As I head north out of Turku, red wooden farmhouses forming a visual Morse code on the roadside, I'm
tallying what Americans believe about Finns: They love saunas; they make Nokias; they are design
geniuses. And while names with too many vowels—Aalto, Saarinen, Sipinen, Pietilä—have become familiar
to anyone who has flown out of JFK airport, I'd never actually seen Finnish architecture outside a
museum. So here I am, making a pilgrimage through the Finnish hinterland.
A few months before landing on the western shore of Finland, I'd seen a memorable exhibition in Los
Angeles; among scale structures and blueprints signed by Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry, and other
American architects were a disproportionate number of works by Finnish designers. Their angular models
had hard-edged surfaces of copper and stucco; inside were wood-lined rooms so warm and organic they
seemed to glow. What would these creations look like, I wondered, in their intended settings—their
ivories, browns, and greens echoing white birch, fallow fields, and leaves?
One day after my ship from Stockholm docked, I've already discovered that I yielded a little hastily
to the romantic notion of a living architectural display. Finland is a country of barely 40 people per
square mile, almost three-quarters of it covered by virgin forest—so much for my vision of spectacular
buildings everywhere. But two structures in Turku caught my eye: the town's medieval castle and Alvar
Aalto's Turun Sanomat newspaper headquarters, its remaining stepped-steel pillars trapped behind the
lockers of a gleaming new gym. The city's attempts at restoration were so flawed, almost every slab of
concrete in town looks like a relic from Warsaw circa 1960.
On the advice of a history student I meet at the Pharmacy, an artist's hangout on the Communist
bloc-style main square, I ask Lena Salminen, the manager of the Quality Hotel Ateljee, for a tour of
her once-grand building, designed by Aalto in 1928. At the top of a spiral staircase with a
stitched-leather banister, she unlocks three restored guest rooms; inside are woven-fabric chairs and
block-print curtains, telltale signs of Aalto. "You have to go to Jyväskylä, where Aalto grew up, to
see his best work," she says.
After a history of Swedish and Russian rule, the agrarian Finns finally gained independence in 1917,
and with it, the freedom to escape the Neoclassical style. Aalto had fought in a bloody civil war on
the side of the independents, and his distaste for ostentatious ornamentation led him to the spare
Functionalist aesthetic. So I aim for the Lakeland region, where Aalto began his career, tracing my
way from Turku up the E63 highway, through the port town of Tampere. Turku's few houses—ocher-colored,
with lacy, carved lattices—are the last vestiges of Mother Russia on the way to Jyväskylä, and once
I've passed them, there's little to look at except for birches, their peeling bark reflecting silver in
the afternoon light. The land is so flat and flooded, the pavement seems to float on top of the shapeless
waterways. At times, I can actually see where the earth curves downward. Not even an anthill
interrupts the horizon.
By morning, I've gained more insight on the Finns, thanks to some new friends I've met at the Memphis
Bar & Restaurant, housed in Aalto's 1952 Workers' Club building. According to Annika, Finns are
intensely introverted (much like their former Russian sovereigns) and suffer from an inferiority
complex that comes from centuries of subjugation. They come alive in the warmer months, however, when
their gregarious Swedish side shines in the sun and they escape to summer retreats. Everyone I
encounter—especially at the Aalto Museum in Jyväskylä, which chronicles the architect's work from his
famous bentwood Paimio chair to Helsinki's Finlandia Hall—is shy and self-deprecating. The Finns are
well-mannered people who follow the rules, but, like their postwar buildings, they radiate a sense of
hope for the future. The country helped create the European Union, and their negotiating skills with
the recalcitrant Russians are often in high demand. Their technological superiority (Nokia was one of
the fastest-growing companies in the world in the late nineties) has propelled the nation into the
global economy. It's hard for most Finns these days not to feel just a little proud, despite pride's
taboo status here.
Ten miles south of Jyväskylä on the island of Säynätsalo, a two-story building rises above the trees,
its patches of haphazard bricklaying adding texture to a barren landscape. In 1952 Aalto designed this
building, now a town hall for the small island village, and though pride is an emotion most Finns are
reluctant to feel, the civil servant giving me a tour isn't ashamed to show some. She points out an
elevated courtyard with a pitched ceiling held aloft by a spider-like truss; meeting rooms were built
around it. There are even two spartan but well-designed guest rooms named for Alvar and Elissa, his
second wife (they go for just $25 a night).
The Säynätsalo hall, the crown jewel of Aalto's red-brick phase, is the embodiment of post-World War
II Finland, when creativity and a break from tradition were at their peak, and that sense of optimism
and confidence permeates every wooden panel and slatted window. It makes a strong aesthetic statement,
but an even more powerful political one. Modern public buildings in America often tend to function
without flair; artistic expression is generally reserved for private dwellings or corporate ventures.
