I’ve been feeling the pull of the past. If memory is a drug, then journals are the paraphernalia true addicts need to get that extra kick. Which is why I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to preserve my handwritten journals even after they sat under water for two weeks after Katrina.
Lately I’ve been revisiting the ’80s, in particular the year I lived in Sweden, and even more particularly the week I spent visiting Moscow and Helsinki and Tampere, Finland. Besides my journals, I have a copy of a 26-page letter I wrote to a friend recounting every aspect of that week in excruciating detail, very possibly the longest damn thing I’ve ever written. (Seriously, as many words as I crammed on each page, that letter’s probably longer than my master’s thesis.) I’ve been reminiscing about the Etelämäkis, the family who hosted me on that trip. I even tried looking them up on Facebook, but I was misspelling their name.
I’m not entirely certain why I’ve been preoccupied with that certain time at this certain time.
Then, a few days ago, something strange happened. The Etelämäkis contacted me. (Yes, via Facebook.) It seems Erkki and Raili are coming to the States to visit some friends. As fate would have it they’ll be on the Gulf Coast, so they are planning to rent a car and come visit us in New Orleans.
I couldn’t be happier, but it’s also just a little spooky.