Ben & Mr. Helsinki*

“Excuse me,” I say to the British guy who is walking toward me along Lower Grosvenor Place near the gardens of Buckingham Palace. “Where is Big Ben?” The man looks like he’s in a hurry. He slightly slows (but does not stop) his walking. He looks confused. “Surry?” he says in a thick Londoner or cockney accent. “Do you know where Big Ben is?” I ask again. He still looks confused. “Surry,” he says. “Never heard of it.” To the folks back home, the American equivalent of this event would be this: A tourist asks a New Yorker how to get to the Statue of Liberty. The New Yorker stops, looks confused and answers, “Sorry, dude, but I don’t know what that is.” Surely this man knows where Big Ben is. So, I repeat myself, “Big Ben. You know. The clock. The big yellow clock on the tower. Big Ben.” He chuckles and sighs in that ahhhhh-I-get-it kind of way. “Oh, Big Ben!” Okay, so *I* think that the two words that come out of his mouth sound like the same two words that come out of my mouth, but apparently they don’t. I say: biiig bin. He says something like: Beeg Bean. (Sidenote: this British/American lost in translation happens again later in the day when I ask for more tartar sauce for my fish and chips. “What is Tiger Sauce?” the Eastern European waitress asks.) But, anyway, the guy gives me directions, says “cheerio” and walks away. So, I go to see Ben; he looks the same. Later in the evening, I’m out with an old friend in London. We go to a bar on Charing Cross Road in SoHo. This is where I meet: Mister Helsinki. Mr. Helsinki looks a lot like a brunette version of the Ken Doll. He’s a tall, handsome, international man of style with a great body and a winning smile complete with perfectly straight, white teeth. “I am from Finland,” he says as an introduction and I swear that I see a twinkle and hear a little ding when he flashes me his winning smile. His teeth are really straight. And, really white. “I’m from the capital,” he continues. “Do you know what the capital of Finland is?” he asks. “Ummm ... Stockholm is in Sweden ... Copenhagen is in Denmark ...” “You are smarter than most Americans,” he laughs. “But, those places aren’t Finland.” “Whatever. I know those places aren’t Finland ... Bear with me. I’m figuring it out by process of elimination. So, Norway’s capital is ... ” “Oslo.” He says. “Oh, okay, thanks. Oslo. Norway ... So, Helsinki ... Where is Helsinki?” “Very good,” more teeth, more winning smile, “Helsinki is in Finland.” My friend, he and I chat for quite a bit longer. But, after a while, it’s getting pretty late. I have to leave if I’m going to catch the last Tube (that’s the “London subway” for the Americans) back to the hotel in time. The Tube shuts down shortly after midnight. If New York is The City That Never Sleeps, London is The City with an Early Bedtime. “Which way is it to the Piccadilly Line?” I ask after explaining that I have to leave. Mr. Helsinki smiles. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.” Oh, he’s a clever one. “Thanks,” I say and wave goodbye for the evening. Mr. Helsinki is a hottie. Hopefully, I’ll run into him again before I leave London ... *Post also known as An American in London, Part II