2.5.12
4.10.10
Cabbages and Kings
We were supposed to go on a field trip to a bog. In preparation for the 15-hour excursion we ate a hearty breakfast, dressed warmly, and packed a nutritious lunch. But we got the time wrong and the bus had been on its way to the boggy coast for an hour by the time we left the flat. Oops. Thinking we might chase them across the country on a bus of our own, we headed for the Bussijaam. But no such luck, the next departure in that direction was at 3:20 and didn't arrive til after 7. They'd be on the way back by then, so the venture would be pointless. Disappointment was thick, but spontaneity buoyed us up. After all, we were at the bus station. It would be a shame to have gotten up so early for nothing. So we decided to go on our own field trip.
Back and forth between the map of Estonian bus routes and the information clerk with her scraps of English, we had begun to disbelieve in the feasibility of our enterprise. It is very difficult to express that you want to go somewhere, but you're not sure where, and have you got a suggestion, to a bussijaam info-clerk at 8 in the morning. As I made use of the ever-present wifi signal in a hurried and desperate attempt to squeeze some useful information out of the world wide web, a young man in a plaid jacket asked my companion in English what was up. Suspicious of the kindness of strangers I lent only the corner of an ear to their conversation as I continued my fruitless googling. Hence my surprise when my companion announced his discovery of a destination.
And off we went to Voru. The town itself is unremarkable, but a village on the outskirts, accessible by bus, boasts the highest peak in the Baltics and a picturesque surrounding countryside. In Voru our guide, Rouno, extracted the necessary timetable from another English-less bussijaam info-clerk and presented us with a written explanation of just when the bus to Suur Muna Magi was set to depart. This document also noted the times and routes of two options for returning to Tartu. Then Rouno showed us to a lovely cafe, told us a little about himself, and went on his way to whatever village he's from.
To pass the time before our next departure, after coffee, of course, we visited the impressive collection of supermarkets which is, according to Rouno, the pride of Voru. More grocery stores than people, he claimed, and as we went along deserted streets from Konsuum to Rimi to Maxima it seemed his assessment was correct. At Rimi (or was it Maxima?) I located a favorite brand of juice which comes in various combinations of beet and/or carrot housed in a single-serving-sized rectangular carton. On this occasion, however, I spotted a new variety of juice, unknown to the shelves of Tartu markets. The green cartoon was confirmed by the ingredient listed on the back: kapsas. Impulsively, though not without a trace of fear, I bought the cabbage juice. I sampled its aroma before taking a swig, and then nearly didn't because it smelled, as my companion would later relate to a crowd of semioticians, "like twelve farts".
19 kilometers and a half-hour bus ride later we were deposited unceremoniously at the base of a sign that read "Haanja". A sign a few meters up the way encouraged us to follow the road for a kilometer more to Suur Muna Maggi. It was a tremendously beautiful day.
The weather was perfect: crisp and sunny, the violent blue unblemished by clouds forced an extra measure of orange from the stunning autumn leaves. The air seemed cleaner, easier to breathe, and it is only thanks to much practice that I kept my giddiness in check. The wide paved road curved suggestively around hilly swellings in the landscape, and well kept farmhouses overlooked the dark, freshly turned earth of fields preparing for winter. No animal life, chicken or human, inhabited the scene, and the stillness which might have seemed eerie was overwhelmed by the blazing perfection of the day.
At the base of the cement stairs leading up the "mountain" we found a nice-looking but deserted cafe. Exploring its grounds we discovered a large round boulder situated between some apple trees on a circle of overgrown bricks.
Close inspection revealed a spiral pattern in red and a rune etched into every other brick or so.
This clearly magical space was identified as the "Spring of Time" by a nearby sign. I wondered, and wonder, what they do there when the place is open. I pulled an apple off the tree and we headed for the stairs to the summit.
On the way up we debated stashing our bags, full of computer and books and lunch and a plastic bottle of cold tea, in some bush or another to ease our ascent. By the time we had made up our minds we were at the top. Suur Munamägi (Big Egg Mountain)is only 318 meters above sea level. Because it's covered in trees you have to climb the tower, another 29.1 meters, to get a view of anything. But it is a pretty spectacular view:
Down the tower again I sat on a wooden bench and broke out our lunch. After some cold chicken and colder tea we headed back down the other side of the "mountain". Our spectacular view confirmed that the buildings near our bus stop comprised the town of Haanja entirely, and so we went back to where we'd started and looked around for something to do. Finding the only businesses--a post office and what seemed to be a tourist center--locked, I recalled a sign some meters toward Voru that pictured a knife and fork and said "Finnis Pub". We found the sign, followed the arrow, and located the business which we prayed was open. It was.
The spacious bar with big picture windows looked out on an empty and snowless ski resort. Photos of skiiers and their exploits testified to the nature and purpose of the town of Haanja, currently dormant and waiting for the ski season. It was very pleasant there. We were enjoying ourselves, relaxed and free from human chatter. We decided to stay.
Another fruitless google search led me to the bartender who, I suspected, spoke some English. He did, and when I inquired about lodging he directed me not to a map nor back to Voru but, index finger extended at the end of his outstretched arm, out the window and across the uneven grass to a pale building with a red metal roof. "Milla," he said. "Cheap?" I asked. He reddened a little and laughed, "Ja." I brought my informational booty back to the wooden table and we decided to check it out at once.
It was a very large building, by Haanja standards, and seemed to be multi-purpose. On the left side of the top floor A sign read "Haanja Milla Kook" and more big picture windows looked in on a warmly decorated dining room. I was excited to think that this hostel had a restaurant of its own, but confused about why the chairs were up on the tables, the doors locked, and nobody home. We tried every door we could find with no better luck, and decided to ask at the A ja O grocery housed in the lower right side of the building. A single blonde woman tended the small store, which nonetheless carried a surprising quantity and variety of booze. It was quickly apparent that she spoke less English than a bussijaam info-clerk, and I began to wonder if we could still make it back to Tartu. As a last attempt I looked her squarely in the face, put on a rather helpless and weary look and asked, "Milla?".
"Oh, JA! Milla!" She seemed astonished by the simplicity and obviousness of my inquiry, jumped out of her chair and sprinted toward the back door. I was wondering whether we should follow her, if perhaps she were leading us to the hostel hidden in the bowels of the big building, when she shouted into the dark doorway.
"MILLA!"
She returned to where we stood at her register and resumed her seat with a look of satisfaction. We were confused. As I tried to sort through the jumble of inexplicable events that had occurred over the last few seconds, the fattest woman in the whole country heaved through the back door. She came toward us speaking rapidly and huskily in Estonian, hot pink and black lycra stretched unconcealingly across her undulating mass. A teenage girl, not quite as fat but well on her way, followed in Milla's wake. Halting questions and frustrated explanations flew across the checkstand in English and Estonian, but nobody spoke both. Milla put her hand to her head, trying to locate her third-grade English lessons, the grocery clerk threw up her hands and looked defensive, and the teenage girl laughed at all of us and declined to intervene. A tall wiry man elbowed his way through the crowd to the register and then forgot his beer as added his voice to the indistinguishable mass of speech. Finally he held up a hand and six voices stopped at once. He looked at us meaningfully, rather sternly, and asked, "Russian?".
No.
The clamour of voices began again at once and finally, in what turned out to be a stroke of genius, I caught Milla's attention and placed both hands palm to palm against the size of my face. I didn't even need to make a snoring sound. This cleared the matter up at once and she led us out of the store, fumbling with a massive key ring while everyone continued to talk at once. Now another voice joined the conversation as Milla dialed on her mobile phone, spoke a few words, and handed it over to my respectable looking companion. They conversed, thankfully, in English, and I waited with great anticipation as he reviewed the terms of our stay and negotiated a price. The phone returned to Milla, she shouted smiling into it a few times, and our host unlocked the door to our lodging.
It was perhaps the nicest, most comfortable temporary lodging I have ever had. It was warm, the wood floor and furniture lent a distinctly rustic mountain feel, every floor has a tasteful clean rug in an abstract design, the beds were well appointed with sheets, blankets, and comforters. The kitchen was large, with a long family dining table and two stove/ovens: one electric, one wood burning.
