//estonia
Estonia, a tiny little country in the north east of Europe, has a history of being invaded by just about everyone. Having lost 32% of their population during Soviet occupation, Estonia is a country of young people. Some of their prominent government ministers are in their early 30s, a fact that is reflected in the government's stance that everyone has a right to internet access.
Emerging from recent terrors into a world of plenty has brought some strange contrasts to modern Estonian culture. Sweet faced girls in medieval costumes stand outside restaurants while red‑leather‑clad hookers walk arm in arm with embarrassed looking men. Most of the imposing structures built during Soviet times are frequently painted in bright colours lending a strange sort of duality to the streets. In spite of the horrors that occurred during German occupation, there are a number of skinheads here, while the most popular music genre in the country is reggae. Old people don't smile when smiled at; in general they look wary and tired, but a lost tourist is always treated with kindness and concern. The shades of Soviet occupation still haunt the country ‑ after all it's been less than 20 years since the country emerged from Soviet rule.
Estonians are sweet, stoic people. Recent injustices are remembered, even visible, but they are not dwelled on. The most important task at this point is to reinstate Estonian culture. That, and to party. There's a magazine ‑ B East ‑ which highlights all the cool stuff going on in various towns still considered pretty obscure to the western world. The nightlife is rocking and varied. Even under autumn's dark skies the air is buzzing with a strong sense of serious fun. Rebellious art forms that are traditionally frowned upon by more affluent societies are celebrated here ‑ street art is huge and graffiti is welcomed as a way to colour in the grey. One of the most famous eastern european artists gained his fame through illegal, anti establishment art. He now flies himself around Europe in his own Cessna and is currently wondering how he's going to continue to push the envelope when his once illegal works are now commissioned by various governments and corporations. When you look at the history of this part of the world, it seems incredible that there are any people left at all, let alone that they have such energy.
The thing that strikes me most about Estonia is that every day, I am passing people in the street who lived through atrocities that I can hardly imagine, yet the youthful spirit of Estonia is pushing past the dark memories one brightly coloured facade at a time.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
kiek in der kok
//peek in the kitchen ‑ the name of a tower in tallinn
Often one's impression of a town is highly dependent on the hostel you stay in. In Tallin, I've felt very much at home. Having a kitchen, regular dropins, a large lounge, a dvd library, even a free SAUNA in the bathroom has made it a really lovely way to dive back into the sometimes intimidating world of solo travel. Each night has been a raucous evening of discovery. One the first night, at my request we visited a nearby underground tavern and were rewarded by meeting several locals; unfortunately they turned out to be white supremacists. The phrase 'white power' always strikes me as ironic when it's emblazoned across the neck of a skinny, jumpy little guy with questionable taste in facial hair and a tendency to threaten anyone who says the wrong thing ‑ but only if they're smaller than him.
It's been a period of contrasts here. The scars of the Soviet era are evident in the strangeness of the people. Even the weather is having an identity crisis. Lured from sunny streets into a church by surprisingly cool organ music, I sat through a five minute thunderstorm without even realising (thanks God, well timed). Turning the corner from the church, I came across the former KGB headquarters and noted the sealed basement windows; bricked up to block the sounds of interrogations. One marvels at the fact that it sits opposite the church. What did the KGB agents think about when they stood at their office window staring at the church steeple?
Tallin is very tourist oriented. Every street is lined with handicraft stores selling knitted clothing, blown glass and ceramics. The old town dances just a little too far across the line between authenticity and touristy but is rescued by the saviour of Tallinn's soul ‑ the cafe culture.
Even in Soviet times, Tallinn was known for its cafes. There are lots of cosy loungey underground bars and coffee shops and it's there that Tallinn's culture retreats and regroups when the British accents abound on the streets.
I've wandered a lot in this town. I've ignored the museums and the handicraft shops and wandered the flower seller's street, stalked through the ruins of buildings bombed in 1944 and traipsed up through the town square, down through the town square, around the edge of the town square; it's one of those towns where you try to get lost and end up inexplicably back in the centre. Each time I've found myself on a certain street corner I've been accosted by locals dressed in old style clothing selling sugared almonds (wonderful but eventually sickening) whose hot sugar scent remind me of christmas in Germany.
