Clean sheets and bullfights

Written by Leena parkkinen transLated by Christina saarinen

When I had a child, my relationship with hotels changed. What used to be merely a necessity for business trips became instead a luxury. Clean white sheets without crayon stains, on a bed someone else has made, in a room someone else has cleaned and drinking coffee while it’s still hot was my idea of paradise. How wonderful to sleep uninterrupted, without a little person climbing into bed beside me at three in the morning. Not to mention the shower, where I could stay as long as I wanted without anyone banging on the door, shouting “Mom, mom, mom!”

Before I had a child, I had thought the word “mom” from the mouth of a small child might be the most beautiful word in the world. Nowadays, I think it might also be the most irritating.

For the first three years of my child’s life, I parented entirely on my own. In practice, it meant that I was never alone. After having a baby, I didn’t particularly miss parties, or Pilates classes, or being able to wear earrings or pants that didn’t have elastic waistbands. I missed being able to occasionally sit on the sofa and read an entire magazine, from start to finish. I had friends who had babies at the same time as me. When they wanted to stop nursing, they got a hotel room in town and left their children with their fathers to wean. I don’t think I have ever been more jealous of my friends in my life. My own first night alone in a hotel was still years in the future, which made it all the more wonderful. I will never forget the dear hotel in Pori where I slept eight blessed hours for the first time in years!

For me, the most important thing in hotels has always been the breakfast. I always say that my sister has such a good memory that, even years later, she can remember every detail about the things that are important to her. For my sister, desserts are especially important. She can remember every single lemon meringue pie she has ever eaten, and where she ate it. I’m not as talented. I only remember good breakfasts. I remember how the hotel in Puerto Vallarta had its own breakfast tortilla chef, from whom you could order what you wanted. Mexicans are breakfast people in general. They say a Mexican eats like a king in the morning, a prince at lunch, and a beggar at dinner. I made a habit of eating mostly huevos rancheros, “ranch-style eggs,” for breakfast, which were cooked in a spicy tomato sauce and eaten with tortillas.

There was a breakfast chef in Beijing, too. There you could order your own breakfast noodles and smoothies. But the best breakfast of all was in Vaasa. My daughter was very small then, and when I traveled to literature festivals, I took both her and my mother with me. I have a photo of me nursing her between talks. What I remember best, however, was how I got to make myself a waffle, topped with homemade cloudberry jam. Perhaps the most beautiful thing you can say to a breastfeeding woman is: “Your waffle is ready.”

If you’re lucky, you might also have the chance to get to know some very interesting people in hotels. I once played cards with a Russian spy and a Japanese soldier in Kyrgyzstan. But perhaps the most exciting person I’ve met was Father Armando, the headmaster of a Catholic school where I had given a talk. After the literature festival, the locals took us to eat at the hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant was famous for its gigantic steaks, which was slightly problematic because I was a vegetarian. Father Armando had just organized a fundraising event for his school, a boxing match with ticket revenue benefiting the school. To raise additional funds, Father Armando had participated in the boxing himself. His black eye hadn’t completely healed yet. But things had apparently gone better than the previous year, when Father Armando had organized a bullfight. The bull had punctured Father Armando’s lung. What wouldn’t a man or a priest do for his school!

The older I get, the more I understand writers who want to live permanently in a hotel. s