We had access to the whole unlocked facility, which was connected with the commercial kitchen upstairs. I resisted the urge to make use of their shiny industrial grade equipment, and I didn't take anything out of the deep-freeze full of meat. But we were the only lodgers, and every room stood unlocked and open, so I explored it all.
We ate a lovely meal of hapukapsas (sauerkraut) and the best grillvorst (sausage) I've ever had, and watched Estonian cartoons.
Across the frosty field we returned to Finnis pub to thank the bartender for his recommendation, sampled some excellent pepper infused vodka (which tingled pleasantly on the way down and less pleasantly on the way out) and slept comfortably on the bed which was not too firm, not too soft, and left me perfectly refreshed as tomorrow shone sunny through the pumpkin colored curtains.
In the morning we feasted on cast iron skillet eggs with Rukkipala and orange juice, and departed in search of an ATM. Again, the blonde cashier at A ja O stared blankly as we made our English inquiry. Some hand gesturing and pointing at debit cards later we left with a mounting suspicion that Haanja may in fact be ATMless. We found our host upstairs in the empty dining room, surrounded by children of varying ages and a few women. We tried our query again, were met with a similar language barrier, and felt relieved when a very tall very thin very blonde woman with a lazy eye and a scowl entered and spoke in our native tongue. The relief was short lived.
"You should know, this is the country side. You have to bring real money."
Our unanticipated field trip had not included a stop at the paangautomat, and we were at a loss. No problem, she assured us. She left the room and came back a moment later with a scrap of paper covered in a string of numbers inscribed in clear, determined penmanship.
"The account number. SEB. You put the money in when returning to Tartu."
They actually let us stay and leave without paying, trusting in the honesty of the respectable-looking man and his industrial-kitchen prowling companion. Or they didn't care that much. Either way, we thanked them profusely, assured that the transfer would be made at our earliest opportunity, and went about our business. As we left it occurred to me that our business involved a return bus trip, for which we were also lacking "real money". After some deliberation and a foolish suggestion on my part that we walk the 16 kilometers to Voru, it was decided that we should venture across the field and seek the help of our English speaking bar tender at Finis Pub.
The place was expectedly empty just after opening at 11 a.m., but the same man stood behind the bar. He understood our plight, as well as my companion's hesitant and humble question regarding the possibility of obtaining cash from the bar's till. What would have been an impossible and absurd suggestion in most of the industrial world was met with a friendly "ja" in Haanja, and a debit for cash transaction enacted with ease and generosity. Relief returned, thanks were heaped on our rescuer, and the bus was on time. As I climbed into the diesel beast I spied a mobile credit card machine mounted on the dash. We paid cash anyway and returned to Tartu without further incident.
Salvaging a day threatened by disappointment, we experienced the tranquil beauty of a rare and disappearing isolation. We lived like kings on the budget of beggars, and I am forced to reconsider my attitude toward the kindness of strangers.
Back and forth between the map of Estonian bus routes and the information clerk with her scraps of English, we had begun to disbelieve in the feasibility of our enterprise. It is very difficult to express that you want to go somewhere, but you're not sure where, and have you got a suggestion, to a bussijaam info-clerk at 8 in the morning. As I made use of the ever-present wifi signal in a hurried and desperate attempt to squeeze some useful information out of the world wide web, a young man in a plaid jacket asked my companion in English what was up. Suspicious of the kindness of strangers I lent only the corner of an ear to their conversation as I continued my fruitless googling. Hence my surprise when my companion announced his discovery of a destination.
And off we went to Voru. The town itself is unremarkable, but a village on the outskirts, accessible by bus, boasts the highest peak in the Baltics and a picturesque surrounding countryside. In Voru our guide, Rouno, extracted the necessary timetable from another English-less bussijaam info-clerk and presented us with a written explanation of just when the bus to Suur Muna Magi was set to depart. This document also noted the times and routes of two options for returning to Tartu. Then Rouno showed us to a lovely cafe, told us a little about himself, and went on his way to whatever village he's from.
To pass the time before our next departure, after coffee, of course, we visited the impressive collection of supermarkets which is, according to Rouno, the pride of Voru. More grocery stores than people, he claimed, and as we went along deserted streets from Konsuum to Rimi to Maxima it seemed his assessment was correct. At Rimi (or was it Maxima?) I located a favorite brand of juice which comes in various combinations of beet and/or carrot housed in a single-serving-sized rectangular carton. On this occasion, however, I spotted a new variety of juice, unknown to the shelves of Tartu markets. The green cartoon was confirmed by the ingredient listed on the back: kapsas. Impulsively, though not without a trace of fear, I bought the cabbage juice. I sampled its aroma before taking a swig, and then nearly didn't because it smelled, as my companion would later relate to a crowd of semioticians, "like twelve farts".
19 kilometers and a half-hour bus ride later we were deposited unceremoniously at the base of a sign that read "Haanja". A sign a few meters up the way encouraged us to follow the road for a kilometer more to Suur Muna Maggi. It was a tremendously beautiful day.
The weather was perfect: crisp and sunny, the violent blue unblemished by clouds forced an extra measure of orange from the stunning autumn leaves. The air seemed cleaner, easier to breathe, and it is only thanks to much practice that I kept my giddiness in check. The wide paved road curved suggestively around hilly swellings in the landscape, and well kept farmhouses overlooked the dark, freshly turned earth of fields preparing for winter. No animal life, chicken or human, inhabited the scene, and the stillness which might have seemed eerie was overwhelmed by the blazing perfection of the day.
At the base of the cement stairs leading up the "mountain" we found a nice-looking but deserted cafe. Exploring its grounds we discovered a large round boulder situated between some apple trees on a circle of overgrown bricks.
Close inspection revealed a spiral pattern in red and a rune etched into every other brick or so.
This clearly magical space was identified as the "Spring of Time" by a nearby sign. I wondered, and wonder, what they do there when the place is open. I pulled an apple off the tree and we headed for the stairs to the summit.
On the way up we debated stashing our bags, full of computer and books and lunch and a plastic bottle of cold tea, in some bush or another to ease our ascent. By the time we had made up our minds we were at the top. Suur Munamägi (Big Egg Mountain)is only 318 meters above sea level. Because it's covered in trees you have to climb the tower, another 29.1 meters, to get a view of anything. But it is a pretty spectacular view:
Down the tower again I sat on a wooden bench and broke out our lunch. After some cold chicken and colder tea we headed back down the other side of the "mountain". Our spectacular view confirmed that the buildings near our bus stop comprised the town of Haanja entirely, and so we went back to where we'd started and looked around for something to do. Finding the only businesses--a post office and what seemed to be a tourist center--locked, I recalled a sign some meters toward Voru that pictured a knife and fork and said "Finnis Pub". We found the sign, followed the arrow, and located the business which we prayed was open. It was.
The spacious bar with big picture windows looked out on an empty and snowless ski resort. Photos of skiiers and their exploits testified to the nature and purpose of the town of Haanja, currently dormant and waiting for the ski season. It was very pleasant there. We were enjoying ourselves, relaxed and free from human chatter. We decided to stay.
Another fruitless google search led me to the bartender who, I suspected, spoke some English. He did, and when I inquired about lodging he directed me not to a map nor back to Voru but, index finger extended at the end of his outstretched arm, out the window and across the uneven grass to a pale building with a red metal roof. "Milla," he said. "Cheap?" I asked. He reddened a little and laughed, "Ja." I brought my informational booty back to the wooden table and we decided to check it out at once.
It was a very large building, by Haanja standards, and seemed to be multi-purpose. On the left side of the top floor A sign read "Haanja Milla Kook" and more big picture windows looked in on a warmly decorated dining room. I was excited to think that this hostel had a restaurant of its own, but confused about why the chairs were up on the tables, the doors locked, and nobody home. We tried every door we could find with no better luck, and decided to ask at the A ja O grocery housed in the lower right side of the building. A single blonde woman tended the small store, which nonetheless carried a surprising quantity and variety of booze. It was quickly apparent that she spoke less English than a bussijaam info-clerk, and I began to wonder if we could still make it back to Tartu. As a last attempt I looked her squarely in the face, put on a rather helpless and weary look and asked, "Milla?".
"Oh, JA! Milla!" She seemed astonished by the simplicity and obviousness of my inquiry, jumped out of her chair and sprinted toward the back door. I was wondering whether we should follow her, if perhaps she were leading us to the hostel hidden in the bowels of the big building, when she shouted into the dark doorway.
