from Tallinn, Estonia: generations

It really is blustery out by the sea. I’m prepared. Hearty breakfast,




…warm outerwear, an umbrella… But it’s tough going. The wind inverts my umbrella, rain pellets spray my photo lens.

I walk to the shore, to see another face of Tallinn. A factory, an old theater with a sadly neglected open space leading toward the water. A group of girls, out for a Saturday morning away from family. They don’t mind the weather. Indeed, no one here seems to mind it. It could be so much worse.










In the distance I see the ferry boats. There’s a frequent run to Helsinki and a somewhat less frequent run to Stockholm.

Run to Stockholm. How could you not choke on that one? In 1994, the huge ferry ship, the Estonia, sank off shore, on her way to Stockholm. More than 850 died. There is a memorial to this tragedy. He is lost in thought as he looks the “broken line” monument. Did he know someone? Does he remember?





I walk back toward the old town. Colorful. That's its joy -- the brightness, even on a gray, wet day.





The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral went up during a period of intense "Russification" of this country. I try the door. Closed. They say Russians come here in packs. If they do, they may be the last of the church goers. Estonia is one of the least religious contries in Europe. Fewer than a third claim any religious affiliation at all.




It's quiet in these hilly parts of old Tallinn. You can think about this city from up here. The roofs spill out to the sea on one end (yes, the ferries are in, collecting passangers for Finland and Sweden)...





...and onto new Tallinn at the other end. Recent buildings. The higher the better.





Down the hill again. I'm drawn to the commercial heart of the old town. That's where you pick up the fragments of daily life. In the rose this guy buys for his wife:





...in the animated yet very private conversation of four old Russian women, looking over the wicker baskets at the market:




...in an appetite for blood sausage and cabbage:





At the Christmas market I watch a group of children getting ready to go on a small stage.




And now, finally, I hear laughter. Parents, looking at the precious young things, adjusting a cap, pulling up a mitten, waving, taking pictures. The sweet faces of young families. Children born in Estonia. They'll hear stories of past invadors. History lessons. Its not the story of their generation.

They climb on stage and give in to the joy of music. No Russian songs -- all Estonian. With an American thrown in. Hip-hop Christmas. Watch the show for a dfew seconds through this handful of photos:





















This is the kind of stuff that makes my eyes spill over. Kids, happy kids, cared for, fussed over, but just a little. A pat on the shoulder, a chuckle and a treat of a cookie at Santa's (though for the Estonian Santa, a kid has to recite or sing something before spilling out a wish or asking for a cookie).





Families. Tourists. Hot wine and hot pea soup. Roasted chocolate covered almonds. And to really warm up, go in to the coffee shops. I do. Over my cappucino and pound cake, I watch the others. A mixture. Young and old.






Back at my hotel, the fireplace is heating me from the outside. A glass of rosé does the trick on the inside.









Leave this to search for dinner? Not a chance. I eat at the hotel: fish soup and duck meat in lingonberry (!)sauce. Hearty and very good. Only the price of it will push me out in search of other foods tomorrow.

from Tallinn, Estonia: neighbors

Growing up in Poland, I considered the Baltic states as, well, Russian. Oh, sure. Once I started reading the papers, I knew that Estonians, Lithuanians and Latvians would prefer to be referred to as Estonians, Lithuanians and Latvians, rather than as Russians. I figured it was like the Quebecois. Small, ethnic states, having a fit over being part of a larger country.

This isn’t the place for a history lesson, but in case your knowledge of the country is a tad fuzzy, just take in this much, for the purposes of this week’s Ocean reading: Estonia is hard core Estonian. In spirit and culture and folksong, if not, in the past, in nationhood. (The Swedes controlled it. Then the Russian Tsars. Then, for the first time, in 1919 – independence. Only to be done in by both the Germans and the Russians during World War II. Handed over to Stalin after the war. Reclaiming its nationhood and independence in 1991.)

