Just About Finnished

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Close your eyes for a just a minute and picture Scandinavia.

Looks pretty fine, doesn’t it?

I’m guessing we summoned our fair share of forests and fjords, lakes and longboats, saunas and snow-clad slopes. And it really is all out there in this winter wonderland, an area five times as large as Britain with less than half the population.

So why is it, do you think, that hardly anyone ever goes?

I’ve been to some pretty far flung places in my time, but had never even thought of Scandinavia, despite Scotland being only a hop and a skip away. That is, up till now.

Due to the vagaries of international air-travel, to get cheaply from London to Bangkok we first had to detour to Helsinki, and having come all that way it seemed a bit rude to not at least get off and have a look.

It’s one of those places that, despite having never been there, is exactly as you’d imagined. I’ve met a fair few Scandinavians on my travels; only one or two Finns, admittedly, but a hefty sprinkling of Swedes and Danes, and they’re almost without exception a sophisticated and civilised bunch. They also appear perfectly happy, at trip’s end, to be returning to their homelands, a sure sign of quality countries.

On arrival, we were whisked from airport to city centre by the courteous driver of a spanking new air-con coach, passing through a spacious relaxed metropolis of cleanly streets and tended lawns, like some virtual-reality tour of a city-planner’s wet dream. The place seemed inhabited solely by those perfect people you see in architects’ drawings, contentedly playing with their poodles or parking their Porsches.

All-in-all a most amazingly agreeable spot.

What a shame that the whole world seems intent on mimicking America when plainly we should be copying these guys, scooping up a little bit of Scandinavia and planting its seedlings in our psyche.

After all, Americans just run round being loud, brash, invading lands where they clearly don’t belong and generally behaving as if they’re God’s gift to the planet. Funnily enough, round here they got all of that out of their system 1000 years ago, the Vikings rampaging around in an orgy of rape and pillage, going just about anywhere they fancied, including, legend has it, America.

Then abruptly, at around the end of the first millennium, they just packed up their bags and went home again, and have been the very model of discretion ever since, barely saying boo to a goose.

Who knows why?

Maybe Erik the Red’s moniker was a reference to his bank-balance; maybe Helga Fonda sat astride a catapult and decried them for bludgeoning babies; maybe they gave up the rape and pillage on realising the best looking girls were back home in any case. Or maybe they just got tired of being the Global Bad Boys, finally grew up and went home to tend the roses.

Sadly, 1000 years on, America shows no signs of learning from history’s lessons.

Curiously the only place they thought to hold to was Greenland, not the world’s most sought after piece of real-estate, but judging from their advancement in all other areas, maybe they know something we don’t.

Seriously, I’d be quite happy if we all gave up our worldly rights and handed the whole shebang over to the Scandinavians tomorrow. If we were really lucky, they might even decide to keep the rest of us on as pets. And if not, well maybe the world would be a better place for it, make us learn our lessons the hard way. Bet you wish you’d gone ahead and bought that Saab now, don’t you?

Admittedly we might have to keep Iceland away from the banks, separate the Norwegians from the whaling-boats, and keep a firm hand on the tiller of the music world lest the Swedes take over (think Ace of Base, Abba, Dr Alban.... you catch my drift. And that’s just the A’s! Really, they should be prosecuted for War Crimes...) But the Danes could take care of the Beer and Bacon, and the Finns be relied on for just about everything else, so long as you kept them away from the hard stuff. If nothing else, it would prove a huge boon to flagging sales of the Noggin the Nog back-catalogue.

One group possibly not too thrilled with this whole set-up would be the animal-rights guys, not just due to the whales, but also the Finn’s unfortunate habit of butchering small furry critters and turning them into jackets, going from cute to coat in one fell swoop.

I have to say the vengeful vegetarians had my sympathies on this one, right until I accidentally bumped against a fur in the markets, and found it to be quite the most intoxicating texture I’d ever encountered. I never knew clothes could be this much fun! And at the end of the day, if I’m quite happy to pick at pork chops or snaffle down a steak, what’s so different about fleecing a ferret? Especially when it’s minus 30 outside and there’s nothing on the telly but Friends and Frasier. Get up, get out there, track yourself down a fox, and rip the shirt right off of its back, make yourself a mink-mint. It’s no wonder they call it a stole!

But if the Finns like one thing more than freezing their tits off in furs, it’s sweating their socks off in saunas. And who can blame them for escaping those icy wastelands to step into a steamy cupboard. Makes sense to me!

What I don’t get is their habit of rushing out there-from and leaping into icy plunge-pools, only to dash back in almost immediately before their testicles permanently disappear.

Utter madness!

Wouldn’t be allowed in Britain.

“Don’t be so stupid! You’ll catch your death! Go and put on that new woolly jumper and make yourself a nice cup of tea. Saunas indeed! Who do you think you are, Ulrika Jonsson?”

Over here, though, they like to steam more than just their vegetables, and are fond of doing so on a more-or-less daily basis.

Our hotel, like every other in town, had a whole floor devoted to nothing else, with a swimming pool and two huge saunas down in the basement, one for each sex. Two are needed, as the signage makes clear in no uncertain terms that clothing is not to be worn: It’s nude or not at all.

I’m not sure exactly what punishment you get for slinking in wearing Speedos, but it probably involves their removal with a double-bladed broadsword and a one way trip to Valhalla.

You are at least permitted a towel, but are expected to sit on it rather than in it. This is actually essential to avoid third-degree burns to the buttocks, as, in place of the rather tepid hothouses I’ve visited elsewhere, Finnish saunas are the Real Deal. Indeed, it might be better to dress head to toe in a fire-suit with helmet and mirrored visor, though to do so would likely invoke the wrath of Odin.