"MILLA!"
She returned to where we stood at her register and resumed her seat with a look of satisfaction. We were confused. As I tried to sort through the jumble of inexplicable events that had occurred over the last few seconds, the fattest woman in the whole country heaved through the back door. She came toward us speaking rapidly and huskily in Estonian, hot pink and black lycra stretched unconcealingly across her undulating mass. A teenage girl, not quite as fat but well on her way, followed in Milla's wake. Halting questions and frustrated explanations flew across the checkstand in English and Estonian, but nobody spoke both. Milla put her hand to her head, trying to locate her third-grade English lessons, the grocery clerk threw up her hands and looked defensive, and the teenage girl laughed at all of us and declined to intervene. A tall wiry man elbowed his way through the crowd to the register and then forgot his beer as added his voice to the indistinguishable mass of speech. Finally he held up a hand and six voices stopped at once. He looked at us meaningfully, rather sternly, and asked, "Russian?".
No.
The clamour of voices began again at once and finally, in what turned out to be a stroke of genius, I caught Milla's attention and placed both hands palm to palm against the size of my face. I didn't even need to make a snoring sound. This cleared the matter up at once and she led us out of the store, fumbling with a massive key ring while everyone continued to talk at once. Now another voice joined the conversation as Milla dialed on her mobile phone, spoke a few words, and handed it over to my respectable looking companion. They conversed, thankfully, in English, and I waited with great anticipation as he reviewed the terms of our stay and negotiated a price. The phone returned to Milla, she shouted smiling into it a few times, and our host unlocked the door to our lodging.
It was perhaps the nicest, most comfortable temporary lodging I have ever had. It was warm, the wood floor and furniture lent a distinctly rustic mountain feel, every floor has a tasteful clean rug in an abstract design, the beds were well appointed with sheets, blankets, and comforters. The kitchen was large, with a long family dining table and two stove/ovens: one electric, one wood burning.
We had access to the whole unlocked facility, which was connected with the commercial kitchen upstairs. I resisted the urge to make use of their shiny industrial grade equipment, and I didn't take anything out of the deep-freeze full of meat. But we were the only lodgers, and every room stood unlocked and open, so I explored it all.
We ate a lovely meal of hapukapsas (sauerkraut) and the best grillvorst (sausage) I've ever had, and watched Estonian cartoons.
Across the frosty field we returned to Finnis pub to thank the bartender for his recommendation, sampled some excellent pepper infused vodka (which tingled pleasantly on the way down and less pleasantly on the way out) and slept comfortably on the bed which was not too firm, not too soft, and left me perfectly refreshed as tomorrow shone sunny through the pumpkin colored curtains.
In the morning we feasted on cast iron skillet eggs with Rukkipala and orange juice, and departed in search of an ATM. Again, the blonde cashier at A ja O stared blankly as we made our English inquiry. Some hand gesturing and pointing at debit cards later we left with a mounting suspicion that Haanja may in fact be ATMless. We found our host upstairs in the empty dining room, surrounded by children of varying ages and a few women. We tried our query again, were met with a similar language barrier, and felt relieved when a very tall very thin very blonde woman with a lazy eye and a scowl entered and spoke in our native tongue. The relief was short lived.
"You should know, this is the country side. You have to bring real money."
Our unanticipated field trip had not included a stop at the paangautomat, and we were at a loss. No problem, she assured us. She left the room and came back a moment later with a scrap of paper covered in a string of numbers inscribed in clear, determined penmanship.
"The account number. SEB. You put the money in when returning to Tartu."
They actually let us stay and leave without paying, trusting in the honesty of the respectable-looking man and his industrial-kitchen prowling companion. Or they didn't care that much. Either way, we thanked them profusely, assured that the transfer would be made at our earliest opportunity, and went about our business. As we left it occurred to me that our business involved a return bus trip, for which we were also lacking "real money". After some deliberation and a foolish suggestion on my part that we walk the 16 kilometers to Voru, it was decided that we should venture across the field and seek the help of our English speaking bar tender at Finis Pub.
The place was expectedly empty just after opening at 11 a.m., but the same man stood behind the bar. He understood our plight, as well as my companion's hesitant and humble question regarding the possibility of obtaining cash from the bar's till. What would have been an impossible and absurd suggestion in most of the industrial world was met with a friendly "ja" in Haanja, and a debit for cash transaction enacted with ease and generosity. Relief returned, thanks were heaped on our rescuer, and the bus was on time. As I climbed into the diesel beast I spied a mobile credit card machine mounted on the dash. We paid cash anyway and returned to Tartu without further incident.
Salvaging a day threatened by disappointment, we experienced the tranquil beauty of a rare and disappearing isolation. We lived like kings on the budget of beggars, and I am forced to reconsider my attitude toward the kindness of strangers.
25.9.10
Adventures in Hanseatic Cuisine
I prepared myself to struggle against the culinary traditions of Estonia for months before I arrived. As an eager sampler of multicultural foodstuffs, I have nonetheless a set of dislikes which, unfortunately, coincide almost exactly with typical Estonian edibles. At the top of my list are the national trifecta: Pork, Potatoes, and anything fried. Because I anticipated disappointment in this particular regard, I have on many occasions been pleasantly surprised by the quality and tastiness of many traditional and a few recent additions to the Estonian menu.
I have, for instance, completely revised my appraisal of pork products in general, and certain cuts specifically. A hefty slab of well marbled pig flesh known locally as "karbonaar" seems to come from the region near the spine of the beast, south of bacon and due north of the internal organs. It comes in approximately 2 kilogram portions with a few centimeters of fat surrounding one edge like the rind of a grapefruit. This delectable chunk of oink was the first local meat that I experimented with, and its early manifestations involved cubing, browning, and use in soups until I discovered its true calling. For this is a meat-unit designed for slow cooking in its own juices, ideally after a brief acquaintance with the business side of a hot skillet. Despite my lack of adequate kitchen facilities the karbonaar has graced our table more than a few times as a very convincing approximation of pot roast, complete with carrots and potatoes and what is possibly the most savory gravy this side of the former Soviet Union. Leftovers--ideal for shredding and use in soups, sandwiches, and midnight snacks--are rare.
Potatoes and fried things still rest secure in their positions at the top of my list of dislikes, which is unfortunate in the case of the former only because they are inexpensive and not at all in regard to the latter. Because these are staples of the local diet they appear frequently in all manner of restaurants and cafes, and it is a struggle to avoid them. For this reason when we do descend from the sixth floor of Raatuse to mingle with the masses at mealtimes, our options are limited by self-imposed constraints. In fact there is only one restaurant in the whole of Tartu that I feel, at this point in time, is worthy of my precious kroons. But La Dolce Vita is really all I need.
It's a lovely place, a few steps down from the street into a dining room with a low domed ceiling and wood fired pizza oven visible from the 10 tables with their checkered cloths. All restaurants in Tartu are fairly small, but I am always surprised when we don't have to wait for a table. As the name suggests, it's an Italian Joint. Appetizers include caprese salad with buffalo milk mozzarella, three kinds of bruschetta, a beef carpaccio that I am determined to sample in the future, and a whole two pages of other delicious sounding items. The list of salads is equally long, equally delicious sounding, and having seen them delivered to salivating customers I can attest that they are among the only "salads" in Tartu served with a realistic quantity of actual lettuce. Soups include the traditional minestrone and a couple of others I can't recall, and of course there are pages of pizza and desserts. I cannot go into detail about the flavors and aromas of any of these dishes because I have not eaten them. Determined as I always am to branch out when making a rare visit to this temple of food, like my dining companion I am helplessly under the sway of pasta. It is among my favorite foods, they do it better than I can, and it's also the cheapest meal on the menu.
There are a lot of other great things I've found to cook and eat here so far: tomatoes are more flavorful and less expensive here, cabbage can be had for almost nothing and seems somehow easier on the digestive track that I recall, and there are these tiny (quarter sized) Russian dumplings called "pelmeenid" which I am developing an unhealthy taste for. In supermarkets savory pastries can be had for between 4 and 10 kroons depending on what they're stuffed with, and especially when they're hot from the grocer's oven the flaky pastry filled with spinach, or smoked ham, or the mustard filled "wiener pastry", make an excellent lunch.
