Surprisingly Close Yet Different

As I mentioned in the Riga post, some of us have to skedaddle on out of (t)here (Estonia) for some days to maintain our visitor status. J and I originally considered some northern locales -- thinking it appropriate to see just how far north we could get -- see the aurora borealis up close, pat a reindeer, get pulled around by sled-dogs, roll around in snow after hanging out in sauna tipis, the usual stuff.

We corresponded with some guest houses in Rovaniemi and some reindeer farms further north in Lapland. Things started looking more complex than expected -- we were sans vehicle -- how would we get to the farm from Rovaniemi? Could we duly diss Santa's Village and not be banned from the guesthouse breakfast nook? Would we have to drill our own ice fishing holes?

Further research soon revealed that the majority of attractions in northern Finland involved the snowmobile and, as Tallinn got chillier -- our teeth chattering and our longjohns chafing underneath our workaday (non-Gortex) winter fashions -- we started doubting the sturdiness of our apparel, should it be faced with Arctic Circle mid-day excursions (however brief) and northern-lit nights. Why were we heading north into even colder climes? After all, Tallinn is poised on the edge of the EU -- all the Union'ers flying in for mini-breaks to EST, why couldn't we do the same?

Ah, Barcelona. One of a handful of Estonian Air's regular destinations. We decided to take advantage of the relatively short distances and low cost of EU air travel, and booked passage. I tried to let myself ponder only briefly the company slogan, curious as to what exactly the marketing agency had in mind when they settled on "Surprisingly Close Yet Different" for Estonian Air's phrasal stand-in. I certainly hoped the intention was to talk up the country -- emphasizing for European travellers Estonia's location and uniqueness -- and not describing the airline proper.

-Watch out, Captain! Estonian Air is surprisingly close!

-Hm, Estonian Air, you say? How does it compare to other airlines?
-Well, Sir, it's surprisingly close, you know, similar. Yet...
-Yes?
-Yet.. it is, you know, just, well, different.

Corporate identity aside, the flight was fine -- though it was late leaving due to poor weather over... Copenhagen. We lunched on herring and boiled egg salads while waiting for the on-screen departures info to read something other than "Indefinite Delay". It never did, but we were eventually called to board.

Barcelona temperatures were surprisingly close, numerically speaking, to those we'd been enduring in Tallinn -- though we enjoyed the dramatic jump from minuses to plusses (plus-side and plus-size temperatures here gauged on this enormous neon Barcelonian thermometer).

In a quasi-(50~50)-related note, we were slightly disappointed that heading to Spain meant missing the much-advertised Lordi show, to be held in Tallinn on Feb 24. We'd been admiring the posters since we'd arrived -- these "Killers of 2006 EuroVision" (who, in fact, hail from Rovaniemi) promised a fire show at Tallinn's "Saku Suurhall" (think "Rexall Place", but in Estonian, and sponsored by beer instead of pharmacies). If Tallinn's music scene (well, besides the baroque) is to be measured by the postering, this might be the only rock show we'd be treated to during our stay. (Ozzy's not here until June.) We were tickled to see Lordi posters on our first walk-about in Barcelona (Tallinn--Barcelona clearly a popular route).... but were foiled again! Lordi was slated to play March 1, the day we were due to depart.

Surprisingly close, indeed.

[!?!..enjoy...!?!]

Rigas Cirks

Riga has a permanent circus -- we filed in just before lunchtime behind the kiddies and their babushkas and dyedushkas for some fine, old school, old world, circus entertainment. Before the show, there were pony rides under the big top, the rush to get unbundled at the coat-check, long lines for cotton candy, popcorn and glow-in-the-dark wands, posing for photos with clowns, monkeys, pigs. Highlights of the show included Sasha the clown and his catatonic, sleeping, snoring Scottie dog, Miss Valentina and her performing poodles, Miss Lebedeva and her flying doves, Cossack horse-riders, Chinese plate-twirling, boomerangs and high-flying acrobatics, beach-ball kicking baboons, Mr. Safari, the fire-swallower, goats jumping through rings of fire -- two hours of whimsical wackiness.

