Finding Peace in Finland

I fell in love with Helsinki from the moment I stepped on the tram, dodging Finns leaving the Estonian ferry with their booze-cruise loot. From the wide avenues to the elegant shopping streets to the shabby Art Deco diners near the station, it made me really, really wish Finnish was easier to learn so that I could live here forever. And that was before I took the ferry out to Suomenlinna.

My boyfriend was ill - if someone offers you a pork burrito in Estonia, kindly decline - so I had a day to fill on my own. We'd only decided to come here as it was so close to Tallinn, and I hadn't expected anything but the cold. I wrapped up in what felt like all the clothes I'd brought with me and headed for the harbour to see what was there. On Sundays, everything is closed, but the ferry out to the island still runs. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site, said the guidebook, making me think of the bits of stone dotting the English countryside my dad insisted on us visiting as a child. I didn't remember it from my AA book of the Wonders of the World. Still, nice day for a ferry ride...

As the boat broke the April ice below, I climbed to the top deck and watched tiny cottages pass by, clinging to rocks barely bigger than themselves. Suomenlinna was once the island fortress defending the port capital from invaders - now, as we left the ferry, small children dressed as gypsies dashed between houses to collect chocolate for Easter. The fortress itself wasn't open, but the rugged island was. I bought a cinnamon roll and walked up the hill. Snow hung on heathery grass; toward the horizon the archipelago spread out below on the sea, like crumbs scattered across a tablecloth. I felt like I was the only person left on earth. Hard to believe my life back home still existed. Is this what hippies call 'oneness'? Either way, it was a hell of a way to turn thirty.