Osmond Chelsvig announced the next morning, reading from his spiral notepad. “I got four votes saying it looks like the organ pipes at Holy Redeemer Church.”At the conclusion of our three-hour city tour, Annika had dropped us off at the Kauppatori Market Square—a bustling fish and vegetable market set up on the cobbled stones of the inner harbor, with a view of massive government buildings painted the most unlikely shades of sky blue and lemon sorbet. Dining was alfresco, so my group had commandeered several umbrellaed tables and pushed them together, hoping to shield themselves from UV rays, and their prospective lunches from scavenging seagulls.“I got four more saying it looks like the organ pipes at Good Shepherd Lutheran.”We’d visited Sibelius Park earlier, awed by the twenty-four-ton sculpture built in honor of Finland’s most famous classical composer, Jean Sibelius. It was a massive abstraction of welded steel and vertical pipes and had prompted serious discussion about what other images it brought to mind.“What song did Annika say this Sibelius fella wrote?”