Riga, Part II (b)

We found a great bar on Saturday night. It was called "Gauja" (we looked it up later, and it turns out to be both a national park and the name of a 1961 Latvian-made transistor radio). The place was the size of someone's living room, and was done up just like a Soviet-era, um, living room. The interior design was quite excellent, and the place was very lively -- patrons jumped in and out to the street for smokes, a dog and his walker stopped in for some scratches, the bar-counter doubled as a pillow/face-rest for a weary drinker, there was raucous group singing. Here are some short videos of the place (pardon the sound -- this is the first time loading up vids -- not sure why the voices are out of sync).



"What is the man at the bar doing?"
"Napping."



Gauja looked to be shutting down, so we ambled down the street to "Saksofons," which promised live music. It delivered on the live part, the music (Beatles) was a touch sour (frighteningly out of tune). This might have been a fan who'd asked to sing along with the band for a couple of late-night numbers. I have seen no bartendress as surly and scowly. Things were silly, as they tend to be when things are shutting down for the night. A 5-star Latvian evening.

Riga, Part II (a)

Riga after an elevator ride up a church spire.




































I was hoping to find Souvenir #3 in Riga's massive market. The zeppelin hangars in the above photo are part of the market (there are 2 more hangars linked to those two and one that stands alone, a series of other buildings, and between and surrounding all these are rows and alleyways jammed with stalls and kiosks). Everyone in town was there that day selling something, but nothing of the antique variety. The hangars are full of foodstuffs -- organized loosely according to fish, produce, meats, milk products, sweets and breads -- while the outdoor sellers deal largely with clothing, shoes, insoles, socks, hats, artificial flowers, housewares, cosmetics and bags.
















We had a true Latvian lunch at Staburags -- pork and more pork (smoked, roast), something called "grey beans with bacon" (recipe for this and other Latvian faves), Grandma's potatoes. Latvia is really into gambling and chain restaurants. Staburags was part of the "Lido" group of restaurants and bistros -- a handful of these were Latvian-style country buffets. Another chain was Cili pica -- a (pretty mediocre) pizza-in-many-styles restaurant. It's also popular to serve yourself -- there was "Blinoff," a Russian pancake place, where the various blinchikis, syrniki, salatiki and soups were all ready-made. Same thing with "Pelmeni XL," which offered up self-serve vats of already-boiled pelmeni (Russian-style dumplings) and toppings (horseradish, ketchup, parsley, sour cream, mayonnaise) -- fill your bowl and pay by the gram.

We took in one of the shows at the Saxophonia festival -- this one held in the ornate Grand Hall of the Small Guild. Saxophonist Mario Marzi and accordionist Simone Zanchini (Italy) put on a mindblowing show.

Riga, Part I

Canadians don't need visas to enter Estonia, but vagabonds who haven't been granted work permits are only allowed to lounge about the country for 90 days within a 6-month period. To avoid wearing out my 90-day welcome long before my departure date, the idea is to excurse to neighbouring countries on weekends and on J's lengthy teaching breaks, thus avoiding what's purportedly a hefty fine for days-over-the-limit and benefiting from Estonia's proximity to destinations relatively unfamiliar.

We left Thursday, lunchtime, on Sidetrip no. 1, boarding a Eurolines bus heading for Riga, Latvia. Hotels were pricey, Riga being the next bright star on the European mini-break route, easily accessible by EasyJet, Europe's budget airline. Prices listed in last year's Lonely Planet were already a third higher or more. Some poking around churned up Central-Hostel, a great find for a great price in a great neighbourhood -- away from the touristy trappings of Riga's old town.

The currency in Latvia is the Lat (LVL). Since one of these is equal to around $2.20 CAD, and the smallest bill is a fiver (11 bucks worth), change and cents are important here. Here's J at the Central-Hostel, working out LVL to CAD to Euro to EEK currency conversions with his inner-ear abacus. Not very hostel-ish, in fact... the only thing making it so is the shared (with 3 other private rooms) WC and shower.

