Lapland to London

Three weeks. Five countries. Boston to Reykjavik to Helsinki to Rovaniemi to Berlin to Hamburg to Warsaw to Kraków to London to home. One trip, not two.

It started in Helsinki — Market Square in the snow, a ferry through the frozen sea to Suomenlinna island. Then the train north to Rovaniemi, Finnish Lapland. The kind of cold that makes Boston winters feel quaint.

The ice hotel was exactly as ridiculous and wonderful as it sounds. My entire room was made of snow. The bed was ice, covered in reindeer pelts and a heavy sleeping bag. Shared showers, shared bathrooms, a heated lounge as the plan B escape. I told a friend about it and their response was perfect: I hate to be a one-upper, but my entire room is made of snow.

I nearly had a full panic attack the first night. The sleeping bag was tight and the room was cold and dark and I got claustrophobic enough to consider bailing for the heated pod room. But I stuck it out. The payoff came at 2am when the staff knocked on the door to tell me the Northern Lights were out. They kept coming and going all night. At one point we told them to stop waking us up, but then the next time they said they were out again and I got fully re-dressed and went back outside. Worth it every time.

Rovaniemi is also home to the official Santa Claus Village — the real one, not the fake one in New Hampshire. Finnish F-18 Hornets were doing practice approaches at the Lapland Air Command base nearby. Santa with a side of fighter jets. Then a reindeer sleigh ride at night through the dark snowy forest.

Berlin was warmer than Lapland, which isn't saying much, but the relief was real. Museum Island, a guided tour of the Sachsenhausen Memorial, a nighttime visit to the World Clock at Alexanderplatz where I walked into a large protest with a heavy police presence. A guy at a store asked me if I was Russian. I did an escape room expecting to crush it in 20 minutes and ended up needing extra time. Humbling.

Hamburg was next. Miniatur Wunderland — possibly the most absurdly detailed thing I've ever seen — and a sunset walk along the harbor that turned into an evening boat trip. I finally got to ride through Schlump station on the U-Bahn, which I'd been waiting for since I first saw the name on a map.

The flight to Warsaw cut through an Iran solidarity protest march and I made it to the platform with three minutes to spare. Poland hit different. The Auschwitz-Birkenau tour started at 6:30am, and I'd been carrying a quiet, constant anxiety about it for days. I'd sobbed in a parking lot after Dachau years ago, and everyone said this was worse.

It was. I fell asleep in the van afterward and woke up not knowing where I was, drenched in sweat. But then, about twenty minutes later, I felt inexplicably euphoric — like my brain had processed something heavy and came out lighter on the other side. The Wieliczka Salt Mine the next day was a welcome contrast — descending into a labyrinth of wood-lined corridors leading to vast underground chambers carved out of salt.

London was the cooldown. I stayed at a hostel because I wanted the vibes, but in a private room with a private bathroom, because I'm 45 and I really just wanted to be vibe-adjacent. The room had a wrap-around balcony with a view of The Shard. The nicest trailer in the trailer park. Train to Cockfosters, then home.