The morning light over Töölö is a soft silver-grey again, the same quiet tone that seems to have followed me all week, and I find I don't mind it at all. There is a particular quality to the last full day in a place you are just beginning to understand, a mix of urgency and reluctance that makes every ordinary moment feel weighted. I woke early, before the city had fully shaken off its sleep, and I knew I wanted to spend this day not in a museum or a queue, but simply moving through the streets, letting the rhythm of the place settle into me one last time before I head east.
I bought a monthly HSL pass yesterday, which felt like a small commitment to this city, even as I am about to leave it. About seventy euros for the AB zone, and it has already paid for itself in the tram rides I have taken, the ferry to Suomenlinna, the metro trips across town. There is something satisfying about tapping the card and hearing the soft beep, a sound that says you belong here, even if only for a while. The tram I boarded this morning was the 6, which loops through the heart of the city, past the grand facades of the centre and into the quieter, more lived-in districts.
As the tram rattled over the tracks near the main station, I watched the city wake up. A few people hurried with briefcases, others strolled with dogs, and the bakeries were already sending out the smell of fresh bread and korvapuusti, that cinnamon-roll scent that seems to define Finnish mornings. I got off near the Rock Church, Temppeliaukio, which I had visited on my second day but wanted to see once more in the quiet of a weekday morning. The entrance is unassuming, a low opening in the rock, and you step inside into this vast, cool space, the copper dome above and the raw stone walls around, worn smooth in places by decades of hands and backs.
I sat on one of the wooden benches for a while, just listening to the hush. A few other visitors moved slowly, speaking in whispers, and the light fell from the ring of windows beneath the dome, catching the dust in the air. It is not a religious feeling, exactly, but there is something sacred in the stillness, in the way the rock holds the sound. I thought about the week I had spent here, the admin chores and the long walks, the saunas and the ferry rides, and how the city had slowly shifted from a collection of landmarks to a place with a pulse.
From the Rock Church I walked through Töölö, past the Olympic Stadium and the Finlandia Hall, and down towards the waterfront at Hietaniemi. The beach was quiet, a few swimmers braving the cool water, and the gulls cried overhead as I made my way to Cafe Regatta, that little red cottage by the sea. I have been there a few times now, and I knew the korvapuusti would be warm and the coffee strong, and at about four euros seventy for a cappuccino, it is a small luxury that feels justified on a morning like this. I sat outside, the wind coming off the water, and watched a family feed the ducks, and I felt a calm that I have not quite managed all week.
The thing about Helsinki, I am learning, is that its beauty is not in the grand gestures but in the small, honest moments. The way the light falls on the granite, the sound of a tram bell echoing off the buildings, the ease with which people move through their days. It is a city that asks you to slow down, to pay attention, and in return it offers a kind of peace that is hard to find elsewhere. I thought about the cost of this peace, the rent for a modest one-bedroom flat in the centre running somewhere between a thousand and thirteen hundred euros a month, and I understood why so many people choose to live a little further out and save for other things.
Midday found me back in the centre, and I stopped at the Old Market Hall for a bowl of salmon soup, that creamy, dill-flecked comfort that has become my benchmark for a good meal in Helsinki. A lunch portion will set you back about twelve to seventeen euros, and it is worth every cent. I sat by the window, watching the bustle of the Market Square outside, the boats bobbing in the harbour, the tourists and the locals intermingling, and I felt a pang of something like longing for this place I am leaving behind, even though I have only been here a week.
In the afternoon, I took the tram to Kallio, to that bohemian district that has charmed me more than I expected. I walked through Karhupuisto, the bear park, where people were sunning themselves on the grass, and I stopped at Ravintola Kannas for a late-afternoon coffee. It is a place that feels perfectly of its neighbourhood, a little worn, a little artsy, with posters on the wall and the sound of conversation around me. I sat with my coffee, about four euros, and watched the life of the street drift by, and I thought about the evening ahead.
I had one last thing I wanted to do, and that was to return to the sauna. There is a public sauna in Kallio, Kotiharju, that has been operating since 1928, and I had read that it was a more traditional experience than Loyly, more raw, more authentic. The entrance fee is modest, and I paid my money to the man at the desk, who handed me a towel and a key to a small locker. The changing room was simple, wooden benches and hooks, and I felt a little self-conscious, but the ritual is the same wherever you go. You shower, you enter the heat, you let the steam work its way into your bones, and then you go outside, sometimes to a courtyard, and let the cool air revive you before you go back in.
There were a few other men there, some older, some my age, and we sat in the heat in silence, the occasional hiss of water on the stones. I thought about the word sisu, that Finnish concept of grit and determination, and I felt I understood it a little better now, not as something grand but as a quiet persistence, the ability to endure the heat, the cold, the long winter, and to come out the other side with a sense of humour. After my final round of the sauna, I stood outside in the evening air, the sun still high enough to cast long shadows, and I felt clean and tired and strangely at peace.
For dinner, I went back to Punavuori, to the Design District, and I treated myself to a nice meal at Ravintola Nokka, a place I had been told about, known for its focus on local, seasonal ingredients. I had a three-course meal, which set me back about ninety euros for the two of us, and it was worth it, the flavours clean and bright, a celebration of the late-summer produce. I sat in the warm interior, the windows open to the street, and I watched the last of the light fade from the sky, and I raised my glass of water in a quiet toast to this city that had welcomed me so gently.
Now I am back at my hotel, the Folks Hotel Konepaja, a converted factory building that feels both modern and rooted in the city's industrial past. The room is simple, but it has served me well, and the price, around a hundred and thirty euros a night, feels reasonable for what it offers. I have packed my bags, and I have a train to catch in the morning, heading east towards the lakeland, towards the forests and the lakes and the promise of autumn's ruska. But before I go, I want to remember this evening, the way the city looked in the golden hour, the way the water glinted in the harbour, the way the trams hummed along their tracks.
I think I have done what I came to do, in a way I couldn't have predicted. I came to settle in, to handle the paperwork and the practicalities, and I have done that. But I also came to listen, to understand, and I feel I have only just begun. Helsinki has taught me that you don't need to see everything to feel a place. You just need to be present, to let it wash over you, and to be open to the quiet lessons it offers. As I turn off the light and lie down, the city hums outside my window, and I know I will be back, even as I look forward to what comes next.
Tomorrow, I will take the train east, and the landscape will begin to change, the cities giving way to forests and lakes, the light shifting as August fades. I am ready for that, ready to trade the tram lines for the lakeland paths, to hear the call of the loon instead of the train horn. But I will carry Helsinki with me, not as a memory of sights but as a feeling, a sense of what it means to be in a place that asks you to slow down and be still. And I know that when the autumn colours come, when the ruska sets the forests ablaze, I will think of this week, this city, and the quiet beginning of a much longer journey.
That's all for this episode, and for Helsinki for now. The next time we talk, I'll be somewhere else entirely, somewhere the lakes run deep and the trees stand tall. Kiitos, Helsinki. Moi.