We were pretty disappointed with the Riga section of the Lonely Planet -- written by a "Becca Blonde". Yes, Becca, I'd have used a pseudonym, too. (Fewer complaints for her confrere, "Regis St. Louis", who provided the Estonian portion of the Baltic guide.) Hungry from the bus ride, we set off to find a pelmeni place that was recommended -- it no longer existed in that location, whether it ever had (other addresses were wrong). We had some food at the cafe chain that had replaced it, then set off to the old town to find some drinks and entertainments -- one of the Riga Black Balzam bars we tried to go to did not exist -- in wintertime, at least -- as the map location put it right in the middle of a square. We sipped a Balzam anyway, in some other place, and flipped through the weeklies for other options.

One bar called "Bumerangs" boasted "A pleasant atmosphere, bar, billiard, slot machines from world's leading producers -- IGT, Aristocrat, Atronic, Franco, Bally and Novomatic". (Never considered the importance of knowing who manufactured your slot machine. More later about Riga's serious gambling problem.) We opted for "Alcatraz" instead ("the staff scurries about in prison wardrobe managing to remain cheerful whilst bidding [sic] their time"), hoping to find a Latvian country or rock band. The prison garb was less 'prison,' and more 'Maxwell Taylor's', c. 1989. The only thing "maximum security" about the joint was the ridiculous attempt at face control and cover charge -- immediately upon entering, we were warned there would be a 2 Lat charge for the live music (of which there was none -- nor were there any other patrons). A dreary place.

Next morning, we headed out to the suburbs, to Riga's awesome Motormuseum. Here's a sneak peek, but visit J's blog for more details & more photos.

The Sound of Silence

One notices right away in Estonia that everything, and everyone, is extremely quiet. On one of our first days here, we dropped into a busy supermarket. There was no Muzak, no people chit-chatting, just the squeezing of apples, the rustling of cabbage leaves and the bristling by of fur-coated elbows. Even in some of the hipstser artsy bohemian-type bars, where you'd think the bartender's musical spin cycle would be top priority, the volume is kept so low, you can barely hear the selected tunes. The flipside is you can hear your interlocutors pretty well, and there's no need to shout over other people or the bar's favoured soundtrack. All the same, you still couldn't do much eavesdropping on surrounding tables -- whether it's the language or the temperament, Estonian chitchat is subdued and even mumbles sound muffled.

Even cell phone manners are (enjoyably) restrained. People's ring-tones do chime at volume, and present some of the most tuneless and/or high-spirited Euro-pop variants imaginable, but the ensuing conversations are pleasantly inaudible. One started today with the screamy intro part of James Brown's "I Feel Good" (not only startling in its high-pitched shriekiness, it was disconcerting as it left me pondering the timely association of James Brown + death rattle), but was followed up by none of the usually loud-mouthed one-sided conversational blasts, though the dialogue was taking place a mere metre away from me in the closed quarters of a Eurolines bus.

Cashiers have started blurting out phrases to me just before I pay. I don't know if they want smaller bills or exact change, or whether they're asking me whether "that's all". I doubt they're concerned about the packaging of the groceries ("Will that be paper or plastic, ma'am?"), since they generally have bags for purchase at the cash, and a lot of people recycle their own. Since whatever's uttered is quiet and curt, my initial desire is to say "pardon me"-- idiotic since I wouldn't understand what was being repeated in any case. I pause, then grunt something and give a blank, uncomprending look. Theirs is a blank-faced, silent retort that involves continuing the transaction as if nothing had been asked. An Estonian did assure me, though, that foreigners are not expected to learn any Estonian at all -- and perhaps they don't want them to. This may explain why we've had trouble finding much in the way of teach-yourself Estonian grammar books/CDs (for English speakers).