The longer I spend in a town, the more I feel there is to do. It's too easy to drop in for a day, wander around, smugly announce that you've 'done' that town and then leave frantically for the next spot. I've tried to avoid doing that and have found that once you've ticked all the boxes, the real discovery begins. Today was my last day in Tallin, two days extra than anybody else has recommended I stay here, but it was by far the most interesting. I decided to head out along the coastline, past the phallic yet dreary Soviet monument that the locals have dubbed "the impotent's dream" and through a stunning park bejewled in Autumn leaves. I spent some time in a huge art gallery and fell in love with the modernist works of Estonians Konrad Magi and Nikolai Kormasov. I drank a coffee that had been lovingly and painstakingly decorated by the waitress, took some random photos of strange buildings and stood indecisively in the doorway of a ruined chapel for a while before turning away, having chosen not to visit yet another ruined building.
I've found Tallinn's soul in the spaces between her cobbled streets; it oozes stubbornly from the cracks.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for Tartu with sugar scented, wine coloured memories of Tallinn.
Often one's impression of a town is highly dependent on the hostel you stay in. In Tallin, I've felt very much at home. Having a kitchen, regular dropins, a large lounge, a dvd library, even a free SAUNA in the bathroom has made it a really lovely way to dive back into the sometimes intimidating world of solo travel. Each night has been a raucous evening of discovery. One the first night, at my request we visited a nearby underground tavern and were rewarded by meeting several locals; unfortunately they turned out to be white supremacists. The phrase 'white power' always strikes me as ironic when it's emblazoned across the neck of a skinny, jumpy little guy with questionable taste in facial hair and a tendency to threaten anyone who says the wrong thing ‑ but only if they're smaller than him.
It's been a period of contrasts here. The scars of the Soviet era are evident in the strangeness of the people. Even the weather is having an identity crisis. Lured from sunny streets into a church by surprisingly cool organ music, I sat through a five minute thunderstorm without even realising (thanks God, well timed). Turning the corner from the church, I came across the former KGB headquarters and noted the sealed basement windows; bricked up to block the sounds of interrogations. One marvels at the fact that it sits opposite the church. What did the KGB agents think about when they stood at their office window staring at the church steeple?
Tallin is very tourist oriented. Every street is lined with handicraft stores selling knitted clothing, blown glass and ceramics. The old town dances just a little too far across the line between authenticity and touristy but is rescued by the saviour of Tallinn's soul ‑ the cafe culture.
Even in Soviet times, Tallinn was known for its cafes. There are lots of cosy loungey underground bars and coffee shops and it's there that Tallinn's culture retreats and regroups when the British accents abound on the streets.
I've wandered a lot in this town. I've ignored the museums and the handicraft shops and wandered the flower seller's street, stalked through the ruins of buildings bombed in 1944 and traipsed up through the town square, down through the town square, around the edge of the town square; it's one of those towns where you try to get lost and end up inexplicably back in the centre. Each time I've found myself on a certain street corner I've been accosted by locals dressed in old style clothing selling sugared almonds (wonderful but eventually sickening) whose hot sugar scent remind me of christmas in Germany.
The longer I spend in a town, the more I feel there is to do. It's too easy to drop in for a day, wander around, smugly announce that you've 'done' that town and then leave frantically for the next spot. I've tried to avoid doing that and have found that once you've ticked all the boxes, the real discovery begins. Today was my last day in Tallin, two days extra than anybody else has recommended I stay here, but it was by far the most interesting. I decided to head out along the coastline, past the phallic yet dreary Soviet monument that the locals have dubbed "the impotent's dream" and through a stunning park bejewled in Autumn leaves. I spent some time in a huge art gallery and fell in love with the modernist works of Estonians Konrad Magi and Nikolai Kormasov. I drank a coffee that had been lovingly and painstakingly decorated by the waitress, took some random photos of strange buildings and stood indecisively in the doorway of a ruined chapel for a while before turning away, having chosen not to visit yet another ruined building.
I've found Tallinn's soul in the spaces between her cobbled streets; it oozes stubbornly from the cracks.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for Tartu with sugar scented, wine coloured memories of Tallinn.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
bloemen en coffeeshops
// flowers and coffee shops
"She's a beauuuutiful flowerrrr" sings an equally beautiful man. He is blessed with great depth of tone and I am greatly blessed to hear it. He is zipping past me on an electric wheelchair, barely avoiding several collisions while his words echo around us along the street. He takes off around the corner still singing and as a few people chuckle good naturedly, my first impression of Amsterdam is formed. Crazy people are part of the charm here, which is lucky because they are in no short supply!
It seemed fitting that my first taste of Amsterdam left me with a quickened heart and involved a beautiful flower. Over a century ago, when Tulip Fever ravaged the Natherlands, fortunes were made and then lost on the tulip marketwhich boomed and then crashed as markets do. The Dutch didn't lose their love for flowers though, as the visually unimpressive but very well stocked flower markets attest. Pushbikes and statues are often decorated with flowers for no apparent purpose. The city is many things, but the three that stand out are the flowers, the weed, and the red lights.