In Finland, the reverse is true. Architects elevate their craft to art when designing civic centers
and universities, not houses. The themes of community, small-scale democracy, and harmony with nature
are celebrated in Finnish public buildings, each idea channeled into an object of beauty.
Inspired by the town hall, I turn southeast on a road so close to the Russian border, I pick up Radio
Sputnik (106.9 FM) in my rented Ford Mondeo. I had tried to negotiate my way across the border to see
Aalto's Viipuri Library; the area changed hands in 1940 when the Finns lost the Winter War to the
Soviet Union. But land crossing, it turns out, is prohibited. Passing signs painted in unpronounceable
Finnish and unreadable Cyrillic, I drive at a glacial pace, pulling over now and again to watch the
clouds moving over the ground, their reflections in the obsidian lakes.
It's dusk when I arrive in Imatra at the Church of the Three Crosses; the white bell tower pierces the
darkening sky. Like many of Aalto's other works—Finlandia Hall in Helsinki, especially—the 1958 church
is asymmetrical; only two of its 103 windows are the same shape. Inside, three different ceilings fold
into one another, a design Aalto invented to perfect acoustics from the pulpit.
On the road an hour later, I head to Porvoo, where little of Finland's postwar Modernism has
flourished. There are more red wooden houses here; they teeter on the edge of a river, giving the
impression that not much has changed since they were built in the late 1700's.
Back in the car, I span two centuries in 30 miles, arriving at the town of Espoo and its fabled
Tapiola Garden City. The development was built in the early fifties on a strict architectural plan and
looks like a space station. Futuristic towers and curvy domes dominate the skyline, their footprints
floating on a rectangle of water. Nokia's headquarters are also in Espoo, as is Otaniemi Technical
University, another exposition space for "monumental artists" (Aalto's favorite phrase for his
profession). In 1966, the husband-and-wife team Raili and Reima Pietilä created the sinuous Dipoli
Conference Center out of copper, rough-hewn stone, and wood. Dipoli's cantilevered roofs and flowing
lines remind me of Wright, Gehry, and the exhibition that brought me here in the first place.
The land is perpetually flat and almost hypnotic on the return drive to Helsinki. As the boundless
plain of trees, rock, and earth extends in front of me, it's clear how the Finnish design aesthetic
evolved. Reima Pietilä once wrote that "through our use of building materials, we imitate the
authentic impressions we derive from nature." In a country so unforgiving, nature is more than
omnipresent, it's omnipotent. To grasp the Finns' affinity for the land—the last observation I'll take home with me—I had to see their buildings nurtured by their trees.
Heidi Sherman Mitchell is an associate editor at Travel + Leisure.
With such a short tourist season—July through September—there are few hotels in central Finland. B&B's and summer inns tend to be booked months in advance, so reserve early. Day 1: Arrive in Turku, Finland's first capital. Tour the castle, the Turun Sanomat newspaper building, the old Russian-style quarter, and the Alvar Aalto-designed Quality Hotel Ateljee. Day 2: Follow the E63 highway northeast through Tampere to Jyväskylä, the town where Aalto grew up. Eighteen of his buildings were erected there, including the Aalto Museum and much of Otaniemi Technical University's campus. Head south on Route 611, turning east toward Säynätsalo Town Hall. Day 3: Take Route 23 to Pieksamaki, then go south on Route 72 toward Mikkeli. From there, head southeast on Route 62 to Imatra and Aalto's Church of the Three Crosses. Take Route 6 southwest through Lappeenranta and Kotka, then on to Porvoo. Day 4: Pick up the E18 all the way to Helsinki.
Quality Hotel Ateljee Doubles from $80. 7 Humalistonkatu, Turku; 358-2/336-111
Säynätsalo Town Hall Two apartments: Alvar and Elissa. Doubles $25. 358-14/623-800
Villa KärkiSaari A former summer house on an island. Doubles from $100, including breakfast. 60 Kärkisaarentie, Kotka; 358-5/260-4804
Rocca Artfully presented dishes—including grilled leveret (young hare) with turnip-and-potato cakes—are served in this restaurant along the Aurajoki River. Dinner for two $80. 55 Lantinen Rantakatu, Turku; 358-2/284-8800
Memphis Bar & Restaurant Basic fare like burgers and salads. Aalto's signature "wave" carpets cover the floor. Dinner for two $25. 30 Kauppakatu, Jyväskylä 358-14/338-2740
Hommanäs This 1735 farmhouse offers simple meals: roast beef, shortbread. Lunch for two $40. 98 LÖfvingintie, Porvoo; 358-19/543-026