All of this seems a bit surprising when you learn that Estonia considers itself held together vocally -- through singing. In fact, it was the culmination of national sentiment through song that united the Estonian people, channelling and strengthening their drive for independence from the Soviet Union. The movement is referred to as "The Singing Revolution". Maybe the silence makes sense, then -- Estonians are literally saving their breath for the important stuff.

"Laulev revolutsiion," a documentary film that gives the historical background of the 20th century Soviet occupation of Estonia, followed up by a recap of events leading up to and surrounding the Singing Revolution, premiered in Tallinn in November, and is luckily now (or still) showing. Though not without its problems, the film gave us a useful overview of what's been going on here, and provided some excellent insight into local sentiment with respect to recent events. An article about the film and its makers is here.

Lastly, here's a peek onto the groovy, possibly UFO-inspired, ceiling of the movie house -- the beautiful Kino Sõprus in the Old Town. This photo is not from the Singing Revolution, but from a one-off, full-house screening of "An Inconvenient Truth". Though we showed up with half an hour to spare, we were lucky to nab 2 of the last 3 available tickets. Our seats were in the front row -- you are supposed to sit in the seat you were assigned. This comfortably eliminates the 'lights-out latecomers' seat-finding conundrum' that inevitably transpires whenever there's a packed house. Before the film, a man gave a brief talk, presumably introducing the film -- we gleaned that this was about all things eco-, bio-, and enviro-. Props included two large rocks and a bucket of water, followed up by a second, larger, bucket.

Spice Monkeys

Here's the spice monkey. (See Robyn's comment in the souvenir section below). There are probably a lot of them still kicking around. Maybe I should ask the guy in the clock kiosk if his parents have a monkey shaker they'd be willing to part with.

Firsts

Today was a big day full of local firsts. First things first were first up -- 9 a.m. appointment at the "naiste juuksur" -- women's hair salon -- where I finally got the chop-chop that no haircutter back in Montreal would give me. I had basically given up, since wanted the whole short-in-the-back/long-in-the-front bob scenario, but was repeatedly told it couldn't be done. "You can't make that line." "No, you can't get that kind of angle." "No, I'll have to make it curved in the back." "You want that much off? Well, I'll take off as much as I can." (Takes 10 minutes to remove 6 mm, charges me $40 and I leave with wet hair.)

Though Eida at "Starland salong" and I had only Russian as linguistic common-ground (and even that was pretty spotty for the both of us this day), she had a good idea of what I wanted done from the get-go. I was happy to let the scissors fly as soon as there was talk of "Victoria Beckham". This was obviously a reference to Posh Spice's famous hair-do of summer '06 -- a much toned-down version of which I was after. Aaah, how nice to be back on EuroSoil, where one need only "speak Spice" -- to have one's cosmetic and beauty needs suitably looked after.



The second first was breakfast made by J on our new appliance for cooking. When our landlord initially mentioned the possibility of acquiring a stove, he said it had two burners. I asked whether it had an oven -- no, it didn't. That's because it is a hotplate! Urmas delivered it on Sunday night, and we finally got some breakfast fixings and gave it a go.



Rounding out the evening firsts, come suppertime, we had our first buckwheat kasha (since being here). Then we watched "Play Time" by Jacques Tati (after Intro, click on "Play Time" in the building on the left). This movie is so visually stimulating and relentlessly playful, I felt drained afterwards. This was also a first -- though it's the kind of film you want to watch about a billion times to make sure to catch all the beautifully designed details, humorous splashes and artful nuances.

Eelroad

It's vexing to be able to "read" Estonian, while not knowing the first thing about Estonian etymology. Since Estonian uses the Latin alphabet, one's recognition of familiar patterns and letter-combinations and the tendency to "sound out" creates an illusion of a transferable literacy that is completely, and consistently, wrong. In the realm of foodstuffs, we initially stuck to things we managed to correctly divine, like the everpresent "kartulisalat" (potato+salad), invariably swimming in "majonees". As for city orienteering vocab, because of their ubiquity, it was easy to guess that a shop was a "pood". We quickly noted that a bar was a "baar", a club, a "klubi" and a pub, a "pubi".

