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.

the olive

Sunday. The day was dedicated almost completely to a celebration of the olive.

Intrigued? Monday. I'll tell you about it Monday.

a day of everything and nothing

We were forewarned. It would start in the morning and continue for some twenty-four hours. The “it” was questionable: snow, yes, for sure that, but also plenty of ice pellets and freezing rain.

We all hoped for snow.

It’s impressive how many people love the idea of a good snow storm. I suppose one reason for not abandoning a northern state such as this is that it offers (though it does not always deliver) snow.

Thinking of the words, the imagery – it’s all comforting: under a blanket of snow, the hush of a snowfall, a winter wonderland.

Of course, we know that it is a gift for children and so we are happy for them. But ourselves? When was the last time a sleigh bell tingalingled past your door and brought you great joy and laughter?

Still, we want it. We think it’ll place us in front of a (hypothetical) fireplace, with marshmallows swimming in hot chocolate and a (not hypothetical) lover’s arm around our entire self. Comforted. Made better. All because of the snow.

It came, alright. Early in the morning, I went out on the roof terrace and watched the streets slowly change from gray to white.




Readers from around here know that by afternoon the gentle white stuff turned to vicious icy, slushy pellets. I know there’s a reason for this even as I do not understand it: the temps are near twenty and we can’t even get a decent snowfall.

I went to a park with a hill to see if anyone would dare take a sled out. One, maybe two, did.




It hurt to step outside and take the photo! Kids are made of different stuff.

I drove out into the country briefly. Ed needed a ride in something sturdier than his little Geo and I volunteered. We were snarky and irritable the whole ride in, which only goes to show that images of snow and fireplaces and blankets etc etc are all fine and beautiful, but reality typically follows a different (icy) path.




By evening, the view from the roof was made gentle by the appearance of city lights. But the ice pellets continued and there was no point in lingering. Besides, there is always the task of getting supper going.

vignettes

Ed bought me a cup of coffee today. We went to Gallup, just down the hill from the condo. The berry scone was wonderful and the manager went out to get the New York Times for us to read. Ed likes to take me out for coffee. And read the paper while I sip. Sometimes I stare into the distance, sometimes I read another section.

I stayed home to work. I took a break in mid-afternoon and walked over to Whole Foods to pick up foods for dinner. On the way back I encountered a neighbor. She was fitting pieces into a jigsaw puzzle. I helped, but only for a minute.

In the late afternoon I picked up a carpet – the one missing item in my condo. Perhaps other things are missing, but I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get too hell bent on acquiring. So, after lugging the carpet home, I proclaimed the condo furnishing project to be complete.

Later, much later, I ran into my next door neighbor. I hardly ever see him. Mostly, he accompanies his wife in her work in Richland Center. But today he was there and he was walking his dog and I remembered how much I loved dogs.
Cookin’ up a storm? – he asked, looking at my Whole Foods bags.
Comfort food, in anticipation of the weather tomorrow. Ingredients for spaghetti sauce.

In the evening, Ed came over. He never noticed the new carpet, but he ate the spaghetti and dozed on the couch and woke up only when I said it’s late.

Photos? No, not tonight.

frozen

Iced-over. Solidly unbending. Stuck. Trapped. Cold. Shivering.

On the way to work, I passed this pretty little heap of ice. Wonderful. The beginning of the long season.

nothing but rubbish

Everyone has days where they want to sit back and laugh (yes, laugh) at the fantastically perverse luck that comes their way. As you navigate the hours, there are any number of ways for you to step poorly. And hit the wrong button.

I hit many wrong buttons today.

And, I had too much work to make repairs.

The only photo that struck me as permissible on a day such as this (indeed, the only photo I took today) was one from the nearby construction project. Happy Holidays from the Hilldale Theater. In case you don’t know, the Hilldale Theater is buried in the rubble, right next to the sign.




My day, in a nutshell. Buried. Best forgotten.

photography

To photograph a day. (And write a subtext for it.) You can’t, really. There isn’t permission for it.

I was in class today and I had a guest speaker. And so I had a chance to watch the students. So photographable! But, of course, I ignored the impulse.

