The Hillbilly Viking

Our arrival in Helsinki got off to a bit of a rocky start. First, the taxi ride from the airport was begrudgingly provided by a crabby cabbie that seemingly had one of his viking horns shoved so far up his ass that smiling, let alone communicating, was simply not an option. Add that to his persistent, porously covered, Covid cough, and, well, so much for the warm embrace of my countrymen recognizing their long-lost, prodigal son.

Basically, he was a total dick and a half. (And, no, Finnboy, I don’t know what that amounts to in metric. Google it.) 

Nice Tesla, though. 

The former-18th-century-prison-turned-four-star hotel showed great promise upon our arrival. Well, at least until my credit card was declined. Chip error! I carry spares, but it’s an alarming trend, as my Hick Town, bank-provided, ATM card doesn’t work here either. Granted, it’s just a slab of ol’ hickory with my name whittled into it, but still. If any more of my funding sources dry up, we may be forced to work in the lingonberry mines to earn enough money for return passage.

Speaking of local flora, our ship mostly righted itself once we stumbled down into the prison basement where an amazing restaurant/bar was seemingly carved into centuries old brick and bedrock. The aforementioned lingonberries figured prominently on my reindeer roast (sorry, Rudolph, but you are freakin’ delicious), and the herb garden taking up most of the former prison yard provided the fresh dill for the salmon soup. 

Best part, though, was when the waiter asked, “Will you be paying by credit card or do you just want to charge it to your room?”

“Um, room. Definitely, charge it to the room!”

—Thank you. I’ll be here all week.