The LSE really was a return to the classroom. I left home at eight and I was in the university until no later than nine in the evening. I sat in lectures hour after hour. In between we spent time in small groups doing calculation exercises. And of course I did some independent study in the library. The teaching was a preparation for continuing academic study. It was very high-level and intellectually challenging. I was finishing off my M.Sc.; if my studies went well, I would continue to a doctorate. For my specialist field I had chosen the theory of the international monetary economy.
There was strong support in academic circles for ideas that would be implemented in Finland in the 1980s, such as the liberalization of currency markets and the introduction of floating exchange rates. Even in 1977 I had had to fill in a form and send it to the Bank of Finland so I could exchange Finnish markka into pounds before we left for London.
London was also the most important foreign outpost of the Chicago school of neoclassical economics, whose most famous representative was Milton Friedman. He was a stern critic of the prevailing Keynesianism. Friedman and his followers believed that growth in the money supply would revive the economy in the short term, but in the longer term would make itself felt as galloping inflation.
Fiscal policy – that is, demand created by public authorities – was irrelevant to long-term economic success. The role of government in economic policy should be strictly limited. Conversely, central banks had a crucial role regarding the money supply. These views were the opposite of the prevailing wisdom in Finland. I was interested in the Chicago School’s research findings, though chiefly as a vehicle for academic reflection. In my mind it had surprisingly little connection with practical economic policy.
Life in London was international, inspiring, and intellectually interesting. We lived in Akehurst Street in southwest London, where we rented a furnished flat on the upper floor of a detached house. We had brought with us from Finland only our stipends and our housing loan. We didn’t have the money for any luxuries, and usually we ate our lunch in the student canteen. Sometimes we met up with my friends from Atlantic College from ten years back.
When I had gone to school in the United Kingdom in the sixties, the Beatles had been the big thing, not least for me. Now in the seventies it was the era of heavy rock, such as Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, whose music wasn’t for me at all. Liisa and I started to attend classical concerts instead, for which London offered an inspiring atmosphere.
I studied diligently and with burning ambition. I submitted my final thesis within a year. In August 1978 I received a letter from the university that told me my thesis was good enough for me to move to the doctoral program, which I might complete in two years. My dream of an academic career was coming true. I began to see myself as a professor at Helsinki University or in some respected international institute, as some of my friends from Atlantic College already were. However I still lacked a doctoral dissertation, and the London School of Economics offered a unique opportunity to make that dream a reality.
IN AUGUST 1978 I REACHED THE AGE OF TWENTY-EIGHT. I had in my hand a letter from the London School of Economics practically guaranteeing me the Ph.D. in economics that would launch me on an international academic career. At just that moment fate or chance intervened and changed my life.
At a lunch given by the Finnish-British Trade Guild I met some executives from Citibank, which was expanding rapidly throughout Europe, setting up new offices as it went. Of course I knew Citibank’s operations in London, and I knew that it was a well-run global institution. At the LSE I had familiarized myself with the growth of international capital markets. I knew that the liberalization of the capital markets would have a greater global impact than just about any other conceivable peaceful event.
International banks had a major role in this. Citibank was doing in practice what I had studied in theory.
Citibank offered me a job. I would work first in London, where I would study the workings of the international money markets while also learning how the bank operated. After that I would move to Helsinki, to Citibank’s new office there. Citibank offered a salary, real work, and the opportunity to learn new things in an international environment. The bank was recruiting young people from good universities in various countries. I had been picked for the team just as the whistle was blowing for the first match in a new tournament. Citibank reckoned that we young professionals would repay its investment within ten years, though an active system of training brought this down to five or six years. So from the bank’s point of view the training system was a profitable investment in the future and in growth in new markets. It also brought Citibank credibility in countries where it was just opening up, such as Finland. Without local expertise the American banking giant could scarcely have competed with the established national banks.
The offer from Citibank compelled me to make the most difficult decision of my life. Many of my contemporaries had already found their niche. They had studied effectively, graduated, and could provide for their families and pay off their mortgages. I wasn’t a bohemian – far from it – but I had nevertheless contrived to live my twenty-eight years without serious consideration of what profession I should follow. When I went to London I only knew it would be something in the academic line. It was the same dream I had taken to Atlantic College ten years earlier. That was perhaps part of my nature.
According to one popular analysis people can be divided into four groups: achievers, explorers, socializers, and killers. The names are more or less self-explanatory. Socializers, for example, enjoy doing things together. For them the company is more important than the results; the common good and a feeling of well-being are the most important things. With all due respect one might say that many people from the Mediterranean region belong to this type. I am one of the achievers. Achievers enjoy getting things done. We always want to take on a new project, see it through to its conclusion, and move on to the next. We get enjoyment from working, doing, and studying. Our relationships with other people come through our work. We gather around us the sorts of people we can work with toward common goals. Achievers are always aiming toward something bigger, something better, toward the next project. We relish every success, but our minds are already focusing on something else.
In London back in 1978 I didn’t analyze myself in this way. It was only later that I discovered these categories, and Liisa agreed that I was definitely one of the achievers. Of course we all have elements of each personality type; nothing is purely black and white. And fortunately people can take on new qualities.
Although I was only twenty-eight I had already experienced a lot of power games. I had led a student organization, I had negotiated with the Russians, I had become familiar with party politics. I had not, however, enjoyed it; and I was not sociable enough to go out and win votes from strangers. Nor did power structures or power itself interest me enough for me to crave a seat in parliament or a job in the foreign ministry. I simply wanted to achieve things – I wanted good things to happen. I was always delighted when the National Union of Students won better financial terms or living conditions for its members. If I could say to myself that I had done things right, that was enough for me.
An achiever must always have something to do. Achievers are usually curious about things, because new knowledge makes new achievements possible. An achiever doesn’t need too much social life or external recognition – the achievement is its own reward. However, the achiever will be deeply hurt if the value of his or her achievement isn’t recognized or if it’s disparaged. Achievers keep the promises they make to others, but also the ones they make to themselves. And it’s the ones they make to themselves that are the most difficult. In 1978 I had promised myself that I would complete my final dissertation at the University of Technology and then go on to do my doctorate at the LSE. The promise to the British Council weighed on me a little, but not as much as the promise to myself.
Thinking