Is there a Russian presence? Considering that 30% (40% in Tallinn) of the people living here are Russian, so Russian that they can’t even pretend to speak the difficult Estonian, you might say that there is indeed Russian in the air. And there are souvenirs, left over from the Soviet era. Abandoned coastal naval stations. The ubiquitous Soviet era housing blocks for the working poor. And a tight border between the two countries. So that even if I wanted to (and I did want to), I could not, on short notice, cross over to the “other side.”

So why am I here? Because I am from a Baltic nation too. Poland is a mere spray of Baltic sea water away. You want to know your neighbors.

And I like going to places in seasons that appear inhospitable. Poland in December or January. Quebec in February. Iceland in November. Estonia in December. It fits.



My plane pushes through many layers of gray and lands in Tallinn. An airport almost the size of Madison’s. Two other airplanes in sight – Czech Airlines coming in, Polish Airlines going out. I’m in Eastern Europe alright. And in the far north of it. So much so, that if I wanted to take a hydrofoil across the Baltic, I’d be in Helsinki in less than two hours.

It’s not below freezing now, but it’s cold. Biting, wet cold. My hotel rests at the edge of the old Medieval heart of the city (the Three Sisters: there they are, three buildings standing next to each other:)






It’s just past three. Getting darker by the minute. I remember this about life in northern Europe. After three, you need a flashlight.

I’m tired after all those flights, but I am anxious to hear Estonian and to get moving. I walk up the cobbled streets, past spires and old walls, past bakeries with gingerbread and coffee houses, endless coffeehouses with people, huddling over warm drinks.

It is an utterly dazzling place. Beautiful, even in the dark.



out one corner-room window: old warehouses




















The Square has a Christmas market. Like Krakow at this time. And I see the woolens and the stalls with hot mulled wine and smoked cheese and I think – I really am close to home.







smoked cheese, sausages, rheindeer something or other




hot fire, hot wine




girls in hoods, looking at necklaces






But the language is a puzzler. I can do a handful of words – no more. English is spoken tentatively, but I dare not dig into my store of Russian words and phrases. Their bad English is better than my bad Russian. Besides, I want to stay on the good side of the language barrier.

In stores and restaurants, I am again reminded of Poland. The books refer to Estonians as reserved. In Poland, we call this expressionless face, encountered in virtually every store and place of service – dour. It takes a lot to get a north-eastern European laughing out in public. Something to do with the long winters and past poor states of the economy.

I eat dinner at a local folksy place. The Estonians are ordering big plates of grilled meats and cooked cabbage. (Exactly. Polish fare.) I settle for an appetizer of herring, boiled potatoes and pickled onion.





And pan-fried chicken, with a nice mushroom cream sauce, more potatoes and raw cabbage.





The food is well prepared and quite good. Regional seasonal to the core. I could have opted for the hams and blood sausages off the Christmas menu, but this was a transition day for me.

In the hotel, I listen to the sounds of the night. Voices of strollers, heels against the stone treets, loud against the silence of a sleeping city. I eat poppyseed cookies and sugar coated linden berries and I contemplate opening a complimentary little bottle of Liviko. But in mid-thought, I give in to sleep.

from Schiphol: not there yet

The northern skies of Europe: cloudy, with an occasional break in the layers of gray, but mostly dark still, even at 8 a.m. local time.




I wait at the Amsterdam airport, remembering it as the first international airport I ever traveled through on my own. I was returning to the States with only a few dollars in my purse. I borrowed the precious western currency from my uncle so that I could make my way to my summer job as a nanny. Being the youngest in my own small family, I knew nothing about kids. Girls don’t babysit in Poland. Grandparents do that. You live with them or they live with you. I knew plenty about grandparents.

I grew to love my charge and I returned a year later to live with her and her New York family, but every break I had, I would return to Europe, via Amsterdam, via Schiphol airport, with its endless stores of chocolates and tulip bulbs.

This time, my flight will take me beyond Poland, to a distant corner of the continent, to a country with as many issues with invaders and conquerors as Poland has. A country with a significant minority population. Of Russians. A country where the sun hardly rises at this time of the year.

