Upon arriving in Finland, I braced myself for an impenetrable language, difficult food, and odd social customs, but I was also shocked by the physical city. I quickly learned that knowing where to look or how fast to walk aren’t universal conventions – these are habits that each city teaches us. The numbered grid system. You don’t realize that something as prosaic as First Avenue and 24th Street could be so brilliant until you’re standing at the intersection of two streets named Tarkk’ampujankatu and Korkeavuorenkatu, trying to find Raatimiehenkatu. White noise. Sirens, radios, trucks backfiring, shouting matches, and the ambient thrum of radiators, air conditioners, and ventilation systems – this constant background chatter is the oxygen of city life, the thing that keeps me plugged in. Bodegas. The equivalent here are Kioskiis, which are only open until 9pm, closed on Sundays, and they don’t sell flowers, pastrami sandwiches, hammers, bagels, kites, cake mixes, or bhangra CDs. Street art (or graffiti, depending on your outlook). You’ll see the ghosts of a few stickers and stencils in central Helsinki, but that’s about all. I miss the visual jolt of layer upon layer of stickers and wheat-paste posters promoting hipster bands, launching clumsy political broadsides, or offering inscrutable pictures of C-list celebrities saying ironic things. Most of all, I miss my outdoor living room. There are no stoops in Helsinki, restaurants are a special treat, and the city falls asleep early and barely wakes for the weekend. Throw in the arctic climate and this means a lot of time is spent indoors. Fortunately, my new flat is warm and roomy and, for the first time in my adult life, I have a reasonable kitchen counter. Europeans are no strangers to small apartments, yet they still shake their heads when I tell them I shared a 300-square foot flat in Chinatown (or to use the local parlance, 28 square meters). “My god, how did you manage?” they ask. “Just fine – I was never home.” And I wasn’t. In the mornings I’d dawdle with a coffee and a pastry in Columbus Park, watching the old Chinese men chain-smoke over fierce games of xiangqi. After work there were dinners and drinks with friends, but also many suppers alone: cheap Szechuan bean curd or a spicy cappicola sandwich in some small shoebox of a restaurant, and then onwards to a café or a park or a stoop where I’d sit with a book or my laptop. I wouldn’t get home until nearly eleven and even then I’d often take a walk to the bodega at two in the morning just to stretch my legs. There’s something remarkably reassuring about the bodega in the middle of the night. It’s an informal gathering place for neighbors who might otherwise never bump into each other – a few drunk hipsters, an old woman who can’t sleep, a couple of cab drivers, and people like me staring into the coolers, unsure of what they want or why they’re here aside from a desire to be out in public. This doesn’t sound like a very exciting life, I know. I wish I could report that my days were a hot blur of white-tie fundraising banquets, drug-fueled after-parties, hotel rooms full of fashion models, and the other velvet rope hallmarks of New York movies. But now that I’m four thousand miles away, I miss my happy life of cafes, stoops, cheap food, and twenty-four hour everything. I was spoiled by a city that spilled out from my fire escape like an extension of my living room: an endless kitchen, library, couch, and entertainment system. - Excerpted from The Urban Omnibus by James Reeves

Upon arriving in Finland, I braced myself for an impenetrable language, difficult food, and odd social customs, but I was also shocked by the physical city. I quickly learned that knowing where to look or how fast to walk aren’t universal conventions – these are habits that each city teaches us.

The numbered grid system. You don’t realize that something as prosaic as First Avenue and 24th Street could be so brilliant until you’re standing at the intersection of two streets named Tarkk’ampujankatu and Korkeavuorenkatu, trying to find Raatimiehenkatu.

White noise. Sirens, radios, trucks backfiring, shouting matches, and the ambient thrum of radiators, air conditioners, and ventilation systems – this constant background chatter is the oxygen of city life, the thing that keeps me plugged in.

Bodegas. The equivalent here are Kioskiis, which are only open until 9pm, closed on Sundays, and they don’t sell flowers, pastrami sandwiches, hammers, bagels, kites, cake mixes, or bhangra CDs.

Street art (or graffiti, depending on your outlook). You’ll see the ghosts of a few stickers and stencils in central Helsinki, but that’s about all. I miss the visual jolt of layer upon layer of stickers and wheat-paste posters promoting hipster bands, launching clumsy political broadsides, or offering inscrutable pictures of C-list celebrities saying ironic things.

Most of all, I miss my outdoor living room. There are no stoops in Helsinki, restaurants are a special treat, and the city falls asleep early and barely wakes for the weekend. Throw in the arctic climate and this means a lot of time is spent indoors. Fortunately, my new flat is warm and roomy and, for the first time in my adult life, I have a reasonable kitchen counter. Europeans are no strangers to small apartments, yet they still shake their heads when I tell them I shared a 300-square foot flat in Chinatown (or to use the local parlance, 28 square meters).

“My god, how did you manage?” they ask.

“Just fine – I was never home.” And I wasn’t. In the mornings I’d dawdle with a coffee and a pastry in Columbus Park, watching the old Chinese men chain-smoke over fierce games of xiangqi. After work there were dinners and drinks with friends, but also many suppers alone: cheap Szechuan bean curd or a spicy cappicola sandwich in some small shoebox of a restaurant, and then onwards to a café or a park or a stoop where I’d sit with a book or my laptop. I wouldn’t get home until nearly eleven and even then I’d often take a walk to the bodega at two in the morning just to stretch my legs. There’s something remarkably reassuring about the bodega in the middle of the night. It’s an informal gathering place for neighbors who might otherwise never bump into each other – a few drunk hipsters, an old woman who can’t sleep, a couple of cab drivers, and people like me staring into the coolers, unsure of what they want or why they’re here aside from a desire to be out in public.

This doesn’t sound like a very exciting life, I know. I wish I could report that my days were a hot blur of white-tie fundraising banquets, drug-fueled after-parties, hotel rooms full of fashion models, and the other velvet rope hallmarks of New York movies. But now that I’m four thousand miles away, I miss my happy life of cafes, stoops, cheap food, and twenty-four hour everything. I was spoiled by a city that spilled out from my fire escape like an extension of my living room: an endless kitchen, library, couch, and entertainment system.

- Excerpted from The Urban Omnibus by James Reeves