On my first solo bike tour, I could have been worried about a million things. For example, my inability to read a map. Or my tendency toward loneliness, which, if not cured quickly (by finding a sympathetic soul to jabber with), could lead to rather colorful anxiety attacks. 

But who could fret on such a sparkling spring day? As I sailed out of Turku, Finland’s oldest town, on a fantastically wide bike path, my red panniers bulged with dark Finnish bread, Havarti cheese, and chocolate. I pointed my bike toward the Turku Archipelago, a cluster of 20,000-some islands off Finland’s southwest coast. There I’d explore via bridges and ferries, soaking in the Baltic seascapes and staying at family-run guesthouses. 

How hard could it be?

For the next two days, I explored tranquil back roads where the shimmering Baltic Sea winked at me from between the trees. Toured dozens of tiny islands on a bouncing mail boat. Ate the best smoked salmon and deviled eggs of my life. Startled a moose and a herd of white-tailed deer as I rolled by them in a dusky pink sunset.

I also got yelled at by apoplectic Finns (or were they Swedes?) for accidentally trespassing on their beach, recoiled at the sight of bridges with no shoulders, and drank lots of weak Finnish coffee. All par for the course on an adventure in unknown lands!

Yet, an eerie quiet suffused these predominantly Swedish-speaking islands. If you detoured off the archipelago’s one main road, you could go miles without seeing anyone. The guesthouses were devoid of other guests except for me. The first night I savored the solitude. The second, in a guesthouse on the island of Korpo, I succumbed to my inner four-year-old.

Surrounded by empty rooms, I pulled the thick blankets up to my chin. The high-ceilinged old farmhouse around me creaked and groaned. Each sound echoed menacingly in my years. Outside, a hush had fallen over the countryside. No birds chirped. No cars went by. The silence scared me even more.

Finland is a very safe country, I reminded myself. Taking a deep breath, I put my iPod on with shaky hands. Nothing was going to ambush me in my sleep. But if it did, I didn’t want to hear it creeping up on me. 

I awoke in one piece the next morning and celebrated with a giant breakfast in the sunlit dining room of the Rauvais B&B. Surrounded by faded yet elegant antiques, my midnight fears seemed ridiculous as I stuffed myself with dense bread, nutty cheeses, thinly-sliced breakfast meats, soft-boiled eggs, and coffee.

I set off from the B&B optimistic and bloated. Back to my normal self.

Or so I thought.

Two hours of uneventful pedaling later, I turned off the main highway onto a back road. This was the “scenic” route to the town of Nauvo, a cheerful harbor village where I’d stop for lunch.

For the first 15 minutes, I enjoyed the solitude of my back road ramble. The serene countryside rolled by. Fields of grain undulated in the breeze. Lawn furniture graced the yards of the ubiquitous cherry-red houses with white trim. Birds chattered busily.

Where was everyone?

I pedaled a little faster. This was nice, wasn’t it?

I wanted to see just one person. Actually, I wanted to see just one Finnish family, out on their lawn, enjoying the spring sunshine.

Too late. I breathed hard now, and not from exertion.

Had I pedaled into some sort of sinister world where a Technicolor façade hid leering psychopaths behind every bush?

I biked faster. My sweaty palms gripped the handlebars. How far to Nauvo and safety? There were “villages” ahead on the map, but I already knew what to expect. They’d be deserted: just like Jalist the quaint community I’d photographed 10 minutes ago, with its freshly-painted red farmhouses and its utter lack of human life.

A stuttering engine noise reached my ears. My heart practically stopped. A Finnish psychopath! I gasped for breath. Pedaled fiercely.  If only my boyfriend Dave were here with me!

Ahead I saw it: a small farm vehicle.  In ten seconds we would pass each other. Four, three, two…I braced myself. Saw the driver. Late 50s male. He looked at me. Sweat poured down my face. This was it! He was going to–

The driver waved. Then he was gone.

I stopped my bike. Stood on shaking legs. Around me, dust motes shimmered in the air. The engine noise faded. Insects hummed.

I needed to get a grip.

Several hours later, I arrived safely at my guesthouse. Then, despite my rattled state, I got back on my bicycle. I faced a choice: bike to the nearest restaurant for dinner or choke down more stale bread and old Havarti cheese. My host at Guesthouse Gyttja, the aging, handsome, and mysterious Tom – a Bergmanesque character alone in his empty country manor – pointed me to a restaurant about six kilometers away on the tiny island of Kirjais.

When I set out at 6 pm, sun high in a china blue sky, the anxious voice buzzed in my ear. Don’t do it! You’ll get run over. You’ll get lost. A deranged Finn will kidnap you. 

Shut up! I was tired of these ridiculous arguments. Still, the heated inner dialogue drowned out everything else as I pedaled rolling hills and forested roads.

Then I came to the first bridge. The anxious voice buzzed about that too. Bridges –there are never any shoulders on those! It shut right up when it saw this one, however. Linking the islands of Lillandet and Sommaro, the bridge stretched low across an expanse of gilded water with wide-open views in either direction. No cars marred the view. 

I rode slowly over the bridge, gawking in either direction. Tiny islets studded the calm water. Sand and golden grasses lined the shore below me. On the far side of the bridge, a family puttered about in a rowboat.

Splash. Some of the day’s tension slid away into the bright blue water. I kept pedaling, energized now. Soon another bridge came into view – this one linking Sommaro to Kirjais. Again, the Baltic stretched to either side of me, calm as a lake. Not a single car appeared. Ahead, a few white boats bobbed. A clutch of bright red buildings came into view.

More stress evaporated. Poof. I zoomed over the bridge and into the diminutive village. An improbably lively restaurant occupied the waterfront. Tipsy laughter floated down from its crowded deck. The scent of grilling meat made my mouth water.

Inside, white streamers decorated the spacious, blonde-wood interior of Café Bystrand. I’d completely forgotten that it was May 1^st, Walpurgis Night, a holiday traditionally honored in Finland with copious drinking. A large family group that included grandparents and newborns toasted each other at the table next to mine, and their friendly chatter soothed my jangled nerves.

Over Karjala (a Finnish beer) and delicious pesto chicken, I gazed out the window at the town’s peaceful cove and celebrated my return to sanity. Note to self: when suffering anxiety attacks in strange lands, seek out restaurants full of happy people.

An hour later, I rode slowly back to the empty guesthouse. Though it was 8 o’clock, the sun still warmed my shoulders as I rolled back over three islands to my comfortable bed.          There I slept soundly on my last night in the Turku Archipelago: remembering, yet again, that the best adventures often consist of harrowing moments followed by joyful ones.

Next time, though, I’d bring a friend. Or at least a teddy bear.

– Rebecca Agiewich

Author’s Note: I wrote this essay after a trip to Finland in 2010 and am thrilled it’s finally seeing the light of day.