In my work, I struggle almost daily with this issue: is an experience actually a unique and living slice of this culture or is it a cliché kept alive by the tourist industry. For instance, in Finland: the sauna.
There are only a few public saunas still around in Helsinki. Why? Because, with the affluence here, most people have them in their homes or cabins. Gritty working-class neighborhoods are most likely to have a public sauna. So, I got on the subway and that’s where I headed. Finding the address, my first sight made it clear: this place was not for tourists. Outside, a vertical neon sign in simple red letters read: SAUNA. Under it, a gang of Finnish guys wrapped only in small towels and enjoying bottles of beer filled a clutter of white plastic chairs–expertly relaxing.
As there wasn’t a word of English anywhere, I relied on the young attendant at the window for instructions. He explained the process: pay €7, grab a towel, strip, stow everything in an old wooden locker, wear the key like a bracelet, shower, enter the sauna…and reeeeelax. “Was it mixed?” “No, there’s a parallel world upstairs for women.” “What about getting a scrub?” He pointed to a woman in an apron and said, “Talk directly with her…€6 extra.”
The sauna was far from the sleek, cedar pre-fab den of steam I expected. Six crude concrete steps with dark wooden railings and rustic walls created a barn-like amphitheater of steam and heat. A huge iron door closed off the wood stove (as it was busy burning its cubic meter of wood a day). The third step was all the heat I could take. Everyone else was on the top level–for maximum steam and heat. Taking in my towel, I wondered if it was used for hygiene or modesty. Once inside, the answer was clear…neither.
People look more timeless and ethnic when naked with hair wet and stringy. The entire scene was three colors: grey concrete, dark wood, and ruddy flesh. There was virtually no indication of what century we were in. I fantasized I was in the 1700s. From the faces, somehow it was perfectly clear: this was Finland…and these were tough working class guys. Each had a tin bucket between their legs–for cool splashing of the face. I didn’t talk to anyone actually in the sauna as I sensed they weren’t thrilled to have tourists as voyeurs in their domain. (I knew this was a lost opportunity…not good travel.)
I asked the young attendant about birch twigs. He explained that by slapping your skin with these, you enhance the circulation and the roughed up leaves emit a refreshing birch aroma. He insisted it must be birch for chlorophyll–that opens the sinuses. But the bin of birch twigs sat on the bottom concrete step, unused.
Part two of a good sauna is the scrub down. The woman in the apron–looking like a Stalin-era Soviet tractor driver–was dousing one guy who sat on the plastic chair looking like a lifeless Viking gumby. I asked “Me next?” She welcomed me to her table. Wearing a white and green vertical striped house dress under her tough apron, she scrubs men one at a time all day long. Sitting on the table, I ask “up or down?” She pushes me down…belly up…and says “This is perfect. I wash you twice.” Lying naked as a fish on the plastic sheet…I felt like a salmon on a cleaning table ready for gutting. With sudsy mitts she works me over. She hoses me off…which makes me feel even more like a salmon.
It’s extremely relaxing. (It would be entirely relaxing but for my anxiety that I might show how much I’m enjoying the experience.) From deep in my scalp to between my toes, she washes me twice. Stepping back out into that gritty Helsinki neighborhood, I have affirmed my hope: that the sauna is no cliché kept alive for tourists.