I can’t say I missed Ukraine. What should have been poosy paradise was pure labor. It had the first species of women I met who were both transactional and extractive, where the best type of game to run is based on a college economics course. The city I lived in, Kharkov, was dirty, unsightly, and poorly planned. The nightlife was lacking, English wasn’t common, and it wasn’t as cheap as I was led to believe. People were rude and grumpy, and towards the end of my stay even I became agitated at the smallest things. I did end up dating a great girl, but it’s not a place that I look forward to going back to.
Instead of listening to many men who suggested I hit the Mediterranean for the summer, I decided on returning to Scandinavia. I was still bitter from my two crappy months in Denmark a year prior and wanted to see if I could improve that experience with what I had since learned. I also wanted to get the Scandinavia flag sweep, which meant I’d have to bang girls from Finland, Sweden, and Norway. I decided to stay in Helsinki for a week before deciding what to do.
On my first day in Helsinki flying in from Ukraine, I felt a huge drop in femininity units. There were so many overweight women wearing hipster outfits waiting in line at McDonalds that I was expecting a camera crew led by my friends to appear from a corner. While the style wasn’t as bad or gay as what Hel-looks broadcasts to the world, there were no more girls wearing 5 inch heels during the day along with sexy outfits. It was time to adapt.
The level of beauty, however, was surprising. Perhaps thanks to influence from Russia and the Baltics, I noticed many cute girls right off the bat. By comparison, in Denmark it took three full days just to find one decent-looking girl I wanted to approach.
I planned on only a one week visit. Since I was familiar with the region, I figured I could capture my flag quickly instead of staying for the normal two month allotment that I usually set for flagging and travel guide research. In Poland I did “city flags” where I took a trip to another city from my home base in Poznan to see if I could get a weekend bang, but that was much easier than what I was attempting in Finland.
Even on a two month stay the pressure to get a flag is strong, but with only one week it was an all-consuming obsession. I was ready to do whatever it took to sleep with a Finnish girl.
On my first night out, a Sunday, I found a club called Tiger that had mostly foreigners. I waited patiently in line and then entered what I can best describe as the Jersey Shore of Europe. Every bad club stereotype was in effect: Ed Hardy shirts, sunglasses, fist pumping, and hoisting bottles of vodka in the air. The cheesiest dudes in Europe were all gathered in one place for an epic sausage party with girls who were cockblocking at will.
I did one approach, got nowhere, then went home. The next day I got on myself for not enduring a bit more, but it was a Sunday, and who gets laid on Sundays? I took it easy on Monday night, which I knew would be dead, and got myself ready for the big surge starting on Tuesday.
My mission began in earnest with day approaches, but I was rusty as hell. In Ukraine I probably did less than forty day approaches overall, most of them in my first month. I gave up mostly because of how painful the interactions went—either the girls didn’t speak English or spoke a tiny amount. In Helsinki I aimlessly walked around the center and did a few approaches that progressively improved as I warmed up.
When I taught day game workshops in Washington DC, some girls would bust out their smartphone to help my students find a “pet shop,” especially the foreign ones. This is what Finnish girls were doing to me. The only problem was that they weren’t asking me questions. My “Where I’m from” bait was getting nothing. In the Baltics it was more or less automatic. Finland started to remind me of Iceland, where the girls were polite but not engaging. After about ten approaches over two days, my ramble was back on point, but I had no solid prospects to show for it.
Tuesday night was my first real night out. I went to Millionaire’s Club, a venue that was highly recommended on the forum. I immediately saw why: it had a large bar separated from the dance floor. It’s one of those places where you can approach a girl by the bar and then move her to the dance floor to get more intimate.
Within twenty minutes of milling around, a Middle Eastern girl randomly asked me where I was from.
“U.S. And you?”
“My parents are Iranian.”
“Oh cool, my dad is,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“My birth name? It’s Daryush.”
“That’s a very common Persian name!”
“I know, and you say it better than I do.”
“Why are you in Finland?” she asked.
“Sex and drugs. Why else?”
I had tossed my “sex and drugs” overboard in Ukraine because the girls were unable to pick up on sarcasm, but the Persian girl got it and laughed. I had decided that I didn’t want to live in a country where I couldn’t use that line.
“Where were you born?” I asked.
I was torn. She wasn’t a Finnish flag, but I didn’t yet have an Iranian flag. It would go nicely with my United Arab Emirates flag. Should I go for the Iranian flag at risk of jeopardizing my Finnish flag mission?
Iranian girls are not exactly known for being easy, but when she told me that she was living in Finland for ten years, I knew that she had internalized the Scandinavian attitude towards casual sex. I didn’t need to look further for confirmation than her two blond friends, who were taking shots and flirting with nearly every guy in the bar. One came up to me and stroked my beard, making comments about how I could further my look. I started doing a cost-benefit analysis in my head, wondering if I could pull off two flags in one week.
The Iranian girl became aggressive, almost like a man. She actually slapped me a couple times, hard enough that I felt it, but in a way that she could say was “flirting.” Since she wasn’t Finnish, my guess is that she had to prove to her friends that she could fit into the group by going harder than the both of them, sort of like how a white guy with black thug friends does crazy shit to prove he’s as hard as them. I was more bewildered by her slaps than anything, and it took three of them for me to finally say, “Don’t do that again.” She obeyed.
I was excited to be talking to someone with a strong command of English. I defaulted into being chatty, but it didn’t take long to offend her when I said “I like girls with long hair.”
“So you discriminate against women?”
“Discriminate? It’s just a personal preference. Do you like guys taller or shorter than you?”
“Taller, but I give shorter guys a chance.”
“How many guys shorter than you have you seriously dated?”
“Okay then, it’s the same thing.”
“Not really because a girl who is bald could be an amazing person inside.”
“So if I was 200 kilos heavier, shorter, and bald, you would still talk to me?”
“Probably not,” she said.
I flipped my hand upside down as if to say “Well there you have it” but she refused to back down and insisted that liking girls with long hair was horrible. I was talking to a hyper-educated woman who spent god knows how many years in school, but accepting simple logic was still a work in progress. I knew she wouldn’t see my point of view, but the debater in me wouldn’t yield.
“Have you ever seen those commercials for African charities?” I asked.
“When they show images of the starving African children, have you noticed that they are always bald? It’s not because they go to the barber every week—it’s because when you don’t have enough protein in your diet, you don’t grow hair. Therefore hair is a sign of fitness, of health. When a girl has short hair, she’s mimicking a state of malnourishment.”
The science quieted her down, but she soon threw out a comment I couldn’t ignore. She said, “I like to be dominant over men.”
“That’s too bad because I would never let a girl dominate me. It’s not natural.”
One minute later she said, “I’m going to talk to my friends.” I had a girl who was into me but I destroyed it by trying to teach her lessons. I realized that the conversation I just had might as well have happened in Denmark, where I kept challenging girls about their stupid beliefs and got nothing out of it except a hater book that caused outrage throughout the country.
I remembered my “nodding strategy” when a Scandinavian girl would tell me crazy shit. The secret was to let them talk, not challenge their beliefs, and be pleasant while escalating the encounter to intimacy. I decided to listen to my own advice.
CONTINUED: PART TWO