Next post will be from... there.

leaving Madison

I’m turning my back on the isthmus. Just for a week. In a move that has been my move for years now (taking off the day after the last class – to write, recover, prepare for the next set of events… and excitements; never forget the excitements), I am flying off.




Where to? Well, I could give you many great hints, but I’m ready for the “huh?” that would follow. Indeed, the NW airline agent asked as I checked in -- by the way, where is XX? I told her the country where XX is located. She persisted: where is that?

So, a hint: it’s about as far in Europe as you can go to from Madison.

I’m pausing now in Detroit, but my flight is boarding. Off I go.

hearts of warmth

Last day of class. (sniffle)





Me, bedecked in their generous impulse:






Thank you. For a sweet semester from heaven.

Outside, there is that lovely cover of snow.





So why these brief snippets? Why am I keeping it tight? With no embellishment?I came home tonight to a cold condo. Called the heat guys. Not our responsibility. Called the management – no, not us, either. Called the builder – sweet guy that he is he’ll find a solution. Eventually. For now, IT’S COLD HERE!

enchanting

Float with me today and tomorrow. I am in a spin of finishing the semester and looking with complete amazement at the sweeping strokes of snow around me.

I ran an errand to Ed’s place, just at the edge of Madison. On the way, I passed this:





The day is made easier when I spot lights on a tree at the edge of a cornfield. Thank you, whoever gave me this boost after a long day of work.

the warm and the cold

Part I: the warm

Several weeks back, Ed read a NYT article on Penna olives. (Penna Olives are harvested and prepared in California. Stupendously wonderful olives. BTW, Ed loves olives.)

If I buy my favorites, we could open them all at once. You could do an olive party and so it wouldn’t be a waste. (Ed hates waste. But he loves olives and he loves the idea of eating many different types, all in one day.)

I have always wanted to go to an olive harvest (in Sicily would be fun), but they are in the wrong season for me. I can’t leave work for more than a long week-end in October or November. So I have a dormant desire to get close to the olive and no chance to let it (and myself) loose. The idea of an olive party appealed to me.

Ed ordered fourteen jars of olives. In double. (The second set is for me, I mean for us, he says. In case your party guests eat up all of the first batch.)

I invited friends whom I thought of as olive people. And I prepared a supper based on olives. (Keep it simple! – this from Ed. Ed hates a fuss.)

Everything was ready. The olives:



…and the condo. (Ed was ready too. He remembered to turn off the TV just as the first set of guests arrived.)





We ate olives and drank wines that I thought were suited for olives (red, white, rose, and rose a la methode champaignoise – meaning, everything).

And we ate cheeses from a Provencal cheese board (Provence = olives). And slurped hot roasted (in olive oil) tomato soup and downed a roasted veggie salad. With olives.








…finishing the meal off with A Ligurian cake. With raspberries and a significant amount of olive oil.





Here’s the important part: yes, you too can order Penna olives. They are fantastic! Which was the favorite (I asked people to vote)? The Olivasecca. But don’t count on my report. As someone said – this one stood out because it was unusual. The others were all brined and thus they blurred for us. A sea of olives. Mmmm. Go have an olive party. And don’t forget to include the runners up: Parmesan Romano Cheese, Stuffed. You’re welcome.



Ed and guest, talking olives


Part II: the cold

I sat in my office today and watched the students head for their last week of classes. The Mall lawns were covered with what the skies dumped on them.

I have been proud of what Madison (and, by extension, the UW) does with snow: it removes it from places where, in its slick version, it creates a hazard.

Today, I reconsidered. Look at these photos, taken in the course of a ten minute period:

























On my way to the bus stop, I paid for my photographing of the plight of others. I was a slipper and a slider. Forewarned, I caught myself each time. But barely.

I am happy that there is snow on the ground. I am unhappy that cars have a clearer path than those of us who try to live a car-free life. But, I’m determined to keep trudging. Even though it felt like one big Rockefeller Skating Rink out there. With moguls.