June 21
I decide to take my island bike into Helsinki. Officially, it costs 7 euros to take your bike on the ferry, but I’m not planning to pay. I always buy a ticket for myself, but buying a ticket for the bike seems like overkill.
Public transit in Helsinki works on the honor system. You buy a ticket and usually no one checks it. But when I pedal up to the ferry today, four tough looking guys in blue uniforms are standing on the pier. Ticket inspectors. I sigh, and roll over to the automatic ticket machine to buy a ticket for the bike. I scroll through the options on the screen, but I can’t find anything like a bike ticket. Stumped, I walk over to one of the ticket cops.
“Do you know how I can buy a ticket for my bike?” I ask.
The ticket cop looks me up and down and scowls. Most people in Finland are pretty friendly. But this ticket cop is as jerky as a ticket cop anywhere. Maybe being a jerk comes with the territory. It’s a job requirement, or at least an occupational hazard. One of the crew guys on the ferry overhears my question and comes to my rescue. He tells me I can’t buy a bike ticket from the machines on Suomnelinna, so I shouldn’t worry about it. This causes a vein on the ticket cop’s forehead to bulge, but I don’t care. I roll aboard the ferry feeling like I’ve gotten away with something, which is a pretty good way to start the morning.
As we float toward Helsinki, I think about the honor system. A Danish guy I met said that the honor system works well in Finland because Finns are “good at self-policing.” That’s pretty rich coming from a Dane. I once had a Danish roommate in New York. Every night, he’d come back to the apartment and rant about all the litter on the sidewalk. Sometimes, my Danish roommate would walk down the sidewalk with a plastic bag and pick up the trash. I told him to be careful. That living in New York means accepting a certain amount of chaos and squalor. So picking up trash is a slippery slope. A step in the direction of madness.
I take a long bike ride along the “Helsinki Scenic Route,” a not-so-well marked itinerary around the city’s western suburbs. The route takes me across a string of little islands: Lauttasaari, Lehtisaari, and Kuusisaari. I ride down dirt paths past weekend cabins where people are preparing for the Midsummer celebration. Midsummer is a big deal in Helsinki. The city shuts down and everyone decamps to the countryside to sit around bonfires, drink huge quantities of sparkling wine (the official Finnish drink of summer), and reconnect with the pagan spirits that still inhabit this far off northern country.
Me and my island bike get thoroughly lost on Lauttasaari. At some point, I roll out of the woods and into the middle of some family’s backyard dart game. The family looks at me like maybe I’m a pagan spirit. I wave and make a hasty retreat.
Later on, a Finnish guy tells me I had nothing to worry about thanks to “Jokamiehenoikeus” — Everyman’s Right. It’s a centuries old principle that makes it okay to roam anywhere you want in Finland, even on private property, as long as you don’t make a mess. I come from the U.S., a country of “No Trespassing - Armed Response” signs. Signs that aren’t just a warning, but a statement of principle. Four words that sum up an entire world view. So it’s hard not to fall a little bit in love with a country where trespassing is a right and not a reason to get shot.