You gingerly park your posterior, only to singe off your nose hairs with your first intake of breath. Within a minute you find that this isn’t so much sweating as boil-in-the-bag, and begin to feel what the last moments were like for that legendary Chihuahua in the microwave. Another minute and you’re sitting in a rapidly growing pool of your own insides, seeing double and wondering if you can make it to the door without falling face-first onto sizzling hot coals.

It’s just then, through the steamy glass door, that you vaguely discern the shape of a strapping local staring back with just a hint of malice. He flexes his pecs before slinging his towel aside, and striding in to join you. One glance tells you he’s one of those who still thinks he’s got horns on his helmet. (Now, now, ladies! Calm down! I don’t think they go in much for piercing round here. Not that I’d know, as unlike you, I wasn’t looking. Honestly, it’s no wonder you lot aren’t allowed in!)

No sooner has he entered than he picks up the ladle and nonchalantly spoons about five litres onto the coals. Suddenly it’s like being in a pressure cooker and you swear you can hear your ears whistling. He takes his pew with a nod and a grunt, alerting you for the first time that there’s actually another guy in the corner who’s all this time been enveloped entirely in steam.

What’s your next move?

You can’t leave now because a) you’re not sure your legs will carry you and b) you’d look like a total fairy.

So you just sit there, staring at your toes and counting the seconds, hoping you’ll reach 60 before your head makes contact with the floor. The minute over, you can stagger to the exit with still a sliver of dignity, only to hear the two of them exchange muted rumblings almost certainly translating as “I told you the Scots were pansies!”

Well, you’re not having that!

Without breaking step you manfully swagger into the showers and blast it on full cold, desperately trying to stay upright, but managing only to resemble one of those sad desperados found in Edinburgh pub latrines, reduced to holding onto the wall as they wee.

Once the pain subsides, your mind clears and you’re ready for round two, show these bloody Finns what you’re made of! Bristling with testosterone you plunge back in, trying to muster up an air of Celtic bravado by taking up the ladle and suavely pouring on a hefty spoonful, pausing half-way for effect.

Sean would shurely approve.

That’s it. Game on!

Let battle commence, it’s Thor versus William Wallace, taking each other on like some classic European drinking contest, matching each other pint-for-pint with the ladle.

Fifteen rounds and close to an hour later you’re Just About Finnished, when the enemy abruptly grunt, rise, and stroll out as if nothing had happened. Rather than cry ‘Freeeeedommm!!!’ you’re left to grasp that the whole encounter took place entirely within the confines of your tiny frazzled mind. It was just another day at the office for the Finns, who probably hadn’t even noticed you existed.

I’ve no doubt no such nonsense goes on in the Ladies, where they probably sit platting each others’ hair, singing Abba karaoke and swinging open the door once in a while to let in a nice cool breeze. Oooh, lovely! Then again, when I did finally stumble out it was to find a remarkably flushed Debbie, so maybe it’s Joan Collins against Brigitte Nielson in there too. Or maybe those strapping Finns had just given her an appreciative wink on their way out.

Despite going to the sauna every day, I never learnt my lesson, and the exact same scenario played out each and every time. Still it built up my tolerance for our upcoming trip through South-East Asia and the eventual return to Australia, where you can stage your very own Finnish contest come Christmas time. Just try walking in and out of the air-conditioned Cairns Central shopping mall on a hot December day and you’ve pretty much got it, though probably it’s best if you choose to do so while wearing some clothes.

As for the real Finns, outside the saunas they seem a most hospitable and laid-back bunch, just a hint of British reserve coupled with an Aussie sense of fun. And why wouldn’t they enjoy themselves? They inhabit a clean, spacious and seemingly idyllic land which I’d be only to happy to visit again. Also, like me, they’re partial to heavy doses of both vodka and motorsport, though fortunately not both at once.

Who could ask for more?

All of which explains in no way at all why they have one of the highest suicide rates in the world. Officially it’s put down to a severe case of SADs, Seasonally Affective Disorder rearing its ugly head. The long hours of winter cold and darkness can get to a fellow, apparently.

Personally though, I suspect there might be another factor.

Beer is over eight pounds a pint.

Goddammit! Why does there always have to be a catch?

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Photos

Helsinki Street Sculpture
What is it about the Scandinavians and Nudity?

Pohjoissatama Norra hamnen.
Well, you had to ask!

Comments

[Alt Gr]

Nice stuff
Heya, I really enjoyed your blog about Helsinki. I'm from Sydney, but am currently living in Estonia and they certainly know how to enjoy a sauna and a bottle of vodka too. Estonians are essentially cousins and neighbours of the Finns but who unfortunately ended up on the wrong side of the Soviet fence back in the forties. The beer here however is fortunately muuuch cheaper than in Helsinki, which is why their is a brisk trade in shipping Finns backwards and forwards between Helsinki and Tallinn just to buy alcohol. I agree with your take on Nthn European folk although if given the keys to humanity I'm not sure they'd really know what to do with people who weren't blonde and civilised like themselves. There unfortunately is a degree of xenophobia within these idyllic communities. Otherwise, it is lovely being in northern Europe. Although I've been to Helsinki, Stockholm and Iceland, I've only written the first parts of a blog about Iceland. You can have a look here www.mytb.org/Alt-Gr if you're interested. All the best and keep up the great blogging. Regards, Geoff

[Andy and Debbie]

Dammit! That gives me somewhere else to visit, and I thought we were almost home! Sounds like you're having fun in Estonia. Have they grasped the basics of Aussie Rules yet? Going to Angkor Wat in Cambodia tomorrow, but that's another story....