Amsterdam is not a place that does anything half heartedly, except perhaps for making rules. The rules pertaining to soft drugs are notoriously soft themselves, and the city streets are lined with "coffee shops" where alcohol is unavailable and weed, in various forms, sells for about 2‑5 euros a gram. The coffee shops are great hangouts with or without the pot..
The vibrance with which Amsterdam approaches each day is in contrast to the number of potheads that inhabit the place. There is a strong, almost mainstream activist culture. Discussions on the right to free speech are on everyone's lips in the still resounding aftermath of the Dutch newspaper that printed anti Muslim comics. Of course, environmental concerns are high on the list as with everywhere in the western world. Nobody talks much about the sex industry, it seems to be accepted at face value, much like the women winking from their windows. The night time girls pose and wave, some look nervous, most look bored, the best ones make you believe they want you and not your money ‑ according to my observations it's large groups of drunken poms that this works best on. The red light district begins in the street behind my hostel, which puts me in a 'good' part of Amsterdam but not the posh bit. I like it here. There are clothing and shoe shops, the pretty red lights (is it menat to look like Christmas I wonder?!), a good variety of interestingly decorated coffee shops and lots of people all through the day and night. Amsterdam sleeps between the hours of 6 and 10am; at any other hour the streets are busy and safe.
Amsterdam's good points are in most cases also her bad points. Pot is easily accessible but it means that many tourists see little more than the inside of various coffee shops. Mushrooms are also easy to get hold of and while I've had a lot of funny conversations with very happy people who insist that the walls are melting, I've also seen more than one person end up in an Ambulance after taking the 'really strong' ones. The red light district is a great, giggly little outing at night, but the daytime girls are testament to what happens when you don't leave in time ‑ they are older women to whom daylight is not kind and life is even less so. The live sex shows run continuously through the night and are at first surreal, but swiftly become more remniscient of the Melbourne Comedy Festival than of the star‑shaped‑sunglasses‑toting porn industry. The couples (they have to be real couples to be hired) have created routines that tie in with the music so you are treated to some very energetic displays, which are hilarious until you realise that your boyfriend will never, ever be that fit. Hmpf.
My favourite thing about Amsterdam is the canals. Each canal belt has its own personality and the shops I've found along the way have provided delightful window shopping (and occasional purchasing). I have the prettiest dress in the world that I bought from a shop where everything was red. I also have some cool earrrings that I will probably give to Billie because they would look great on her. I found some boots after 2 days of shopping and they are extremely comfortable and warm. I also found a shop full of 60s lamps, a stunning hat shop, several excellent vintage shops (luckily my suitcase is definitely full now) and lots of other little paradises of antiquities and oddities. I have a favourite shopping street that I am studiously avoiding, nestled between two canals near Anne Frank's house.
And of course, between all the flowers and cycles and space cakes, there was time to visit Anne. With three other Perth girls from my hostel, I walked through the Secret Annexe that hid eight people for so long and pretended there weren't tears tapping insistently at my eyelids when I thought of the little girl's hopes for the future, her longing to breathe fresh air (which she finally would, in the concentration camp where she died) and her many plans for her future. It's not the first time on this trip that the extent of my own good luck has been contrasted against the extreme misfortunes of others. It makes me feel obliged to pursue everything I desire with everything I have, given what a head start I've had. You resolve to live your life with inspired abandon when the shadow of your freedom is cast in the light of such heart‑rending courage.
It's been a lovely trip to Amsterdam; I'm no longer feeling so uninspired by western europe, though the adventures awaiting me in eastern europe still beckon.
Tonight I take another overnight bus to Berlin, where by a stroke of luck Chris the London lad is working. He has a twin room at the Grand Hyatt so we're sneaking me in. Free 5 star accommodation is becoming a bit of a habit for me! After Berlin it's off to eastern europe, specific locations yet to be determined.
As I conclude, there is someone posing outside under a sign for "The Cock Ring". For me, Amsterdam will always be cyclists, flowers, canals and, now, cock rings.
"She's a beauuuutiful flowerrrr" sings an equally beautiful man. He is blessed with great depth of tone and I am greatly blessed to hear it. He is zipping past me on an electric wheelchair, barely avoiding several collisions while his words echo around us along the street. He takes off around the corner still singing and as a few people chuckle good naturedly, my first impression of Amsterdam is formed. Crazy people are part of the charm here, which is lucky because they are in no short supply!
