
Like what? All I want is to go to Jhelum, what is the problem with that?
Road is problem, Sir.
Road? Problem? How is road problem?
Very bad Sir. You would not like it.
What sort of bad? Bumpy? Bumpy no problem for me.
No Sir, very bad road. Not bumpy. Very good road to Jhelum.
Not bumpy bad road?
Very bad. Train is better.
Train?
Yes train.
Why is train better?
Because then there is no bad road and you are happy.
I will be very happy if you sell me a ticket to Jhelum…
Very problem Sir…
…ahhh…is problem dacoo? (1)
Sometimes Sir, and very problem for goras. (2)
Always dacoo this road?
…hmmm…sometimes…
…so better get train?
…yes Sir, better train.
Thank you.
No problem sir.

So which train is best to get for Jhelum?
Not possible.
But the Rohi and the Awam expresses go to Jhelum…it says so here.
Yes they do but not possible. Booked.
How do you know they are booked?
Maybe they are booked.
But you don’t know if they are booked?
…maybe…
So tell me the times of trains to Jhelum.
They are in the night.
At what time they leave Bahawalpur? And is there a sleeper coach?
No Sir, no sleeper, only a/c lower.
Any Parlour class?
No.
So only hard?
Yes.
So at what time and how long it takes to Jhelum?
Very very long.
How long?
Many hours. Many.
So how many? And what time it leave Bahawalpur?
Maybe twelve.
Twelve hours travelling or it leaves at twelve?
Yes.
At what time it leaves?
…hmmm…9.30.
At night?
Yes.
So can I have a ticket for Monday?
No.
No?
No. This only enquiry this wallah along he tickets.

Hello. Ticket for Jhelum on Monday, a/c lower please. Awam Express.
Hmmmmm…maybe…hmmm…no. Booked.
What…all booked?
All booked.
There are 68 seats in a/c lower coach and they are all booked on Monday?
Yes, all booked. Maybe you go later?
No I want to go on Monday…or maybe Sunday. Any chance Sunday?
…hmmm…no…all booked.
Any other train go to Jhelum?
No, only Awam. Maybe you go by coach. Try Daewoo.
Thank you, I was there this morning, and they do not stop at Jhelum.
Hmmm…very problem sir. Go to ‘Pindi, then Jhelum bus.
But ‘Pindi is 70 miles on from Jhelum…
Hmmm…
Thank you.
No problem, Sir.

Ticket for ‘Pindi please, Sunday evening.
But we do not stop at Jhelum, this Manager he explain you.
That’s OK, just a ticket for ‘Pindi.
But you want to go to Jhelum…
That’s right.
So why you want ticket for ‘Pindi? Train goes Jhelum. Niazi go Jhelum.
Train booked, Niazi say dacoo…maybe…
…ahhh…yes…dacoo on that road, this why we have armed guards on bus.
So why not go another route with no dacoo?
No Sir, this very good road through Jhelum, very fast.
I see…any chance of a ‘Pindi ticket for Sunday night?
Are you sure Sir, we not go Jhelum…
Just give me a ‘Pindi ticket.
Certainly Sir, that will be 550 rupees seat number sixteen, leave 9 p.m.
Thank you.
No problem, Sir.

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1. Dacoo = Highway Robbers

2. Goras = Pale Faces