Love thy neighbour

I am trying to understand Helsinki, with its penchant for nice design, its saunas, its woman presidents, its conferences on security and co-operation in Europe, its cranberries and its lemon pepper salmon. The only living Finn I've heard of is Mika Hakkinen. But to judge by these respectable people in long coats, he isn't representative.

All I know about the residents of this city is that their trilling language is not an Indo-European one. It seems, in fact, more closely related to the language of bears and elks than to that of (say) Swedes or Russians. By day, the people of Helsinki may wear suits and surf the internet. But by night they dream of their Karelian wilderness of forest and clear lakes, their wooden saunas, their jars of home-pickled mushrooms, their fresh fish and arctic brambles and cloudberries ...

Or so I suspect. And others have drawn similar conclusions. Back in the 1920s, indeed, the Finns were a rather modish people in the salons of western Europe, what with Sibelius the composer, Alvar Aalto the designer, and the original "flying Finn", Paavo Nurmi (not to be confused with Mika Hakkinen), who won four golds in track and field in the 1924 Olympics in Paris. Word got out, back then, that Finland was a magical country of 188,000 lakes and 179,000 islands, but no cities.

Maybe Finns just don't do cities, then? Maybe the miraculous fact that they have emerged from history with a state of their own owes more to their ancient traditions of being nice to traditional oppressors. Finlandisation, it used to be called: and aren't they still at it now? A lady from the Helsinki tourist board, called Kaarina, is going so far as to take me to dine in a Russian restaurant.

"You see, this place is so authentic," she tells me. But authentically what? Its velvety interior and Dickensian lighting make me suspect that Rasputin and Dostoyevsky are drinking vodka at the next table. The food here – cranberries and steak – is far better than in Russia itself. But why, in Helsinki, are we thus deferring to the old colonial power?

I am not yet sure. The next morning, strolling the sleety streets, I find that the pale pastel plaster façades of the Finnish capital also look remarkably Russian. Senate Square, the city centre, is an ensemble of neoclassical buildings that would not look out of place in St Petersburg. What is more, in its very centre – at the heart of the heart of Finland – stands a statue of a moustachioed and rather limp-looking Alexander II, the Emperor of all the Russias.

"Yes, the good Tsar," points out Kaarina, hastily. "The one who emancipated the serfs ..."

Groping for reasons, I begin to speculate: might it be that Helsinki respects Russia for having brought the Finnish capital here from Turku in 1812? "Oh no," comes the vague answer. "No, no ... we just don't mind Russians."

But after declaring independence in 1917, the Finns must have faced a dilemma regarding their imperial statue. Should they tear Alexander down and risk offending the Russians? Or should they keep him, and risk offending the Soviets? To do nothing, in the end, seems to have been viewed as the least offensive option.

I stroll down to the harbour to find that it, too, is dominated by the sinister-looking Uspenski Cathedral, a giant Russian confabulation of dark bricks and domes. Not that the Finns seem to care about things like this. The place I am heading for now is an offshore island. Perhaps the fort of Sveaborg ("Castle of Sweden") will help to uncover the mystery of Helsinki's identity for me.

A few fur-hatted old men are aboard ship. Under our movements, the ice plates murmur like sherbet as they slide slushily together; a seagull perches on a wobbly ice floe. Looking back, I now see that Helsinki resembles a tiny fishing port, ominously dwarfed by two colossal Swedish ferries currently in dock.

But once on dry land again, 15 minutes later, I feel more hopeful. Here the snow is deep and crisp. No noises are heard. Big old trees sprout among the yellow buildings. And, suddenly, I have a beardy little guide at my side. Sveaborg, he declares, was originally designed 250 years ago to dominate the eastern Baltic. "It had the greatest dry dock in the world," he adds, in a confidential whisper. "After the Russians had built St Petersburg, and fortified their own offshore islands, we had to go one better."

"You did?"

"Yes, the Swedes did," says the man, airily. "In those days there was no difference between Swedes and Finns. Anyway, as I was saying ... this fort housed a lively community before Helsinki ever did."