So, while it's not exactly a food destination, Estonia in general and Tartu in particular has more to offer than I expected. Still, caution is advised. Yesterday we decided to try the Russian cafe "Kalinka" during their 40%-off-food-at-the-six-o'clock-hour hour. I ordered a soup called "Seljaanka", which I had been recommended days earlier, and my dinner companion inquired about the special written on a chalkboard in Estonian.
http://www.tavernkalinka.ee/?id=0
"Fish," the traditionally dressed blond waitress informed him.
He looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged.
"Okay, fish sounds good."
We waited a long time for our food, supplied only with a basket of rather stale bread, distinctly stale O shaped pretzels, and yellow tube of the locally made and tremendously spicy mustard. As I squirted yellow paste carefully onto the little pretzel Os I said, half jokingly,
"I hope they don't bring you herring."
"I don't mind herring."
"We'll see."
"You know," he went on, looking suspiciously at the table next to us, "the daily special is usually whatever they need to get rid of. I hope they don't give me bad fish."
"Well, with fish at least you'll know if its bad. But it'll probably be pickled anyway."
All joking aside, our Russian-costumed server finally approached our table with a large plate and a steaming bowl. I was so distracted by hunger and enthusiasm that I began mixing the dollop of sour cream into the tomato-red broth without looking up for some time. As I brought the first spoonful toward my face I saw the fish. It was a whole fish, about 12 inches long and a deep black green. My dinner partner picked up his fork and delicately lifted the upward facing half of the fish's scaly body away from the downward facing half.
"At least they took the guts out."
So I shared my soup, which has a tomato broth chock full of pickled cabbage, beets, onions, and is rumored to contain seven types of meat. I saw only some chunks of sausage, but it was still delicious. And I helped him eat the fish, which was cold, and smoked, not pickled as I had predicted. Actually it wasn't bad. I wouldn't order it, and I don't think he will again, but it was entirely edible and we ate it in its entirety. As we waited for the check I lifted the thing's head a few inches off the table. With its wobbly spine dangling in the air I pinched either side of the fish's mouth, just below the eyeless sockets, between my thumb and forefinger.
"Eat me!" the fish insisted in a squeaky version of my voice, opening and closing its mouth with each syllable. With my help it gaped a few more times, for emphasis.
I have, for instance, completely revised my appraisal of pork products in general, and certain cuts specifically. A hefty slab of well marbled pig flesh known locally as "karbonaar" seems to come from the region near the spine of the beast, south of bacon and due north of the internal organs. It comes in approximately 2 kilogram portions with a few centimeters of fat surrounding one edge like the rind of a grapefruit. This delectable chunk of oink was the first local meat that I experimented with, and its early manifestations involved cubing, browning, and use in soups until I discovered its true calling. For this is a meat-unit designed for slow cooking in its own juices, ideally after a brief acquaintance with the business side of a hot skillet. Despite my lack of adequate kitchen facilities the karbonaar has graced our table more than a few times as a very convincing approximation of pot roast, complete with carrots and potatoes and what is possibly the most savory gravy this side of the former Soviet Union. Leftovers--ideal for shredding and use in soups, sandwiches, and midnight snacks--are rare.
Potatoes and fried things still rest secure in their positions at the top of my list of dislikes, which is unfortunate in the case of the former only because they are inexpensive and not at all in regard to the latter. Because these are staples of the local diet they appear frequently in all manner of restaurants and cafes, and it is a struggle to avoid them. For this reason when we do descend from the sixth floor of Raatuse to mingle with the masses at mealtimes, our options are limited by self-imposed constraints. In fact there is only one restaurant in the whole of Tartu that I feel, at this point in time, is worthy of my precious kroons. But La Dolce Vita is really all I need.
It's a lovely place, a few steps down from the street into a dining room with a low domed ceiling and wood fired pizza oven visible from the 10 tables with their checkered cloths. All restaurants in Tartu are fairly small, but I am always surprised when we don't have to wait for a table. As the name suggests, it's an Italian Joint. Appetizers include caprese salad with buffalo milk mozzarella, three kinds of bruschetta, a beef carpaccio that I am determined to sample in the future, and a whole two pages of other delicious sounding items. The list of salads is equally long, equally delicious sounding, and having seen them delivered to salivating customers I can attest that they are among the only "salads" in Tartu served with a realistic quantity of actual lettuce. Soups include the traditional minestrone and a couple of others I can't recall, and of course there are pages of pizza and desserts. I cannot go into detail about the flavors and aromas of any of these dishes because I have not eaten them. Determined as I always am to branch out when making a rare visit to this temple of food, like my dining companion I am helplessly under the sway of pasta. It is among my favorite foods, they do it better than I can, and it's also the cheapest meal on the menu.
There are a lot of other great things I've found to cook and eat here so far: tomatoes are more flavorful and less expensive here, cabbage can be had for almost nothing and seems somehow easier on the digestive track that I recall, and there are these tiny (quarter sized) Russian dumplings called "pelmeenid" which I am developing an unhealthy taste for. In supermarkets savory pastries can be had for between 4 and 10 kroons depending on what they're stuffed with, and especially when they're hot from the grocer's oven the flaky pastry filled with spinach, or smoked ham, or the mustard filled "wiener pastry", make an excellent lunch.
So, while it's not exactly a food destination, Estonia in general and Tartu in particular has more to offer than I expected. Still, caution is advised. Yesterday we decided to try the Russian cafe "Kalinka" during their 40%-off-food-at-the-six-o'clock-hour hour. I ordered a soup called "Seljaanka", which I had been recommended days earlier, and my dinner companion inquired about the special written on a chalkboard in Estonian.
http://www.tavernkalinka.ee/?id=0
"Fish," the traditionally dressed blond waitress informed him.
He looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged.
"Okay, fish sounds good."
We waited a long time for our food, supplied only with a basket of rather stale bread, distinctly stale O shaped pretzels, and yellow tube of the locally made and tremendously spicy mustard. As I squirted yellow paste carefully onto the little pretzel Os I said, half jokingly,
"I hope they don't bring you herring."
"I don't mind herring."
"We'll see."
"You know," he went on, looking suspiciously at the table next to us, "the daily special is usually whatever they need to get rid of. I hope they don't give me bad fish."
"Well, with fish at least you'll know if its bad. But it'll probably be pickled anyway."
All joking aside, our Russian-costumed server finally approached our table with a large plate and a steaming bowl. I was so distracted by hunger and enthusiasm that I began mixing the dollop of sour cream into the tomato-red broth without looking up for some time. As I brought the first spoonful toward my face I saw the fish. It was a whole fish, about 12 inches long and a deep black green. My dinner partner picked up his fork and delicately lifted the upward facing half of the fish's scaly body away from the downward facing half.
"At least they took the guts out."
So I shared my soup, which has a tomato broth chock full of pickled cabbage, beets, onions, and is rumored to contain seven types of meat. I saw only some chunks of sausage, but it was still delicious. And I helped him eat the fish, which was cold, and smoked, not pickled as I had predicted. Actually it wasn't bad. I wouldn't order it, and I don't think he will again, but it was entirely edible and we ate it in its entirety. As we waited for the check I lifted the thing's head a few inches off the table. With its wobbly spine dangling in the air I pinched either side of the fish's mouth, just below the eyeless sockets, between my thumb and forefinger.
"Eat me!" the fish insisted in a squeaky version of my voice, opening and closing its mouth with each syllable. With my help it gaped a few more times, for emphasis.
14.9.10
Environment two: Raekoja Platz
Walking south-east along Raatuse, which I do at least once a day, is the way to the center of Tartu. A stretch of sidewalk passes a small shopping center, with the conveniently located Comarket grocery and a few other shops, and comes to a stop where the wide and impeccable street meets another perpendicularly. This is the end of Raatuse, or the start of it, and the path that continues on south-estwardly is for walking and bicycling only. The pedestrian signal mechanisms make a distinct and clearly punctuated clicking sound which shortens its intervals dramatically when the way is clear to walk. On very quiet nights the breeze carries this sound all the way down Raatuse and up to the sixth floor, where I can just distinguish its rythym coming in the open window.
