I’m sitting in the “luxury area” of the Olympic Casino, one of the two nicest casinos-attached-to-a-mall that you will find in the Kreslinn area of Tallinn on any given Thursday. I’m quasi-shielded from the blaring neon glow by an encasement of bamboozling bamboo, but the effect serves little the purpose of luxury. Don’t worry Mom, I haven’t stumbled into the glamorous downfall of casino gambling, with its Pyrrhic victories and inescapable doom; I just seem to have found the cheapest pint in town --- and it only took me three days!
The pint, by the way, is Rock Beer, with a star where the ‘O’ should be. This, however, is not the most impressive feature of this generally unimpressive aspirant vendor of bourgeois fantasy. To gamble in Estonian casinos, you need to register each time. Then, if you declare yourself a problem gambler, you are to be refused entry, in accordance with the Estonian Gambling Act of 01 January 2009. It’s not easy to outshine a $1.35 pint that is available 24/7 (yup), but this law has appeased my inner policy guru --- a taskmaster of the very worst kind. Good laws are hard to come by, and even harder to pass, so kudos to the Estonian parliament, whoever and wherever they are (probably within 5 K of me right now).
Anyway, I wrote that much 3 days ago now, and then left to go to an International Student party at a club called Parliament. 300 boozed-up maniacs from all corners of the globe, dressed (barely) in the colours of their respective flags, a troupe of acrobats/dancers rhymically writhing and somersaulting in glowing sequined leotards, Jager and pumping house music --- I don't need to tell you a what sort of time was had. In my usual understated fashion, I apported a red and white ribbon up and down my arms, red "2010" sunglasses (I guess New Years never stops at the malls in Tallinn), a Canadian flag worn cape-style, and red and white clothespins as earrings, just for a little finishing touch. I won some sort of prize for best outift, but apparently didn't hear not only the emcee calling my name through the speakers, but also the crowd on the dancefloor chanting it. I'm pretty sure I know where I was, and she was prettier than whatever nonsensical doodads they were going to give me on stage. Still, I hate to miss a receptive audience ...
Enough chronological order; all this structure is driving me insane. Know what's crazy? Estonians at crosswalks. Man, they will NOT cross unless the light is green. If a major crosswalk indicator malfunctioned,, pedestrian traffic would grind to halt -- 9-day-traffic-jam-China-style. I crossed two lanes in the middle of a mile-long straightaway, with no traffic visible in either direction, and the girl I was with called me "suicidal." From what well does this devotion to order spring? Is is a Soviet-era fear-of-violating-the-rules hangover? I leave that question to the psychologists. I'm going to stick to the facts. Well, one opinion --- it looks weird.
In other news, I visited a pharmacy that's been open since 1422, and ate at the McDonald's in Old Town. For all of you who are sneering about this choice, bugger off. I'm here for two years, I ain't no tourist. I'll do what I want. Interesting note: condiments are all extra charge. Not extra condiments -- I'm talking a pack of ketchup. Also, if you pay extra to large size your drink, you get the drink you normally get in North America. Is that why we're fat? Can't help.
Just coming upon the McDonald's was a bizarre experience. I walked into Old Town Tallinn, and initially saw a flower shop. Nothing unusual about that, except it was followed by 11 MORE CONSECUTIVE FLOWERSHOPS!! Good lord, I know the Netherlands is close, but how much demand is there for fresh cut flowers in this city? I strolled past this affront to entrepreneurial logic and came upon a giant stone gate, with the date 1218 on it. Indeed, this gate was constructed in 1218! That's a little while ago. I was still thinking about the serf labourer that must have spelled these rocks when I walked through the archway, stepped around a red-hooded beggar and then, they were beheld: The Golden Arches (trademark). Curiosity got the better of me, well, that and my love of McNuggets.