It seemed fitting that my first taste of Amsterdam left me with a quickened heart and involved a beautiful flower. Over a century ago, when Tulip Fever ravaged the Natherlands, fortunes were made and then lost on the tulip marketwhich boomed and then crashed as markets do. The Dutch didn't lose their love for flowers though, as the visually unimpressive but very well stocked flower markets attest. Pushbikes and statues are often decorated with flowers for no apparent purpose. The city is many things, but the three that stand out are the flowers, the weed, and the red lights.
Amsterdam is not a place that does anything half heartedly, except perhaps for making rules. The rules pertaining to soft drugs are notoriously soft themselves, and the city streets are lined with "coffee shops" where alcohol is unavailable and weed, in various forms, sells for about 2‑5 euros a gram. The coffee shops are great hangouts with or without the pot..
The vibrance with which Amsterdam approaches each day is in contrast to the number of potheads that inhabit the place. There is a strong, almost mainstream activist culture. Discussions on the right to free speech are on everyone's lips in the still resounding aftermath of the Dutch newspaper that printed anti Muslim comics. Of course, environmental concerns are high on the list as with everywhere in the western world. Nobody talks much about the sex industry, it seems to be accepted at face value, much like the women winking from their windows. The night time girls pose and wave, some look nervous, most look bored, the best ones make you believe they want you and not your money ‑ according to my observations it's large groups of drunken poms that this works best on. The red light district begins in the street behind my hostel, which puts me in a 'good' part of Amsterdam but not the posh bit. I like it here. There are clothing and shoe shops, the pretty red lights (is it menat to look like Christmas I wonder?!), a good variety of interestingly decorated coffee shops and lots of people all through the day and night. Amsterdam sleeps between the hours of 6 and 10am; at any other hour the streets are busy and safe.
Amsterdam's good points are in most cases also her bad points. Pot is easily accessible but it means that many tourists see little more than the inside of various coffee shops. Mushrooms are also easy to get hold of and while I've had a lot of funny conversations with very happy people who insist that the walls are melting, I've also seen more than one person end up in an Ambulance after taking the 'really strong' ones. The red light district is a great, giggly little outing at night, but the daytime girls are testament to what happens when you don't leave in time ‑ they are older women to whom daylight is not kind and life is even less so. The live sex shows run continuously through the night and are at first surreal, but swiftly become more remniscient of the Melbourne Comedy Festival than of the star‑shaped‑sunglasses‑toting porn industry. The couples (they have to be real couples to be hired) have created routines that tie in with the music so you are treated to some very energetic displays, which are hilarious until you realise that your boyfriend will never, ever be that fit. Hmpf.
My favourite thing about Amsterdam is the canals. Each canal belt has its own personality and the shops I've found along the way have provided delightful window shopping (and occasional purchasing). I have the prettiest dress in the world that I bought from a shop where everything was red. I also have some cool earrrings that I will probably give to Billie because they would look great on her. I found some boots after 2 days of shopping and they are extremely comfortable and warm. I also found a shop full of 60s lamps, a stunning hat shop, several excellent vintage shops (luckily my suitcase is definitely full now) and lots of other little paradises of antiquities and oddities. I have a favourite shopping street that I am studiously avoiding, nestled between two canals near Anne Frank's house.
And of course, between all the flowers and cycles and space cakes, there was time to visit Anne. With three other Perth girls from my hostel, I walked through the Secret Annexe that hid eight people for so long and pretended there weren't tears tapping insistently at my eyelids when I thought of the little girl's hopes for the future, her longing to breathe fresh air (which she finally would, in the concentration camp where she died) and her many plans for her future. It's not the first time on this trip that the extent of my own good luck has been contrasted against the extreme misfortunes of others. It makes me feel obliged to pursue everything I desire with everything I have, given what a head start I've had. You resolve to live your life with inspired abandon when the shadow of your freedom is cast in the light of such heart‑rending courage.
It's been a lovely trip to Amsterdam; I'm no longer feeling so uninspired by western europe, though the adventures awaiting me in eastern europe still beckon.
Tonight I take another overnight bus to Berlin, where by a stroke of luck Chris the London lad is working. He has a twin room at the Grand Hyatt so we're sneaking me in. Free 5 star accommodation is becoming a bit of a habit for me! After Berlin it's off to eastern europe, specific locations yet to be determined.
As I conclude, there is someone posing outside under a sign for "The Cock Ring". For me, Amsterdam will always be cyclists, flowers, canals and, now, cock rings.
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