The path from the end of Raatuse (or the start) to the student's bridge is evenly divided into an asphalt gray pedestrian side (indicated by the stencilled image of a skirted mother holding a genderless child by the hand) and a russet colored bicycle lane (here, the image is, remarkably, of a bicycle). Tall maple and birch trees line either side of the path and a grassy park extends quite a way to the right and left. Lately, and suddenly, the leaves on some of the trees have begun to yellow and fall to the ground. The whole scene provides a picturesque frame for a bridge which, except at night when it glows with a shifting rainbow of LED lights (it is surprisingly lovely), is an ugly concrete replacement for what I am told was once a stunning piece of engineering and aesthitic brilliance. Luckily for Tartu, it was one of the few casualties of the second world war.
Like the path the student's bridge (I am unsure whether this is its official name or merely a colloquialism, and hence I decline to capitalize) is divided in two and meant only for pedestrian and bicycle traffic--though which side is for whom appears to be undecided. Neither side is wide enough for an automobile to pass and there is a great concrete arch supported by equally concrete pillars that runs its entire length. Two other bridges are visible to the north and south of the Emajogi, and both have their own structurally unnecessary arches. At certain times during the day and night, which I have not taken the time to note, the bridge is very busy. It is not uncommon for men to fish from the banks of this slowly moving river. One early morning I saw a man drop a smallish perch-looking fish into a bucket where at least 5 of his unfortunate comrades flopped helplessly.
The bridge spills its passengers out onto a pale red bricked sidewalk on a level with the antiquely cobbled street. Here as well the click ticking of the walking signal controls forward movement, and if reached just a moment too late gives one a full 30 seconds to take in Raekoja Platz from a distance.
The square is actually a rectangle, about 100x70 meters, I think, dominated on the west end by the town hall which gives it its name. The building is a few stories tall, a dignified pastel like most of the other buildings in the old town, surmounted by an impressive black clock tower. Its bells ring once every quarter-hour and as many as the time it is on the hour. Once I think I heard it through the open dormitory window too, but I may have imagined it. A tremendous open courtyard, cobbled in the 18th century style, lends its very bumpy surface to the cafes, three on the right and one on the left, for their outdoor seating. Their short painted wooden fences and big sun umbrellas advertising A. Le Coq and Saku beers give the scene a decidedly festive feeling.
Cobbled streets are not easy to walk on quickly. The stones, rounded from wear, jut up a good inch or two from the mortar nestled deeply in wide grooves between them. Most of the stones are fist sized and it is very easy to trip if the placement of your feet is not the primary focus of attention. I wonder how horses ever did it.
Two art galleries sit side by side on the eastward entrance to the square. The building closest to the bridge is a beautiful 18th century design, like everything else in this part of town, and apart from two statues in a greek fashion perched on its second story it is otherwise unremarkable. Its neighbor, however is not. The narrow white building whose corners resemle a squarish kind of Greek or Roman column houses the city's official art museum. The slenderness of the building is emphasized by its rather lofty height which suggests the most refined and traditional artistic sensibilities. It also leans, at a very noticable angle, destinctly and determinedly to the left. The official local tourism guide--"Estonia, A Great Little Country"--refers to it as "Tartu's tower of Pisa".
Said tourism guide can be had for free at the tourist information office whose entrance on the left-hand side of the Town Hall is advertised by a round green lighted sign with a lower case "i" inscribed in white. The other buildings surrounding the square house a couple of souveneir shops, a travel agency, a legal office and notary, and I'm sure a few other businesses I will never have reason to enter. Strange to me is that the upper floors of these stately and perfectly preserved blasts from the past appear to be totally empty. Most of the windows are uncurtained and I have never seen a single body pass before them. They are always dark at night, too. In fact the only illumination in Raekoja Platz of an evening is generated by a few old fashioned and well meaning wrought iron lamp posts. Their warm orange glow creates an actually magical atmosphere in the starry skied square, and at such moments the spray from the fountain sparkles impossibly.
It's really a romantic fountain. The Kissing Students. The cafe in the square that uses its name is much less appealing than its namesake. I ordered a "salad" there which came to me as a plate of deep fried potato medallions covered with sauteed onions and canned mushrooms. The whole thing was crowned with an enormous splotch of sour cream and decorated at the top with some artfully arranged pickle slices. The fountain itself it much nicer. Raekoja Platz is the enchanted navel of Tartu, which spreads in all directions around it and in some cases carries the beauty of the place along its streets and into its parks for some distance. In fact, just behind the Town Hall...
The path from the end of Raatuse (or the start) to the student's bridge is evenly divided into an asphalt gray pedestrian side (indicated by the stencilled image of a skirted mother holding a genderless child by the hand) and a russet colored bicycle lane (here, the image is, remarkably, of a bicycle). Tall maple and birch trees line either side of the path and a grassy park extends quite a way to the right and left. Lately, and suddenly, the leaves on some of the trees have begun to yellow and fall to the ground. The whole scene provides a picturesque frame for a bridge which, except at night when it glows with a shifting rainbow of LED lights (it is surprisingly lovely), is an ugly concrete replacement for what I am told was once a stunning piece of engineering and aesthitic brilliance. Luckily for Tartu, it was one of the few casualties of the second world war.
Like the path the student's bridge (I am unsure whether this is its official name or merely a colloquialism, and hence I decline to capitalize) is divided in two and meant only for pedestrian and bicycle traffic--though which side is for whom appears to be undecided. Neither side is wide enough for an automobile to pass and there is a great concrete arch supported by equally concrete pillars that runs its entire length. Two other bridges are visible to the north and south of the Emajogi, and both have their own structurally unnecessary arches. At certain times during the day and night, which I have not taken the time to note, the bridge is very busy. It is not uncommon for men to fish from the banks of this slowly moving river. One early morning I saw a man drop a smallish perch-looking fish into a bucket where at least 5 of his unfortunate comrades flopped helplessly.
The bridge spills its passengers out onto a pale red bricked sidewalk on a level with the antiquely cobbled street. Here as well the click ticking of the walking signal controls forward movement, and if reached just a moment too late gives one a full 30 seconds to take in Raekoja Platz from a distance.
The square is actually a rectangle, about 100x70 meters, I think, dominated on the west end by the town hall which gives it its name. The building is a few stories tall, a dignified pastel like most of the other buildings in the old town, surmounted by an impressive black clock tower. Its bells ring once every quarter-hour and as many as the time it is on the hour. Once I think I heard it through the open dormitory window too, but I may have imagined it. A tremendous open courtyard, cobbled in the 18th century style, lends its very bumpy surface to the cafes, three on the right and one on the left, for their outdoor seating. Their short painted wooden fences and big sun umbrellas advertising A. Le Coq and Saku beers give the scene a decidedly festive feeling.
Cobbled streets are not easy to walk on quickly. The stones, rounded from wear, jut up a good inch or two from the mortar nestled deeply in wide grooves between them. Most of the stones are fist sized and it is very easy to trip if the placement of your feet is not the primary focus of attention. I wonder how horses ever did it.
Two art galleries sit side by side on the eastward entrance to the square. The building closest to the bridge is a beautiful 18th century design, like everything else in this part of town, and apart from two statues in a greek fashion perched on its second story it is otherwise unremarkable. Its neighbor, however is not. The narrow white building whose corners resemle a squarish kind of Greek or Roman column houses the city's official art museum. The slenderness of the building is emphasized by its rather lofty height which suggests the most refined and traditional artistic sensibilities. It also leans, at a very noticable angle, destinctly and determinedly to the left. The official local tourism guide--"Estonia, A Great Little Country"--refers to it as "Tartu's tower of Pisa".
Said tourism guide can be had for free at the tourist information office whose entrance on the left-hand side of the Town Hall is advertised by a round green lighted sign with a lower case "i" inscribed in white. The other buildings surrounding the square house a couple of souveneir shops, a travel agency, a legal office and notary, and I'm sure a few other businesses I will never have reason to enter. Strange to me is that the upper floors of these stately and perfectly preserved blasts from the past appear to be totally empty. Most of the windows are uncurtained and I have never seen a single body pass before them. They are always dark at night, too. In fact the only illumination in Raekoja Platz of an evening is generated by a few old fashioned and well meaning wrought iron lamp posts. Their warm orange glow creates an actually magical atmosphere in the starry skied square, and at such moments the spray from the fountain sparkles impossibly.