Pulp Fiction had led me astray. Well, my assumptions based on the opening dialogue of Pulp Fiction proved to be false, but that doesn't have the same ring to it. In that scene, Vincent Vega (Scientology dreamboat John Travolta) talks about his life in Amsterdam. Specifically, he talks about where you can get beer, including at the movies and at Mickey D's. Well, I had been to the movie theatre, and yes, there was not only beer, but full bar service at the movies. Nothing like a triple Jack and Coke to dull the grinding of skull-gnawing mediocrity, or to make Aston Kutcher seem charming. Oh wait, didn't his last movie go straight to DVD? I digress. McDonald's doesn't serve beer here. That's the moral of the story. Well, that, and it is adjoined to the oldest (by about 500 years) man-made structure I have ever seen. Quite the juxtaposition.
I've got a ballin' new pad. Well, ballin' by Estonian standards, anyway. Brand new fixtures and flooring, a view of the Baltic Sea and THE HOTTEST LANDLADY ON THE PLANET. She's 26, with a Masters' degree in Thermal Engineering, and owns her own apartment plus the one I am renting. My friend Jeffy had a definition of the ideal woman -- not only gorgeous, but also owned her own house and spoke three languages. Well, I've found her. Now I've just got to start breaking things in my apartment, to get her over here regularly.
Well, friends, there's more to tell, but I'll keep this instalment relatively short. I still have to tell about the University, and my first night out on the town for real. This place is something else.
Terry on the Baltic Sea
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Post 2: Estonian Arrival
If anyone ever tells you to buy a “Grow Bag” suitcase, strike them with a lethal blow to the solar plexus. As I embarked on the impossibly long walk down the five gangways of the Helsinki ferry terminal, two wheels on my “Grow Bag” instantly crumbled like clay. After some all-too serious thought, I decided that I couldn’t just leave my only suitcase and all its contents behind, not just yet anyway. So, I dragged the f’n thing, with my guitar on my back and my laptop bag forming a loose triangle choke the entire time. The Supercoat, the Wilson to my Tom Hanks on this voyage, was doing me no favours in the 21 degree heat, under the Atlas-weight of all my personal belongings. I got so bad that a Finnish guy, about fifty years old, stopped and said “Let me carry your guitar.” I thought about it for a second, the veins in my neck at popping-tension from dragging the gd Grow \Bag, but my brother’s advice of “Don’t be so trusting,” was ringing in my head, so I politely declined. He started to walk away, and then looked back upon my pitiful form and said accurately, “Come on, you will die!”
When you’re right, you’re right; and this Fin was telling true facts, as Ed Duggan would say. So, calculating my priorities in case I never saw him again, I kept my guitar and gave him my laptop bag and watched him walk away, twice the pace I was going, even with this lightened load. Well, there goes that, I thought, but he stopped, turned around and had a little laugh at my expense as he waited for me to catch up.
On board, I dragged my chattel and my carcass to the elevator and went to the 9th floor deck (this is a big boat/ship). There things were better, despite the fact the bar on this deck was closed, because of a stunning panorama of the Baltic Sea. Absolutely beautiful. The sun started to sink beyond the glistening grey-eyed blue of the ancient horizon, and I was reminded of why I was wandering in the first place. The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful, basically consisting of my reading and trying to stay awake after Neptune knows how long, and drinking one new type of beer along the way. It was called “Le Coq”, a pleasant 5.2% lager that I found amusing, as the brand name is quite similar to my nickname from this summer in Sherbrooke, Quebec. I was called “Le Coque”, which means rooster, because my trademark lilting-staccato laughter seemed to serve as alarm clock for a neighbour. What can I say? Life is funny. Everyone should laugh more, and louder.
We arrived in Tallinn in two hours, and it was gorgeous from the sea. It is an interesting mix of super old (there is a pharmacy here that has been open for 600 years), Soviet-style grey squares and modern glass and steel. My tutor (something like a student ambassador) was waiting for me with a hand drawn sign at the bottom of another near-fatally long gangway drag. From there she sputtered some guttural Estonian to the cab driver, and off we went to my hotel/glorified hostel. No dragging the bags this time, as my room was on the third floor and elevators, like fire escapes, are rare luxuries in this part of the world, apparently. Anyway, I threw down the accursed Grow Bag and then we went to get something to eat --- I had the Kangaroo burger. It was chewy, with a taste somewhere between beef and caribou, fyi.
