Sauna Road
My great-grandmother and great-grandfather traveled from Finland and met at a Finnish dance hall in New York City. They eventually settled in a small town in New Jersey and named their road Sauna Road. They invited Finnish friends to move to the same street, and slowly a little community formed — one house at a time, one family at a time.
My mother grew up nearby, walking to her grandmother's house after school. I grew up hearing about those walks and the world at the end of them: cardamom bread cooling on the counter, strong coffee always ready, the sauna heated, and the cold stream just outside. Pulla on the table. The smell of birch and woodsmoke.
Those sensory memories — inherited more than lived, but real nonetheless — shaped something in me long before I understood it. An appreciation for simplicity. For ritual. For warmth made with hands and honest materials. For the way a place can hold a family together across generations.
When I found Anacortes, something felt familiar. The mountains and water. The islands and forests. The quiet. It reminded me of the Finland I had only heard about — a landscape that rewards attention and stillness. The kind of place where architecture should listen to the land before it speaks.
That Finnish sensibility — the belief that a space should be simple, warm, and made with care — is in everything I design. It is not a style I chose. It is something I inherited, and something this place confirmed.