Much later, I spent time with my man Jason (in case you aren’t a steady Ocean reader, Jason is a hair color genius here in Madison). We talked photography. We always do these days. He is exceptionally talented with the camera. I cannot tell you how many times I thought right there, in his salon: this is a Kodak moment. Naturally, I did not act on it.

Much later, I drove to Whole Foods. I don’t like to use selling venues for my posts (markets are an exception), but on my way there I passed a gas station. With Christmas trees. There you have it: my post for the day. Because really, is there anything more beautiful than a parking lot or gas station with trees for sale? (And no one there to tell me to get lost?)

For Ocean then. Trees on concrete:

returning home

I leave the D.C. apartment early. There will be airport crowds. There will be traffic. There will be chaos.

Or not.

I settle in for a long wait at the airport and work on my book.





Upgraded on each segment of my trip, I tell myself that loyalty pays. In my travel, I have stayed with two airlines that had the worst performance records in the world (NW and AF). Now, they’re up and soaring. Together, no less (they’ve merged, via KLM). And I am loyally cheering them on.

Ed comes to the airport in his truck. I want to pick up a tree on the way home.





A habit. It’s what I do in the week after Thanksgiving. And it is the week after Thanksgiving. One holiday season over and done with, another coming at us. No complaints there. Paucity of good cheer is way tougher on the psyche.

from D.C.: patriotic

I’m not that, if patriotism means saying that your country is the best of the best. I don’t even know what that means. Good people, making good decisions? Until the moment when they mess up?

My father once said – I am a citizen of the world. I feel the same loyalty to the planet. And to the community that I live in, wherever that may be. I dislike nationalism (even though I respect tradition). I detest pronouncements of superiority, even as I believe some principles are superior to others.

So basically, I’m not one of those who goes around saying I am proud to be a Pole or an American, even though at times I am proud and at other times I am ashamed of what the governments in either have accomplished.

Still, here I am in D.C., and I haven’t confronted on Ocean the very essence of the city. I have yet to post a single photo of its uniqueness as a nation’s capital. Here, more than anywhere else, you see the progression of governance. The monuments force you into this exercise: think back and remember those who left their mark.

Tonight, I took my camera and strolled among the shadows of the monuments. I circled the Washington Monument, I acknowledged the Capitol. I paused for a longer while at the new to me Monument to World War II, I gave a nod to the Lincoln Memorial and I passed with a deep sigh in front of the White House.

I’m going to post some photos from all this. They nudged me toward giving more than a passing thought to citizenship, government and the country I now call home. Here you go: D.C. monuments, one November evening, through Ocean eyes.



child's play




at the end of the day




November trees




people, flags




two cyclists, the Capitol




Lincoln, ducks

from D.C.: southern comfort

I am in the south. I think of it as such. Even though it’s really quite cold here today, in my mind D.C. is bringing up the south.

We ate breakfast foods at our favorite local place. And I had what I would never have back home – poached eggs on muffins and fried green tomatoes, with a splash of tomato hollandaise. And a huge side of cheese grits.





And then we traveled more south. Of the border. To the quiet of Virginia. And the pretty streets of Alexandria.





But it was cold. We headed toward Misha's for coffee. It's a place where you can read and take in a steaming sip of a brew, with bites of pound cake. And chocolate chips. Or carrot cake. He's eating carrot cake.





A walk down to the Potomac, then up King again, to catch a ride back to D.C..

Looking out, we watched the full moon come out from under cloud cover, right over the Capitol. Not a good enough photo for Ocean, but something worth mentioning nonetheless: this city is elusive to me. Like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, or the moon on a foggy night, monuments appear and disappear as I move from one set of blocks to the next. People, too. Tagged, always tagged with I.D. cards, they move quickly. In and out of buildings. Nothing is out in the open. It is a city of secrets. Of Pentagon and FBI and Supreme Court private discussions. Of the everyday lives being hugely touched by what goes on behind closed doors. Soldiers on the metro. A man sweeping a gutter in Georgetown. Another shouting to the bus that refuses to come at a stop on 14th street.

An ambulance screams across M street. And another. Visitors, like in Paris, there are always visitors. Asking for directions, for places to eat, for bars to drink in. Could you tell me?... Could I? Do I know this town well enough to pass judgment? It’s getting to the point that I do.