It's really a romantic fountain. The Kissing Students. The cafe in the square that uses its name is much less appealing than its namesake. I ordered a "salad" there which came to me as a plate of deep fried potato medallions covered with sauteed onions and canned mushrooms. The whole thing was crowned with an enormous splotch of sour cream and decorated at the top with some artfully arranged pickle slices. The fountain itself it much nicer. Raekoja Platz is the enchanted navel of Tartu, which spreads in all directions around it and in some cases carries the beauty of the place along its streets and into its parks for some distance. In fact, just behind the Town Hall...
29.8.10
Environment 1: Raatuse 22
Keeping up is harder than I thought. It will be easier to flesh out spatially, instead of chronologically. Home is a good place to start:
Raatuse 22, Room 638. Rooms 637 and 639 are to the left and right, uninhabited. Returning to the flat there is a tension, of expectation and hope, and always a relieving sigh that we are still alone. I wonder how long it will be until we can be certain? The place does echo strangely, though, so empty.
The floors are concrete, I think, with some kind of rubbery sealant painted over them. Perfectly flat, like a gymnasium,and gray of course. Everything is gray: the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the trim. Even the refrigerator takes on a grayish cast. We keep the lights off. Cold fluorescence is entirely unsuitable for living quarters. The stove light is enough to see by in the kitchen and a small paper lantern with a 60 watt bulb warms up our room. The shower is in a room opposite the kitchen, one big room with a dip in the floor where the curtain keeps in shower spray. A sink and a mirror with a light above it drip with condensation, but it dries quickly. The walls are white tile and the floor is hospital blue. The toilet and another sink are in a separate room, just to the right of the front door. I think I like not having a toilet where I bathe.
The kitchen was at first a source of anxiety, but I am adjusting to its peculiarities. There is no oven, in fact a vast emptiness beneath the counter suggests it may have been surgically removed. The "stove", referred to in the housing contract as a "cooker", is a two burner affair, larger in the back and small in the front. They get tremendously hot and take forever to cool down but so far they have been even and reliable. The cabinets are bright red, counter tops gray, and there is also a table with two yellow stools. The table is gray. We had a few of Tyler's fellow students over and one of them likened the place to a hospital. It is an accurate appraisal.
BUT, despite its hospitality it is comfortable, warm, and the few decorative touches I have acquired and arranged go a long way. The refrigerator is cold, the view from our room is spectacular, the whole place is spotless and will be easily kept clean, and so far I see no evidence of insects, rodents, or mold. The whole building has a network of ventilation systems connected to each room in the flat by a round vent. It makes the subtle, dampened sound that permeates the recesses of large institutional buildings--state offices, schools, libraries--when they are very silent. I have always appreciated the sound, listening to it for long minutes in school bathrooms and between huge shelves of books, and found it calming. It is, I realize only now, the ambient sound of starships.
Raatuse 22, Room 638. Rooms 637 and 639 are to the left and right, uninhabited. Returning to the flat there is a tension, of expectation and hope, and always a relieving sigh that we are still alone. I wonder how long it will be until we can be certain? The place does echo strangely, though, so empty.
The floors are concrete, I think, with some kind of rubbery sealant painted over them. Perfectly flat, like a gymnasium,and gray of course. Everything is gray: the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the trim. Even the refrigerator takes on a grayish cast. We keep the lights off. Cold fluorescence is entirely unsuitable for living quarters. The stove light is enough to see by in the kitchen and a small paper lantern with a 60 watt bulb warms up our room. The shower is in a room opposite the kitchen, one big room with a dip in the floor where the curtain keeps in shower spray. A sink and a mirror with a light above it drip with condensation, but it dries quickly. The walls are white tile and the floor is hospital blue. The toilet and another sink are in a separate room, just to the right of the front door. I think I like not having a toilet where I bathe.
The kitchen was at first a source of anxiety, but I am adjusting to its peculiarities. There is no oven, in fact a vast emptiness beneath the counter suggests it may have been surgically removed. The "stove", referred to in the housing contract as a "cooker", is a two burner affair, larger in the back and small in the front. They get tremendously hot and take forever to cool down but so far they have been even and reliable. The cabinets are bright red, counter tops gray, and there is also a table with two yellow stools. The table is gray. We had a few of Tyler's fellow students over and one of them likened the place to a hospital. It is an accurate appraisal.
BUT, despite its hospitality it is comfortable, warm, and the few decorative touches I have acquired and arranged go a long way. The refrigerator is cold, the view from our room is spectacular, the whole place is spotless and will be easily kept clean, and so far I see no evidence of insects, rodents, or mold. The whole building has a network of ventilation systems connected to each room in the flat by a round vent. It makes the subtle, dampened sound that permeates the recesses of large institutional buildings--state offices, schools, libraries--when they are very silent. I have always appreciated the sound, listening to it for long minutes in school bathrooms and between huge shelves of books, and found it calming. It is, I realize only now, the ambient sound of starships.
23.8.10
Kind Of A Big Deal (Part III)
Tallinn-Tartu
Light came in through the shade early with the amplified notes of early-morning conversation. Young men in the street woke me laughing in a foreign tongue. For a long time I lay still, willing sleep, then turning pointlessly in the sheets. I thought of getting up, projected full color visions of myself in the shower, pinning up wet hair and joining breakfasters in the cafe downstairs. It was a very convincing fantasy. Finally I did get out of bed, shut the window, and returned for a few more hours of dream-thick sleep. Then I could have slept for days. At 11 we dressed and re-packed, left absurdly heavy bags with desk staff and went into Tallinn.
"How far do you think the old town is?"
"Probably right over there," I pointed to a huge cylinder of brick atop a man made hill. It looked pretty old. It was a good guess.
The streets were cobbled between immaculate homes in bright antique colors. Pale rose and butter colors accented with white trimmings and those funny sash and bough shaped embellishments which Europe seems to like. Quite a few were stone, huge blocks painted over in light earth tones, and there was some brick. Everything neat, fresh, acceptably antiquated but without a trace of rot. No trash in the streets, tourists quietly amazed behind cameras, and finally a big open square with a stone church and much milling about. Girls in ugly purple ponchos that screamed "Traditional!" silently handed out flyers for shops. A dozen cafes swarmed with lunch hour customers fenced in squarely under big umbrellas that read "Saku" and "A Le Coq". We picked a place and sat, suddenly prone to rampant wind gusts.
From the long menu's awkward English I chose tomato soup. One of the very pretty girls took our order and asked was that all. Her tone made me wonder wether it was customary to order a great deal more at such establishments. Perhaps we were rude not to sample a wider selection of their wares. Yes, we said, that's it, and she left us with the wind. We waited, talked, half-hearted in our exploration of this place so close to "home". We ate, good soup, saw a few more "traditional" costumes in the antique streets, then turned back toward our bags.
Taxi to Tickets to Tartu to leave in half an hour, we sat in a clean and comfortable cafe. Nicely decorated and well stocked, cheap food and drinks. I drank some keefir and we discussed the impossibility of having such a place in America. In a Greyhound station. We passed nothing ugly dirty or drunk on our way out to the bus, found seats together and started away. I promptly slept. The "most dangerous highway in the EU" travelled without incident, we arrived in Tartu. On the short cab ride to Raatuse I reflected:
1 Train
1 Cadillac
2 Trams
2 Airplanes
2 Taxis
3 Buses
And a Cruise Ship.
That's how I got from Olympia to Tartu. And once there, dropped off, dragging bags to the door of a building seen often in photos, we explained ourselves and paid deposits, acquired keys, rode an elevator, unlocked unlocked unlocked, and there we were. About 12X15, grey floor walls and ceiling, 2 beds 2 desks 2 wardrobes, 1 wall mounted shelf divided in 2 compartments, 2 under-bed boxes on rollers, and one big picture window opposite the door with a spectacular view of the city and sky.
Light came in through the shade early with the amplified notes of early-morning conversation. Young men in the street woke me laughing in a foreign tongue. For a long time I lay still, willing sleep, then turning pointlessly in the sheets. I thought of getting up, projected full color visions of myself in the shower, pinning up wet hair and joining breakfasters in the cafe downstairs. It was a very convincing fantasy. Finally I did get out of bed, shut the window, and returned for a few more hours of dream-thick sleep. Then I could have slept for days. At 11 we dressed and re-packed, left absurdly heavy bags with desk staff and went into Tallinn.