I didn't sample anything "eelroad" for a while -- my loss -- as nothing eel-like is involved (marinated lamprey is, mind you, a local favourite) ... these are simply "appetizers". Meat is "liha". I keep thinking that "sealiha" is fish, i.e. sea-meat, but it's actually "pork". "Sink" is ham. Milk is "piim". Sour cream is "hapukoor". Carrots are "porgandi" and cabbage is "kapsas".

Despite the success of this supermarket cryptanalysis, the pressing annoyance now consists in not knowing how to properly pronounce these words. For one, "pood" should not rhyme with "crude", though that's the way it currently sounds in my version.

How Do You Spell "M-E-D-I-Æ-V-A-L"?

In case anyone following along does not know what the city's main tourist draw is, I thought it best to attach some photos of Tallinn's Old Town. Vana Tallinn -- Old Tallinn -- is incredibly cute, contained and perfectly photogenic. Come summer, however, it is said that the locals flee to the countryside as the cruise ships release their human consumer-cargoes to amass "suvenirid" and British stag party locusts swoop down on the city, plundering the various "erootika baar"s and "massaaz salong"s that pepper the crooks and crannies of the walled city. Until that time, a clear-skied, ice-cold day in the Old Town looks a little like what's pictured below.

It's the kind of place that the styrofoam-sword-wielders on Mont-Royal wish they were returning home to after a long day's battle, to reinforce their cardboard body armour with electrical tape and tend to wounds inflicted by Dollarama skull spears. Instead of taking out chicken wings, frites et sauce and tuning in to Star academie, they'd be hunched over wooden bowlfuls of steaming forest nutmeats and swilling spicy mead while being seen to by the town's plague doctor. Interestingly, there appears to be no local branch (whether canton, shire, barony or village) of the Society for Creative Anachronism in Estonia, despite the ready-made backdrop.

And le soir:

The irony of late (...or, с легким паром)

I set out in search of bathhouses -- whether Russian-style banyas or Finnish saunas -- to get sweating and to get the chill out. Turns out there are plenty of saunas about, but there doesn't seem to be much in the way of drop-in public, i.e. affordable, steam. One woman told me that any public wash-houses there used to be had disappeared of late -- and what remained of the saunas was too expensive for the "regular" folks who just wanting a washing-up.

The bulk of the saunas I did find are in hotels, are to be booked in advanced and rented by the hour -- serving more as occasional entertainment than healthful routine (especially considering that most advertise bar services, refrigerators, beds, boom-boxes and the like -- even one (the "Russian House") offering free beer). Some are tucked into forests on the outskirts of town -- entire cabins for hire, many encouraging 24-hour bookings. This arrangement likely suits if you have 10-15 people in your party (the hourly charge starts at about 300 EEK ($30 CAD) -- but a bit much if you're only two.

I did discover that Kalma Saun, the oldest sauna in Tallinn, still works as a public bath. They also offer a small private sauna -- accommodating "up to 2 people".

(By my calculations, that would mean either exactly 1 or exactly 2 persons. Though this recalls another encounter we had suggesting local acceptance of the fractionalized person. When our landlord was arranging the delivery of mattresses to our apartment, he asked us whether a mattress with a width of 120 cm "for 1.5 people" would be ok for us... we suggested that since we were 2.0 persons, it would not quite do).

We rented the sauna for an hour, and gratefully ridded ourselves of all the salt, toxic beer residue and varied Nordic grimes we'd accumulated in our first week. Two hours would be ideal, as we were definitely rushed (the damp body always ungainly in its response to hurried encasement in longjohns/tights, fuzzy thick socks, T-shirts and turtlenecks). Next week, we may have to book it for 2 hours, perhaps in the future finding more people (or demi-persons) to keep costs down. I'll eventually hit the public area and send J over to the men's side, to find out whether the goings-on over there are like those portrayed in the Russian classic "The Irony of Fate".

