I’ve often said: travel is fun—especially when you don’t actually have to do it. Cheeky, I know. But some of the most memorable moments on the road have nothing to do with work assignments or sightseeing—and everything to do with the utterly bizarre. Take, for instance, one wild night in Helsinki while covering the European track circuit.

Friday, 5 July 1985. Helsinki, Finland.

The tour had taken us from the DN Galan meet at Stockholm’s 1912 Olympic Stadium to the World Games at Helsinki’s Olympic Stadium, site of the 1952 Summer Games.

For whatever reason, the meet in Helsinki that night lacked the drive and excitement we’d experienced just two years earlier at the inaugural World Championships. Maybe it was because the World Champs came after Olympic boycotts in 1976 and 1980, with another one planned in 1984, and Helsinki ‘83 was the first time the athletics family had come together as a whole since Munich `72. Maybe it was the crowd that night—25,000 scattered in a 45,000-seat stadium that had been packed for ten days straight in ‘83. Or, perhaps the marketing failed. The whole affair just never sparked.

Afterward, my friend, 1976 Olympic steeplechaser Mike Roche and I walked back to the Intercontinental Hotel, where he dropped $7 at the roulette table in the Baltic Bar. Then in the never-ending twilight of the Scandinavian summer—that eerie pale light that makes midnight feel like dusk—we went to the nightclub at the Hesperia Hotel next-door.

Helsinki in the summer empties to the beaches, leaving the capital city’s nightlife rather tepid compared to the more vibrant scene in Stockholm. Maybe because we were so close to the USSR, and some of their deep grimness has seeped beyond the border. 

The city appeared muted, subdued in a way that felt distinctly Nordic, yet tinged with something heavier from the east.

The crowd at the Hesperia resembled a cast party of Love-Boat ex-pats—gray at the temples, stiff at the hips. A live band, Telex, managed to retain only a modicum of enthusiasm for its task, their music drifting through cigarette smoke and the murmur of multiple disappointments.

I danced with one tall drink of European water, fairly exotic, looking much like the librarian in the before-she-buys-her-Mustang TV ad: hair pulled back, glasses, but with a languorous stride in tight jeans.

Like any good European girl, she decided to go out without deodorant. “Nice touch,” I thought as I became a mouth breather for the duration.

We later approached two girls from Lapland for conversation after some Roche prodding. But even though one of them had danced acquiescently with any and every other gawker in the club, something about my American demeanor produced a “no, I’m not feeling talkative” response.

Ego-bruised, Mike and I split. Back at the Intercontinental, we happened upon a robust young woman traipsing through the lobby. Mike was looking to stay up most of the night because he had a flight back home in the morning and was looking to power through so he could power-sleep throughout his flight.

This woman spoke no English. We spoke no Finnish. Yet alcohol was mentioned by all concerned. A hotel worker suggested the club at the Presidente Hotel, not far from the Intercontinental. With whatever-her-name-was in tow, Mike and I drove off in his rental.

Unfortunately, the club was closed when we got there, but not so the cafeteria next door. She bought three coffees and one danish. We sat at a small table under harsh fluorescent lights while she unflaggingly continued to babble in Finnish while munching the pastry as we searched for a good exit line.

A table of English-speaking Finns translated her ramblings as “crazy talk”. She wanted to invite us to a park where her brother owned a restaurant. She kept saying she was a millionairess.

Had she been more alluring, who knows, the story might’ve taken a turn. But as it was, I headed to the men’s room, closely followed by Mr. Roche.

Upon finding the exit, we conspiratorially bolted out, looking for our car. Where was it? We parked right in front, right? Was it towed? Oh, no! Oh, shit! She’ll be out in a second! Quick, into a cab!

Damn, the cab driver’s English lacked fluency, too. How did we find the only two non-English speaking Finns in the city that night?

“Take us to the police impound yard, OK?”

He took off. Although we weren’t sure he understood what we said.

“Wait! There’s our car! Great, no. Forget it. We found it. How much do we owe you for the 15-second ride?”

“15.40 marks.”

“Fine, here’s 25. It’s worth it.”

The millionairess never discovered our absence, far as we could tell. We were safe, sorry, and headed back to the Intercontinental and bed. Mike left the next day. I continued on the European tour, already anticipating the next detour.

That was one vivid memory emerging from a less-than-vivid setting, the kind that makes travel fun—even for those who do it a lot. Onward!

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