Oh, and the first two English songs I heard? “Take It Off” by Kei$ha and Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again (on My Own).” I think I’ll adopt the latter as my theme for the journey, as long as the Supercoat doesn’t mind.
Tomorrow: Tallinn University, and preliminary interaction with the locals.
When you’re right, you’re right; and this Fin was telling true facts, as Ed Duggan would say. So, calculating my priorities in case I never saw him again, I kept my guitar and gave him my laptop bag and watched him walk away, twice the pace I was going, even with this lightened load. Well, there goes that, I thought, but he stopped, turned around and had a little laugh at my expense as he waited for me to catch up.
On board, I dragged my chattel and my carcass to the elevator and went to the 9th floor deck (this is a big boat/ship). There things were better, despite the fact the bar on this deck was closed, because of a stunning panorama of the Baltic Sea. Absolutely beautiful. The sun started to sink beyond the glistening grey-eyed blue of the ancient horizon, and I was reminded of why I was wandering in the first place. The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful, basically consisting of my reading and trying to stay awake after Neptune knows how long, and drinking one new type of beer along the way. It was called “Le Coq”, a pleasant 5.2% lager that I found amusing, as the brand name is quite similar to my nickname from this summer in Sherbrooke, Quebec. I was called “Le Coque”, which means rooster, because my trademark lilting-staccato laughter seemed to serve as alarm clock for a neighbour. What can I say? Life is funny. Everyone should laugh more, and louder.
We arrived in Tallinn in two hours, and it was gorgeous from the sea. It is an interesting mix of super old (there is a pharmacy here that has been open for 600 years), Soviet-style grey squares and modern glass and steel. My tutor (something like a student ambassador) was waiting for me with a hand drawn sign at the bottom of another near-fatally long gangway drag. From there she sputtered some guttural Estonian to the cab driver, and off we went to my hotel/glorified hostel. No dragging the bags this time, as my room was on the third floor and elevators, like fire escapes, are rare luxuries in this part of the world, apparently. Anyway, I threw down the accursed Grow Bag and then we went to get something to eat --- I had the Kangaroo burger. It was chewy, with a taste somewhere between beef and caribou, fyi.
Oh, and the first two English songs I heard? “Take It Off” by Kei$ha and Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again (on My Own).” I think I’ll adopt the latter as my theme for the journey, as long as the Supercoat doesn’t mind.
Tomorrow: Tallinn University, and preliminary interaction with the locals.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
FIrst Post --- Alive and Well
Well, no going back now. I'm on the ground here in Tallinn, the capital city of Estonia. (It's here; don't worry, I didn't know where it was either http://maps.google.com/maps?q=tallinn&rls=com.microsoft:en-ca:IE-SearchBox&oe=UTF-8&rlz=1I7ACAW_enCA353CA353&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wl )
Anyway, as you can imagine, there was no direct flight from St. John's to Tallinn, so it was an adventure just to get here. I flew first to Toronto, leaving St. John's at 3:30 Sunday afternoon. Drank some Johnny Walker Black (which for some reason is cheaper than beer at Pearson Airport's international bar) and caught an overnight to Iceland. After a quick chat with the lady next to me at the bar, raven haired and downing shiraz like it was the day before the grape apocalypse, I had a new friend, at least until Reykjavik. We emotionally pressured the girl with the seat next to me into switching, and off we went. It soon turned out that the two girls next to us were fellow Canadian adventurers, both of them having just graduated from Guelph. We had all planned to sleep on the overnight flight, however ....
Instead we drank. Mostly we drank Gull, a bizarre choice for name inspiration, but a fine Icelandic beer with a light taste that was like a slightly-sweeter Molson Canadian. We also drank Polar Beer, which naturally has a polar bear on the label. I happened to see an ad for this beer in the absurdly profane Icelandic english-language weekly that they distributed at the airport, and it featured a drawing of a polar bear clubbing a seal, with the tagline "This is how we go clubbing in Iceland". I leave it for others to decide if there is irony in this or not.