Keeping time

In an effort not to go home without souvenirs (as I did when I left Russia after 5 years), I have made some purchases already. First, not one to hang out in kitchen gadgets departments, I had never seen an individual-sized "zitronenpresse" before -- we ordered Russian soup (seljanka) at a pub and were each given our own lemon wedges in their special presses. I found some later at the Kaubamaja (department store). Souvenir number one.


Next, I went snooping around the Russian market near the Baltijaam (the train station) to find some kitchen supplies, and spotted a groovy clock in one of the kiosks in the old wires/batteries/light switches/machine parts/tools section of the market. The kiosk was unfortunately closed, and it wasn't even clear whether the clock was for sale. I eavesdropped in on some Russian men peering alongside me into the goods on display -- it seemed the person running the kiosk had "taken off". Prospects were dim.

In the meantime, J's wrestling with our suitcases during the move popped his fairly-recently-purchased-from-eBay watch off his wrist -- it smashed face-down, cracking the crystal and dislodging the hands. We headed back to the market on the weekend to find him a replacement watch and the clock kiosk was manned! We could hardly make it to the kiosk window -- whenever we approached the window, someone would sneak in ahead of us with some time-consuming transaction, someone getting his watch battery replaced, someone purchasing a home Alkometer, the usual stuff.

I finally made it to the window -- and expressed my interest in the clock. He wound it up for me, explaining that it was his parents' clock. (It was unclear whether it currently belonged to them or not.) He named his price, and I took it.

-Да, да, возьмите это, возьмите это! Через 5 лет, это будет стоить 20 евро!

The thing is an mechanical wonder -- no cords, no batteries -- you wind it once a week, is all. Souvenir number two.


J's since snapped off the replacement watch's strap-buckle by putting on his knapsack. He might opt for a pocket-watch on the next outing.

New Digs

The apartment search was quite daunting in the beginning. We were told about some websites with flats-for-rent postings, but were warned that the postings are primarily those of real estate agents, who will charge a one month's rent commission on every deal. Communal building fees, electricity, heat, water and gas, were generally not included in the monthly rent. Alas, we needed to find a place to live.

Saturday morning, we hunkered down in our hotel room, our various maps splayed open, our dialing fingers at the ready, our self-consciousness dials set at "low", and our afternoon wide open for setting up viewings.

Apparently, not many agents work on Saturdays. We placed a bunch of calls - J and I taking turns at the telephone, since neither of us particularly enjoyed stumbling through what, with every call, could potentially present as a triple-language obstacle course.

A bunch of apartments were listed as "ready" (i.e. for moving in), though when we called, the agents informed us that the landlords had informed them that people were still living in the premises. That is, the listings were still valid, but maybe call back in March. A handful of landlords didn't want short-term renters -- and were holding out to sign yearly leases.

A couple of agents didn't pick up, but used their call-back functions or something -- we'd get calls from them soon after in our hotel room wondering why we'd called. We emailed some of the agents - some replied many days later. One flat advertised it contained a sauna -- unfortunately, it had been snapped up the day before.

We managed to set up 2 meetings that day. Surprisingly, the second one turned out to be the one -- a huge relief to not have to do any more searching. The landlord -- not an agent -- lives in the building, and wasn't including any commission in the deal. The place is newly renovated, with 2 storeys - kitchen, bathroom and living area below, and stairs up to a bedroom-loft. We agreed on the spot although there was no furniture. We were assured there was 'a possibility' of getting some things - mattresses, fridge, etc.


Karmically perhaps (in contrast to my recent experience back down ol' Coloniale way), we have the best landlord ever. He's since supplied us with a luxurious mattress pad, a table and chairs, 2 armchairs, a coatrack, hangers, a pot, a pan, mugs and some teaspoons. And he's arranged for us all to share three ways the monthly costs for wireless Internet service (belonging to another apartment in the building).

The neighbourhood is full of old wooden houses, many still heated with wood-burning stoves, which gives the area a peculiar, yet pleasant, smell.