As late as 1790, in fact, the Swedes were still beating the Russians in these parts. Not for much longer though: 20 years after that, they abandoned this whole "invincible" fort to a fleet from St Petersburg, with scarcely a shot fired. It was a surrender that embarrasses Finns to this day. "A shameful incident," my beardy guide is now muttering. "We should not have surrendered ..."

These days, Finns call the place the Suomenlinna, "castle of Finland". But it has largely lost its military function. The old garrisons have been converted into flats; only the naval academy survives. The great dry dock from the Swedish era is still there, housing up to 20 wooden ships, hauled up for the winter. But these are museum pieces. Does this place throw any light on the spirit of modern Helsinki?

I look south across the Baltic, beyond dribs and drabs of snow-covered islands. From that direction, I suddenly remember how, during the Crimean War in 1854, British ships had humiliated the Russians by launching a bombardment upon this very hillock where I now stand. "Oh, a savage attack," my guide is now recalling. "Savage. We took many casualties."

"You took them?"

"Yes. The Russians took them."

That's it. I'm ready to give up. The Finns must be out there on their lakes somewhere, eating their cranberries, not here in Helsinki. I promptly storm back to the mainland, where a couple of hours later I rejoin Kaarina as night is falling once more. I'm fed up because I can imagine the kind of thing she'll have in store for me: a typical Swedish meal of Baltic herring.

"Don't be stupid," she says. "We're off go-karting."

"Off what?" I gasp.

"Go-karting. Round a race-track."

She's serious. This, apparently, is what the people of Helsinki do in their spare time. Ten minutes later we arrive at the indoor track in time to see a group of girls and boys kitting up in what look like Formula One overalls.

"Car man with guts" is how the local paper describes the owner of this place. I see tiny cars with real engines, awaiting starters' orders. But there is no air pollution inside: giant air conditioners suck out heat, fumes and the whiffs of burnt rubber as soon as they are generated. And yes, Mika Hakkinen is a regular visitor to the track. To prove it, pictures are promptly brought out for my benefit, showing Mika grinning like a bear.

In my overalls and helmet, I think I look authentic. I'm soon off in my go-kart, hugging hairpin bends, screeching down the straights. The maximum speed (I have been warned) is 60mph: electronic controls prevent will prevent me from exceeding this. But suddenly, in my throttle, I can feel Helsinki coming to life. And after 10 minutes of extremely tight corners, I am ready for anything. A stylish meeting room with seating for 20 perhaps? A luxury sauna, where, from small windows, I can keep half an eye on the track? All these facilities are available on site. And all, it seems, makes perfect sense to Finns.

Thus revved up, so to speak (as Kaarina points out), I now have no choice but to indulge in Helsinki's greatest pleasure. It's a short drive back into town, and I am heading for a drink in the Sanua-bar. This turns out to be a bar where, for the price of a drink, I can also use the sauna round the back. "Take a beer and a towel," says the bartender. I feel as though I am going to a very expensive bathroom.

Having changed into nothing, I enter the innermost steam room to find a naked disc jockey and a naked banker. The disc jockey is mumbling about the need to get relaxed before going on the night shift. "If sauna and beer can't relax you, you must be dead," says the banker. "That's right," growls the disc jockey. "Real Finns are born in the sauna. And after we die, we are washed and laid out here."

The naked banker and I retire, wrapped in towels, to the outer room to drink our beers and stare into fish tanks. I tell him about the go-karting. He reminisces about great sauna experiences of his life. I have never felt so relaxed in my life. This is it, then. Finnish Helsinki. I've found it, against all the odds.

The Facts

Getting there

British Airways (0845 773 3377; www.ba.com) is offering return flights to Helsinki in April from £139.

Travelscene (020-8424 9648; www.travelscene.co.uk) offers a two-night break in Helsinki from £287 per person, based on two sharing, staying at the four-star Hotel Klaus Kurki on a b&b basis. The price includes return flights from Heathrow on British Airways.

Further information

Finnish Tourist Board (020-7365 2512; www.finland-tourism.com/uk).