After passing through security again, and getting the first stamp on my virginal passport, I checked out the self-proclaimed "Best Airport in Europe" in Reykjavik. It was all hardwood, but even duty free is no deal at Icelandic prices. You must need a second job to drink there, and then when would you have time for drinking? Some things I just don't understand. Another unsettling element was the absolute silence in the security line. I don't even mean church silence, I'm talking military silence. Standing in a line of about one hundred people-- families, young couples, even gaggles of teenage girls, -- all obeying some omnipresent silencing impetus. Genuine weirdness. A little boy made some noise, protesting something to his mother as she took something from his hands to put in the grey plastic x-ray trays, and I instinctively feared for his life. He seemed, however, to survive this violation of the unspoken covenant-of-silence intact, and on we went to Finland.
Helsinki is a legitimate big city. It's really an amalgamam of three cities, in a mini-GTA sort of situation. My cab driver was an unemployed English teacher from Seattle, who sold advanced solar-power generators on the side. He had lived in sixteen countries and travelled to forty, but now he had married a Fin and has stayed there for more than a year, with the simple justification of "I'm tired." All the travel had done strange things to his accent; instead of sounding American, he sounded more like someone from the future, struggling with our primitive dialect. Anyway, forty-five minutes and twenty seven Euro later, we were at the dockyard, to catch the boat to Tallinn. I'll pick the story up there tomorrow.
Anyway, as you can imagine, there was no direct flight from St. John's to Tallinn, so it was an adventure just to get here. I flew first to Toronto, leaving St. John's at 3:30 Sunday afternoon. Drank some Johnny Walker Black (which for some reason is cheaper than beer at Pearson Airport's international bar) and caught an overnight to Iceland. After a quick chat with the lady next to me at the bar, raven haired and downing shiraz like it was the day before the grape apocalypse, I had a new friend, at least until Reykjavik. We emotionally pressured the girl with the seat next to me into switching, and off we went. It soon turned out that the two girls next to us were fellow Canadian adventurers, both of them having just graduated from Guelph. We had all planned to sleep on the overnight flight, however ....
Instead we drank. Mostly we drank Gull, a bizarre choice for name inspiration, but a fine Icelandic beer with a light taste that was like a slightly-sweeter Molson Canadian. We also drank Polar Beer, which naturally has a polar bear on the label. I happened to see an ad for this beer in the absurdly profane Icelandic english-language weekly that they distributed at the airport, and it featured a drawing of a polar bear clubbing a seal, with the tagline "This is how we go clubbing in Iceland". I leave it for others to decide if there is irony in this or not.
After passing through security again, and getting the first stamp on my virginal passport, I checked out the self-proclaimed "Best Airport in Europe" in Reykjavik. It was all hardwood, but even duty free is no deal at Icelandic prices. You must need a second job to drink there, and then when would you have time for drinking? Some things I just don't understand. Another unsettling element was the absolute silence in the security line. I don't even mean church silence, I'm talking military silence. Standing in a line of about one hundred people-- families, young couples, even gaggles of teenage girls, -- all obeying some omnipresent silencing impetus. Genuine weirdness. A little boy made some noise, protesting something to his mother as she took something from his hands to put in the grey plastic x-ray trays, and I instinctively feared for his life. He seemed, however, to survive this violation of the unspoken covenant-of-silence intact, and on we went to Finland.
Helsinki is a legitimate big city. It's really an amalgamam of three cities, in a mini-GTA sort of situation. My cab driver was an unemployed English teacher from Seattle, who sold advanced solar-power generators on the side. He had lived in sixteen countries and travelled to forty, but now he had married a Fin and has stayed there for more than a year, with the simple justification of "I'm tired." All the travel had done strange things to his accent; instead of sounding American, he sounded more like someone from the future, struggling with our primitive dialect. Anyway, forty-five minutes and twenty seven Euro later, we were at the dockyard, to catch the boat to Tallinn. I'll pick the story up there tomorrow.
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