My husband Benjamin coined a phrase to playfully describe our attitude toward this adventure we’ve been sharing—rather than saying we are “all in,” we often say to each other that we are “all Finn.” On Monday and Tuesday, April 30 and May 1, we experienced perhaps the greatest example of that feeling when we attended the Vappu holiday celebrations. But as profoundly as I enjoyed the festivities, they also sadly revealed the limits of my ability to actually be “all Finn,” and instead highlighted for me the way I bring some of the worst aspects of being American with me wherever I go.
Vappu is a celebration that starts on the evening of April 30 and goes through the first of May. Like May Day everywhere it is hard to define—it encompasses a pagan celebration of the start of spring, and Saint Walpurgis' Day, and a more political traditional workers’ holiday, and, in Finland, adds a particularly student-focused aspect. While perhaps more home-centered and worker-oriented in smaller towns, in cities where there is a university, like Helsinki and Turku, there is a carnival atmosphere that is dominated by the antics of students—and anyone who has ever been or hopes to be a university student.
In Helsinki, thousands descend on Esplanadi park, an elegant, wide boulevard that ends at the harbor where a statue of Havis Amanda coyly stands watch over the market square. She was erected not long after women got the right to vote in 1906, and the country’s feminists decried her hyper-sexual nudity as a slap in the face to their newfound political rights, but they were ignored. Each year, crowds gather to watch a team of university students scrub her clean, and then place an iconic white cap on her head. (Nowadays they pull off this stunt by being lowered down on a crane, making the most of their momentary celebrity, their every move covered by the news cameras and played live on huge television screens, reminiscent of watching the ball drop in NYC on New Year’s Eve.) The escapade is witnessed by multitudes who stand cheek by jowl, their own white caps stuffed in pockets or attached to backpacks until the clock strikes 6 p.m.-- when Amanda gets her cap in a burst of multicolored confetti, they all cheer, put theirs on their heads, and toast each other with champagne.
Everyone who graduates from high school gets one of these white caps and they keep them for the rest of their lives. Each year the caps emerge from the closet—some white as snow, some yellowed and spotted with age and wear—and get worn for one glorious twenty-four hour period.
As I stood with Benjamin on the edge of the enormous crowd, I was amazed at the scene unfolding. It was gloriously kooky—adults and children alike carrying huge balloons which were sold on the street and in grocery stores for that day—brass and drum bands playing, many cheeks swiped with glitter, many heads covered in brightly colored wigs. But I was also astounded by the apparent complete lack of security; I did not see a single police officer. I couldn’t help but nervously scan the windows and tops of buildings—I am so scarred by the 2017 mass shooting in Las Vegas, when the shooter killed scores and injured hundreds from high above in a hotel, that I cannot be in such a crowd surrounded by high buildings without fear creeping in. I think my ability to simply enjoy a large, crowded event without worry about terrorism is gone forever.
In fact, as we were celebrating, people in my home state were mourning—yet another mass shooting on a college campus, this time at the Charlotte campus of the University of North Carolina system in which I teach, just a couple of hours from where I work and live. That news made it even less possible to enjoy the next day’s glorious unfolding in precisely the same way that Finnish people do, though I tried mightily.
Let me be clear: I did enjoy it, deeply, with great admiration, enthusiasm, and jealousy. It was a beautiful day, and we joined what appeared to be the entire city streaming into another park, this one large, grassy, full of hills and rocky outcrops overlooking the ocean. Sailing boats showed off their beauty, gliding noiselessly by. The sun glinted on the harbor. Thousands upon thousands of people spread their blankets, or stood around in groups, all wearing their white caps. Six of us Fulbrighters had procured our own perfect picnic of champagne, Sima (a mead-like drink made with sugar and lemons), traditional donuts, cheese, bread, strawberries, chocolates. Sabrina brought a beautiful piece of Marimekko fabric for a table cloth, and we claimed a sunny spot near a small observatory at the top of a hill, where a brass band played joyously. We wandered around to see the stage where people were salsa dancing, and to admire all the beautiful picnics and the wonderful characters who were enjoying them. We hung out from 10:30 in the morning until around 3:00. For the last hour or so Benjamin and I sat outside at Ursula’s Café, where we could watch the boats go by, drink excellent coffee, and listen to the endlessly appealing karaoke enthusiasts belting it out for each other on the deck while their friends danced and sang along.
I don’t think I’ve been more fond of Finland than on that day—everything wonderful about this place was on display. The lack of ironic distance, the embrace of tradition and intergenerational togetherness, the good old enjoyment of song and dance. I’m often uncomfortable around drunk Americans, especially young ones who tend to get loud and obnoxious, unpredictable and even belligerent, but even though people were drinking steadily all day, I saw none of that. People just seemed relaxed, and there was a lot more hugging, especially among men, than one usually sees here. I remembered an African immigrant taxi driver who told us he preferred to work the night shift in Helsinki because the customers were all drunk. “Isn’t that a problem sometimes?” we asked. “No, not with the Finns,” he said. “They just get happier.”
But much as I was feeling “all Finn,” I was also very aware of my own emotional difference from my fellow picnickers. I couldn’t help but think about how very unfamiliar this kind of relaxed, easy going, slow moving celebration seemed. No police anywhere. No checking of bags. No controlling who entered the park. No body scanners. No scuffles, that I could see, no need to escort people away. Wandering around that beautiful park on the edge of the sea felt like some kind of Edenic experience. Did we Americans used to have this freedom? Before 9/11? Before Columbine? Could this sense of ease and carefree enjoyment of our own company ever be recaptured at home?
I also felt very protective of my Finnish neighbors, almost maternal. I was hyper-aware of how fragile it all seemed; of how one horrible incident could destroy what felt like a kind of remarkable innocence, this amazing trust in each other. As I get closer and closer to the day I will go home, my fervent hope is that when I return to Finland someday, nothing about the joy of Vappu will have changed one bit.