Steaming away sadness in Helsinki — Part I

In 2019, I found myself in Helsinki twice. It was a quirk of coincidence as I had never considered visiting under my own steam at all, let alone two times in eight months.

Nordic countries seemed somehow too adult for me and too expensive to boot. I had filed Helsinki in the same mental bracket as I had Copenhagen and Stockholm: city break destinations for middle-class millennial couples, the type who had matching Daunt Books tote bags, only one overdraft between them, and really did appreciate minimalist furniture.

Yet in mid-January, I made my first trip, reporting for a magazine on why Finland had been deemed the happiest country on earth. It was bittersweet; I was almost comically sad at the time. With me I had a tote bag but also £8k of debt, no appreciation of minimalist furniture and, crucially, no boyfriend as we had broken up less than three weeks earlier.

Ironically, the final straw had been Helsinki itself. For the first time I’d been offered the opportunity to take a plus-one on the trip, all expenses paid bar the flight.

However, when I rang my then-boyfriend to invite him, he sighed heavily before declining. He couldn’t afford the ticket, he said. I offered to cover the cost of a £66 return for him. The answer, he told me, was still no. I knew him though, knew from his awkward pauses that this wasn’t about the money at all and instead was about the fact that a steadily yawning vacuum had been inexorably opening between us and when we were together, I missed him more than when were apart.

When we actually called it quits the very next day, I didn’t mention the Helsinki trip once but it loomed heavily in my mind as he laid out his plans for Christmas and New Year. They did not include me. “I don’t feel like I’m a priority in your life,” I said, drunk, clutching my sleeves. “You’re not,” he answered. And that was that.

So I went to Helsinki with my mother instead and discovered I’d been wrong about everything, which happens frequently but never comes as any less of a shock.

For a start, Helsinki isn’t expensive. It’s not cheap-cheap but unlike other Nordic countries, its central currency is Euros and a single snack won’t set you back £22 (cough, Reykjavik).

It’s also exceedingly charming, a small harbour city perched on a peninsula with wide, spotless streets and eclectic architecture that speaks to historic stints as an annex of Russia and Sweden. Most everywhere is within 20 minutes walk and a weekend really is enough to get the general measure of the city.

The big draws are the cultural hubs, like the brand new central library Oodi, a striking slice of modern construction that looks like a giant glacier resting in the middle of the city. Or the Amos Rex, Finland’s largest private art museum whose relatively small size belies its international reputation. The Rex houses its modern treasures in subterranean galleries but was closed when I first visited the city so my personal venture into its burrows would have to wait. But basically; Helsinki had a glut of spaces to personally whet my palate, sophisticated understanding of design or not.

However, in January, most of these structures were buried under a picturesque — but utterly freezing — blanket of snow. So, after disembarking from the airport bus, my mother and I did as the Finns would and made straight for Löyly, Helsinki’s most famous (for tourists at least) late night sauna.

A 15 minute bus ride from the town centre, Löyly — which translates roughly as the cloud of steam that arises when water is thrown on hot stones in a sauna — hunkers on the harbour edge, giving those steaming their hams the option to have an interim dip in a freezing sea pool, which is supposed to enhance the experience.

I did not do this. I’d only been to a sauna once before and having access to three at a time for the price of €10 felt more than enough of an experience without submerging in icy water too.

Instead I sat back and let the steam cleanse my pores and the ache that squatted in my chest when I thought about my ex-boyfriend who was not sitting beside me. He had really enjoyed saunas, more than anyone I had met before, mentioning their benefits perhaps too regularly in conversation. At the time, I had not understood why marinating in a hot wooden box was so appealing. Emerging from Löyly’s bunkers, feeling far more at peace than when I had entered, it became clear.

The rest of the weekend was spent pottering. Thanks to the magazine, we were staying in a beautiful accommodation that I would never be able to afford on my own dime. The Hotel St George, was about seven minutes from Helsinki’s central square and the promenade which led to the seafront, a fairytale stroll when covered with glittering snow. If anything was beyond walking distance or we became too tired to trek, regular trams and buses were on hand to trundle us back to our base.

Food was fine, nothing memorable. There was the requisite reindeer, lots of fish, one highly-rated soup that we discovered being dished out by Soppakeittiö, a kitchen squirrelled away in the market hall by the harbour.

Instead, it was Helsinki’s atmosphere that stayed with me. The pace was languid and soothing; breakfast was served until late, saunas were open well into the night.
It wasn’t the frenetic 24/7 culture of London however; it was time, the gift of taking things slowly and deliberately without having to rush a decision. I felt extraordinarily grateful to the city for handling me with kid gloves, bruised and sad as I was. In Helsinki, I didn’t have to wallow in my romantic turmoil; rather, I could lose myself for three hours wandering around Ateneum Art Museum, diving into an exhibition dedicated to showcasing the art of Finnish women at the turn of the century.

Another day I led my mother to the Uspenski Cathedral, the largest Russian orthodox church in Western Europe. With towers topped by turrets coated in a pale green patina and the bulk of the building the colour of gingerbread, Uspenski stands out against the Helsinki skyline. As a cathedral connoisseur, despite being neither belonging to a religion or believing in any deity, Uspenski was a must. However, when we arrived, after a trudge up treacherously icy slopes, it was closed. Sunday. But for once, it didn’t matter. The walk, in refreshingly bracing sea air, late afternoon sun reflecting brightly on the powdered snow, was enough.

On the final day, we spent the morning in the Allas Sea Pool, located right on the harbour next to a curiously placed Big Wheel. There was a woman-only sauna there. Sat inside, I tentatively peeled off my top, then my bottoms, until I was naked. I realised how free it felt, how I could finally let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding in.

For the last four months I’d been vibrating at the highest frequency of stress, trying to be perfect, to be the most engaging, pretty and witty and bright version of myself just so I wouldn’t lose a man who had bailed out anyway. I had ignored how ill this was making me, how thin I had become and the frantic barrages of texts my friends had received during this time, oscillating between ecstatic highs at how good it felt it be young and infatuated vs defeated, nihilistic screeds on broken men and the women who fix them. In Helsinki, I took a step back and breathed out. For the first time since August 2018, I felt calm. I took this feeling back to the UK, along with two new tote bags. It was only fitting.

The next time I went to Helsinki though, it was the height of summer. And there was a man with me.

Part II of the Helsinki series is coming soon…