"How far do you think the old town is?"
"Probably right over there," I pointed to a huge cylinder of brick atop a man made hill. It looked pretty old. It was a good guess.
The streets were cobbled between immaculate homes in bright antique colors. Pale rose and butter colors accented with white trimmings and those funny sash and bough shaped embellishments which Europe seems to like. Quite a few were stone, huge blocks painted over in light earth tones, and there was some brick. Everything neat, fresh, acceptably antiquated but without a trace of rot. No trash in the streets, tourists quietly amazed behind cameras, and finally a big open square with a stone church and much milling about. Girls in ugly purple ponchos that screamed "Traditional!" silently handed out flyers for shops. A dozen cafes swarmed with lunch hour customers fenced in squarely under big umbrellas that read "Saku" and "A Le Coq". We picked a place and sat, suddenly prone to rampant wind gusts.
From the long menu's awkward English I chose tomato soup. One of the very pretty girls took our order and asked was that all. Her tone made me wonder wether it was customary to order a great deal more at such establishments. Perhaps we were rude not to sample a wider selection of their wares. Yes, we said, that's it, and she left us with the wind. We waited, talked, half-hearted in our exploration of this place so close to "home". We ate, good soup, saw a few more "traditional" costumes in the antique streets, then turned back toward our bags.
Taxi to Tickets to Tartu to leave in half an hour, we sat in a clean and comfortable cafe. Nicely decorated and well stocked, cheap food and drinks. I drank some keefir and we discussed the impossibility of having such a place in America. In a Greyhound station. We passed nothing ugly dirty or drunk on our way out to the bus, found seats together and started away. I promptly slept. The "most dangerous highway in the EU" travelled without incident, we arrived in Tartu. On the short cab ride to Raatuse I reflected:
1 Train
1 Cadillac
2 Trams
2 Airplanes
2 Taxis
3 Buses
And a Cruise Ship.
That's how I got from Olympia to Tartu. And once there, dropped off, dragging bags to the door of a building seen often in photos, we explained ourselves and paid deposits, acquired keys, rode an elevator, unlocked unlocked unlocked, and there we were. About 12X15, grey floor walls and ceiling, 2 beds 2 desks 2 wardrobes, 1 wall mounted shelf divided in 2 compartments, 2 under-bed boxes on rollers, and one big picture window opposite the door with a spectacular view of the city and sky.
21.8.10
Kind Of A Big Deal (Part II)
Reykjavik-Helsinki-Tallinn
The Icelandairport is all windows and angles, modern architecture that lets in enough light to keep claustrophobia almost at bay. In the long customs line a Frenchman was irate about his confiscated airline champagne while his wife blushed and put her shoes back on. A grip of nerves made me hesitant before we got to the stamp window.
"What should I tell them I'm here for?"
Tyler said "The truth" and walked up ahead of me. Stated his case plainly, confident in three-piece and tie, then turned back toward me in near-pajamas and told the stamp man,
"She's with me."
My turn at the window and before I could try to justify myself KERCHUNK and I was through. Success!
Our hour layover eaten up by lines, it was no loss that sit-down meals were not an option in the tiny terminal. Still starving, Tyler plucked a lone sandwich from the almost empty cafe cooler and we sat down to scarf. "Smoked Lamb and Italian Salad."
Mayonnaise
Mustard
Chopped Egg
Pimento
Peas (whole, green, firm)
VERY Smoky Lamb (lunch meat thin slices)
Iceland can keep its cuisine to itself. We abandoned the crusts and hopped onto our next jet, sliding in at the rear of the line. Our seats straddled the aisle, but too tired to care we slumped down and held hands across it. At the window beside me a Genuine Scandinavian Specimen: Tall broad shouldered, pale skin bronze from arctic ultra-violet, long platinum hair tied thickly back. All in white, his transparent arm hairs crystallized the window light. Upright I slept, aware but couldn't care even when the food came by. Four hours.
Open air stairs to the tarmac always make me feel like an Onassis. An over crowded bus hauled us to baggage claim and I got to the bathroom before the rush. Tyler sat me on a row of chairs and waited for the bags. Waited waited waited. I almost nodded off again before he dragged them over. No customs--surprise!--and we'd arrived. Welcome in Helsinki!
Again he sat me down, exhausted, and went to search out snacks. Sandwiches brought back: rough squares of grainy bread chock-full of vegetables, with meat (not lamb), and not a pea in sight. The sandwich of salvation, every bite like water for a desert thirst. My stomach had shrunk in protest to neglect but that perfect nourishment, all vitamins and fiber, settled in for the long haul and made peace between us.
A bus, a tram, a helpful eaves-dropping Finn with directions, and we located the boat. Consigned to more expensive tickets than I wanted, three windows drew their blinds behind us. Just in time for the last sale. Now we wait again to sail. Ship terminal cafe, a spare seafoam green throwback to American nostalgia--all chrome and big dim rounds of light above the empty tables. Huge windows anticipated docking ships and looked out on a wide black watered harbor. Finally Tyler relented and stretched out sleeping on the floor between table and wall. I took the time to update you, and Facebook. Toward 9 I faded and the Viking Line came just in time.
Desperate for comfort, worn and weary from cramped spaces and strange places, the astonishing vessel seemed like a reward. Luxurious, rich woods and Soft Corinthian Leather met plush carpeting and a star spotted ceiling. Restaurants, lounges, observation decks awaited our perusal. Enthusiasm replaced exhaustion one last time, enough to enjoy a hot meal and share a tiny champagne bottle toasted to our endurance. Confronted by a sudden puppet show, we hurried out of the family dining room and sampled the open deck, deep pink light still hovering on the edge of the world.
I wondered aloud if the sun would set further tonight, so close to the pole in summer. Some Russians discussed Dostoevsky in his native tongue. We left the warm breeze and settled with ottomans in the Viking Lounge where the light was faint and passengers were quiet around us. Again almost unconscious upon arrival, I sensed the end of my rope drawing near. Almost here. Bags heavier than ever for that last exertion near the promised end of our excursion.
Only two wrong turns and we found it, the Tallink Express Hotell awaiting our collapse. And we did, to the spattering of rain on the window. Slept like the dead, and woke to a new life. Welcome in Estonia.
The Icelandairport is all windows and angles, modern architecture that lets in enough light to keep claustrophobia almost at bay. In the long customs line a Frenchman was irate about his confiscated airline champagne while his wife blushed and put her shoes back on. A grip of nerves made me hesitant before we got to the stamp window.
"What should I tell them I'm here for?"
Tyler said "The truth" and walked up ahead of me. Stated his case plainly, confident in three-piece and tie, then turned back toward me in near-pajamas and told the stamp man,
"She's with me."
My turn at the window and before I could try to justify myself KERCHUNK and I was through. Success!
Our hour layover eaten up by lines, it was no loss that sit-down meals were not an option in the tiny terminal. Still starving, Tyler plucked a lone sandwich from the almost empty cafe cooler and we sat down to scarf. "Smoked Lamb and Italian Salad."
Mayonnaise
Mustard
Chopped Egg
Pimento
Peas (whole, green, firm)
VERY Smoky Lamb (lunch meat thin slices)
Iceland can keep its cuisine to itself. We abandoned the crusts and hopped onto our next jet, sliding in at the rear of the line. Our seats straddled the aisle, but too tired to care we slumped down and held hands across it. At the window beside me a Genuine Scandinavian Specimen: Tall broad shouldered, pale skin bronze from arctic ultra-violet, long platinum hair tied thickly back. All in white, his transparent arm hairs crystallized the window light. Upright I slept, aware but couldn't care even when the food came by. Four hours.
Open air stairs to the tarmac always make me feel like an Onassis. An over crowded bus hauled us to baggage claim and I got to the bathroom before the rush. Tyler sat me on a row of chairs and waited for the bags. Waited waited waited. I almost nodded off again before he dragged them over. No customs--surprise!--and we'd arrived. Welcome in Helsinki!
Again he sat me down, exhausted, and went to search out snacks. Sandwiches brought back: rough squares of grainy bread chock-full of vegetables, with meat (not lamb), and not a pea in sight. The sandwich of salvation, every bite like water for a desert thirst. My stomach had shrunk in protest to neglect but that perfect nourishment, all vitamins and fiber, settled in for the long haul and made peace between us.
