I’ve been listening to a language of which I understand only one word—ravintola. It means restaurant. My companions, Maati and Kati, live in Sweden but are from Finland. They’ve recently retired, so can now do much more of what they like doing best—hopping across to Finland and spending solitary weeks in their summer cottage, miles away from civilisation. I’m tagging along on one such retreat.

We’re in a car-queue at a harbour in Stockholm, waiting to roll into the bowels of a cruise ship and make the 12-hour journey to Finland. I am going to eat lots of pirogs, try not to die in a sauna, and, most importantly, indulge in that characteristic Finnish thing—silence. Every­one has assured me that the Finns don’t talk and they illustrate this with jokes like: a Finn and Swede meet for a drink. The Swede raises his glass and says “Skål” to which the Finn asks, “Shall we drink or shall we talk?”

On the Amorella’s top deck there are lots of Finns who don’t talk, unperturbed by blasts of icy wind and staring calmly at Stockholm as it sails away. In the bar downstairs they compensate, however, by singing raucous, off-key karaoke, following which a German oompah band in black waistcoats and colourful ties takes over, appearing to do the same song over and over again. The supermarket specialises in alcohol and giant packs of candy. Everything on the Amorella has a robust kitschiness to it. We find two Kaurismaki brothers films at bargain rates, however.

Waves of Kaurismaki nostalgia wash over me the next morning as we’re going up to the top deck to catch the first glimpse of Finland. A trembling old couple get on the elevator at deck 5 and take some time to establish that they want to go to 6. “You’ve missed it, we’re already on 7,” says a man. “It doesn’t matter,” replies the old guy. “In any case, this elevator is the only free thing on this ship.” Kaurismaki follows us as we leave the liner. At the customs checkpoint there are officers holding breathalysers. The Viking Line does not want to be seen as a company responsible for unleashing hordes of drunk drivers into the country every morning. As Maati rolls down the window, an officer who seems unreally handsome for 7.30 on an overcast morning asks, “Good morning, are you drunk?” “Oh, we’re used to that,” says Kati. Maati breathes into the implement, the officer checks it and says in the same deadpan voice, “There are a lot of zeroes in this car.”

As we drive on, Kati translates the voice on the radio. According to a recent survey, the more people drink, the higher their salaries. It takes me some time to figure out that what she means is the reverse. Some hearty Finnish rock follows and I start to realise that Finland, so similar in external appearance to its western neighbour, Sweden, is indeed another country. It’s funnier and colder, its citizens drink more, its rock bands are better, its language, unlike Swedish, is incomprehensible to an English speaker. Things in general are rougher around the edges.