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Sometimes I sit alone and think about Estonia. My Estonia. I think about Tallinn and our two summer houses in Võsu and Lohusalu. Places that are so close by, and so different from each other.
When you wake up in the city, it greets you with its dusty, square, off-white blocks. People wear long overcoats, hold their collar with one hand, their bags with the other, and hastily march to the bus station. They narrow their eyes against the cold wind that blows from the sea, and try not to look at the people standing next to them. The inside of the trolleybus reeks of alcohol. Its electrical engine jerks unpleasantly and almost knocks you off your feet. The locals are more used to it, and skillfully grab the railings. Some drunk youngsters start yelling something at each other. It might be in Estonian, but more often it's in Russian, and then I'm embarassed of being able to understand them. The bus arrives in the city center. I try to escape the stinking bus and disappear into the quaint narrow streets paved with cobble-stones. The majestic towers of the mediaeval fortifications greet you with all their splendor. The streets are almost deserted, except for a group of German tourists and an occasional street artist, trying to sell his paintings. Little cafes beckon you to come in and have a delicious cup of freshly ground coffee. I walk along the grey limestone walls and peek into the small designer shops. Clothes, bags, baked goods, shoes, books, they all look different and stylish in this part of town. I enter a museum and time stops for several hours. I get hungry and remember that dad wants me to be back for dinner. I get on the bus back to the suburbs and find the apartment smelling of home cooking. I'm back home.
When you wake up in the city, it greets you with its dusty, square, off-white blocks. People wear long overcoats, hold their collar with one hand, their bags with the other, and hastily march to the bus station. They narrow their eyes against the cold wind that blows from the sea, and try not to look at the people standing next to them. The inside of the trolleybus reeks of alcohol. Its electrical engine jerks unpleasantly and almost knocks you off your feet. The locals are more used to it, and skillfully grab the railings. Some drunk youngsters start yelling something at each other. It might be in Estonian, but more often it's in Russian, and then I'm embarassed of being able to understand them. The bus arrives in the city center. I try to escape the stinking bus and disappear into the quaint narrow streets paved with cobble-stones. The majestic towers of the mediaeval fortifications greet you with all their splendor. The streets are almost deserted, except for a group of German tourists and an occasional street artist, trying to sell his paintings. Little cafes beckon you to come in and have a delicious cup of freshly ground coffee. I walk along the grey limestone walls and peek into the small designer shops. Clothes, bags, baked goods, shoes, books, they all look different and stylish in this part of town. I enter a museum and time stops for several hours. I get hungry and remember that dad wants me to be back for dinner. I get on the bus back to the suburbs and find the apartment smelling of home cooking. I'm back home.