A bus, a tram, a helpful eaves-dropping Finn with directions, and we located the boat. Consigned to more expensive tickets than I wanted, three windows drew their blinds behind us. Just in time for the last sale. Now we wait again to sail. Ship terminal cafe, a spare seafoam green throwback to American nostalgia--all chrome and big dim rounds of light above the empty tables. Huge windows anticipated docking ships and looked out on a wide black watered harbor. Finally Tyler relented and stretched out sleeping on the floor between table and wall. I took the time to update you, and Facebook. Toward 9 I faded and the Viking Line came just in time.
Desperate for comfort, worn and weary from cramped spaces and strange places, the astonishing vessel seemed like a reward. Luxurious, rich woods and Soft Corinthian Leather met plush carpeting and a star spotted ceiling. Restaurants, lounges, observation decks awaited our perusal. Enthusiasm replaced exhaustion one last time, enough to enjoy a hot meal and share a tiny champagne bottle toasted to our endurance. Confronted by a sudden puppet show, we hurried out of the family dining room and sampled the open deck, deep pink light still hovering on the edge of the world.
I wondered aloud if the sun would set further tonight, so close to the pole in summer. Some Russians discussed Dostoevsky in his native tongue. We left the warm breeze and settled with ottomans in the Viking Lounge where the light was faint and passengers were quiet around us. Again almost unconscious upon arrival, I sensed the end of my rope drawing near. Almost here. Bags heavier than ever for that last exertion near the promised end of our excursion.
Only two wrong turns and we found it, the Tallink Express Hotell awaiting our collapse. And we did, to the spattering of rain on the window. Slept like the dead, and woke to a new life. Welcome in Estonia.
18.8.10
Kind Of A Big Deal (Part I)
Kenmore-Seatac-Reykjavik
After a false start and much foot dragging
untimely leather-tooling
unnecessary breakfast cooking
last minute luggage redistribution
exaggerated departure urgency
tying up of loose financial ends
and an unsuccessful search for a set of false incisors
Tyler and I departed for Seatac courtesy of a disspirited Dave and a very spacious Cadillac. I tried to fade into the back seat cushions during the farewell-in-transit and thought of nothing but the other cars and freeway exits. Unloaded bags and thanks for the ride, once through automatic sliding doors the airport hum transmitted a sudden euphoria that burst my face into a helpless grin. No line at the baggage desk and only a stalled computer threatened to slow our progress; even that paused us only momentarily and then bags and box were labelled and hoisted and pulled along by the conveying belt. We were well wished and safe journeyed on Icelandair and through security without hassle or grief. An air of optimism, even joviality, radiated from other travellers and TSA officials alike--strange enough on any trip but for this momentous effort a strong omen in deed. Three hours early, just on schedule for a leisurely lunch before the big push. Walking past Korean Air on the way to S12 the flight attendants wore pale seafoam pencil skirts and scarves and chopsticks in their shiny hair. I recalled the Ladies of Ryan Air who also wear skirts but always look dressed in a rush. Icelandair wears a black suit and pillbox hat, and everyone is blonde.
Excellent flight. Expensive food and nothing for free, except the videos in the back of the seat. 3 dollars for headsets; not free after all. We got our money's worth watching, and the Tandoori Chicken was excellent for an airplane. By mid-flight meal's end my enthusiasm had been tempered and I was quieter. We synchronized screens and watched The Fountain. It was so beautiful I cried, right there in my seat. I recognized a cameraderie between Only Revolutions and The Fountain and Our great endeavor. Pairs of adventurers burning with enthusiasm to fend off doom and gloom and death. How can we ever die? We are living forever now. I feel an infinity of lives is at hand like a deck of cards. The boy across the aisle was Icelandic, Icelander, and talked about eating rotten shark. I asked how he liked the carcass and he smiled,
"I could eat it until I was sick."
It was a few minutes before I got the joke. I asked his name and it sounded like too many letters at once. I asked again without hope of understanding, and then he told me about his uncle who lives on the Dragon's Head and loves to eat at KFC. I think hot dogs are the national dish, after rotten shark carcass. He said Icelandic Coke is the best, German syrup with Iceland's water but it costs too much at the airport. We parted ways right off the plane and I waved goodbye to the Unpronouncable Boy.
After a false start and much foot dragging
untimely leather-tooling
unnecessary breakfast cooking
last minute luggage redistribution
exaggerated departure urgency
tying up of loose financial ends
and an unsuccessful search for a set of false incisors
Tyler and I departed for Seatac courtesy of a disspirited Dave and a very spacious Cadillac. I tried to fade into the back seat cushions during the farewell-in-transit and thought of nothing but the other cars and freeway exits. Unloaded bags and thanks for the ride, once through automatic sliding doors the airport hum transmitted a sudden euphoria that burst my face into a helpless grin. No line at the baggage desk and only a stalled computer threatened to slow our progress; even that paused us only momentarily and then bags and box were labelled and hoisted and pulled along by the conveying belt. We were well wished and safe journeyed on Icelandair and through security without hassle or grief. An air of optimism, even joviality, radiated from other travellers and TSA officials alike--strange enough on any trip but for this momentous effort a strong omen in deed. Three hours early, just on schedule for a leisurely lunch before the big push. Walking past Korean Air on the way to S12 the flight attendants wore pale seafoam pencil skirts and scarves and chopsticks in their shiny hair. I recalled the Ladies of Ryan Air who also wear skirts but always look dressed in a rush. Icelandair wears a black suit and pillbox hat, and everyone is blonde.
Excellent flight. Expensive food and nothing for free, except the videos in the back of the seat. 3 dollars for headsets; not free after all. We got our money's worth watching, and the Tandoori Chicken was excellent for an airplane. By mid-flight meal's end my enthusiasm had been tempered and I was quieter. We synchronized screens and watched The Fountain. It was so beautiful I cried, right there in my seat. I recognized a cameraderie between Only Revolutions and The Fountain and Our great endeavor. Pairs of adventurers burning with enthusiasm to fend off doom and gloom and death. How can we ever die? We are living forever now. I feel an infinity of lives is at hand like a deck of cards. The boy across the aisle was Icelandic, Icelander, and talked about eating rotten shark. I asked how he liked the carcass and he smiled,
"I could eat it until I was sick."
It was a few minutes before I got the joke. I asked his name and it sounded like too many letters at once. I asked again without hope of understanding, and then he told me about his uncle who lives on the Dragon's Head and loves to eat at KFC. I think hot dogs are the national dish, after rotten shark carcass. He said Icelandic Coke is the best, German syrup with Iceland's water but it costs too much at the airport. We parted ways right off the plane and I waved goodbye to the Unpronouncable Boy.
7.7.10
4.7.10
Raatuse 22
Today I received an e-mail notification that my place in the International student dormitory on Raatuse 22 has been reserved. This seems like the last tremendous hurdle that might have complicated our relocation to Tartu, and having it overcome is a great relief. They have not yet confirmed that T and I will be sharing the a double room, rather than having assigned both of us to other, same-sex roommates, but I think this is almost sure to work out. They know that I will not be a student this year, and I referred to him in all of my communications with the "Student Village", so I'm sure it's fine. My work for the quarter, year, and in fact the entirety of my undergraduate education, is complete. I am free to pursue whatever reading strikes my fancy (when I'm not slaving away at Target), and I am not nagged by the constant sense of having neglected some important project. It's nice, relaxing in a way.
I will be glad to resume my studies next year. In the mean time, Terry Eagleton's Introduction to Literary Theory is introducing me to literary theory.
I did a Google image search for "Raatuse 22" and saw some unsurprising photos of smallish dormitory rooms. Two twin beds, kitchen and bathroom shared with three other bedrooms. Not bad, though a little less privacy than I'm used to. I guess I'll have to get a bathrobe.
I will be glad to resume my studies next year. In the mean time, Terry Eagleton's Introduction to Literary Theory is introducing me to literary theory.
I did a Google image search for "Raatuse 22" and saw some unsurprising photos of smallish dormitory rooms. Two twin beds, kitchen and bathroom shared with three other bedrooms. Not bad, though a little less privacy than I'm used to. I guess I'll have to get a bathrobe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)