I stumbled off the ferry from Helsinki with nothing but a backpack and a small messenger bag and made a beeline to the doors of the harbor. The air was surprisingly thick – at least thicker than the cool breeze of the Baltic Sea – and the atmosphere outside of the terminal reflected this. A horde of drunken Finns had begun to form out of my fellow passengers, and the heat was beginning to turn them vicious... wiping sweat from their brows and stumbling over each other to grab huge steel shopping carts: Hey, asshole! That’s my trolley! Jonni, run and get me another one... There is only one reason Finns visit Estonia, and that is to purchase cheap alcohol by the crate full at low tax. Any time spent in the country longer than was necessary to accomplish this task was unacceptable, and everyone around me knew this. The bartenders on the ferry had already made the mistake of letting these cretins get staggeringly drunk, and it was only a matter of time until a horrible brawl would break out and I would be ground into hamburger meat by the subsequent stampede.
I shoved past a small group of teenagers and darted from the lobby into the warm Tallinn sun. I had some thirty-five minutes to check in to my hostel, which had been subsidised by the European Union in an evidently ill-guided attempt to encourage Young Leaders to Visit Tallinn, but figured this would be more than enough time; my vantage point from the harbor terminal was limited, and I made the mistake of assuming that the city would be more or less the same as Helsinki in terms of basic size and character. I had steeled myself mentally for a few days around large glass skyscrapers and modernist shopping centres – god forbid I make a wrong turn and see a vaguely concrete Soviet apartment bloc – and so I set off without a map in what I assumed was the right direction; Estonia’s deeply Pan-European Character would surely guide my path, and if I ran into any trouble there were probably moving walkways or free motorcycles to get me where I needed to be. Why wouldn’t there be? This was an Advanced country with Advanced solutions to Advanced problems that a rube like me wouldn’t even be able to comprehend.
I worked through sidewalks and bridges, narrowly avoiding getting mowed down by e-scooters, wandering with a vague aim and my brain so exhausted that I almost slammed my backpack into a vlogging Instagram influencer at a local park. How exactly I got there is lost in a blur of footstep after footstep, but by midafternoon I had ended up in some sort of atavistic medieval nightmare. Small children ran by me dressed as medieval executioners and handed out strange pamphlets. The streets had turned to cobblestone and were filled with wooden stalls selling tradition for three gold coins. I wanted some. Hell, why not? The only problem I saw with all of this was my lack of gold coins, so I stopped by Ye Olde Amygdala Shoppe operated and presumably owned by the local almond farmer and thought to get my lay of the land.
The Almond Man was a bored teenager with a pressed-in face that only served to highlight his thin blonde moustache and vacant look. I didn’t want to frighten the kid, so after some hesitation I made a smooth attempt to figure out where I was.
In the future, the point of English language education will cease to be basic communication, and will instead become figuring out what the hell Europeans are trying to say in their heavily accented speech. The focus will not be intricate grammar, but instead piecemealing together various broken English words in an attempt to create a more global world... Of course, I welcome this, and hope that someday my children (should I be so lucky) will speak a Global Creole, but such a thing does not exist today, and so I can only infer what the response I received actually meant. It seemed negative – I can only assume it was given the expression on his face – and so after he pointed in the direction of an open forum I nodded in an attempt at mutual understand and went on my way.
If the Circus-Circus is what the whole hep world would look like if the Germans won the war, Vanalinn (or Old Town) in Tallinn is what the Las Vegas Strip would look like in the meantime. The central square is filled with medieval-looking buildings and outdoor seating on stone streets, and tour guides shepherd groups of foreigners around great balls of twine, recounting treasured Estonian folk tales such as The Cat That Fell Into A Well or The Apartment Complex Cursed by Satan (or his pagan equivalent). And a sign sat in the centre of the square that read (in English): “KILL YOURSELF”. Another: “11 EURO HAMBURGER”. There is no other known place in the world where you can drink a beer and blow huge sums of money betting on soccer games at a bar in a Gothic torture dungeon cellar, and then stumble out and see every church in the city with the naked eye. It is a goddamn period piece, and we are all the better for its existence. Why not? The world needs more safe harbors for total nutcases, because if we aren’t careful we might end up in a boring hellscape with minimum wage workers and well-lit streets where Everybody Knows Your Name, and I mean your * real * name. It’s funny how every talk of Heaven always seems to end up with a discussion of what Hell would look like without it. It all leads back to the absolute worst.
I arrived to the hostel after passing a building labeled “KGB PRISON CELLS” and passed out later that evening. Part of the key to understanding Estonia is that some of the streets are quite literally paved with swastikas, and while this is considered normal, the hamburger is still considered a novel and foreign concept to be ogled at. Some will go to university and study sociology for years to find out how to truly understand a people, but they always fail to outdo these three things: the weather in their country, the food in their grocery store, and whether they jaywalk. That’s it. If the weather is too hot, the people are probably overly emotional and any traveller would do well to carry a spray can of hi-powered mace and maybe a fly swatter for the mosquitos that will inevitably emerge. Too cold and the people will be overly rational and may call the police (or the local equivalent) when you start lashing out in fear and loathing of the world at-large... There is no ‘just right’ for the weather, even if you think there is... and it is hot here in the Baltic this summer. What the hell kind of pagan sun god did I anger to bring this deadly heat onto me?
Many years ago, the Good Doctor Thompson wrote:
My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate.
And by some horrible turn of events I happen to find myself feeling the same way here. The weather in Finland and Estonia, like everything else in these countries, functions cybernetically but primally: it is like putting a sensitive caveman behind the control panel of a weather control device. The Caveman is simple and ham-fisted. He does not, he cannot, understand anything beyond the raw power of the sun, and no matter how many flashy levers and dials are at his disposal to, say, make it any cloudier than it already is, there is little variety or change throughout any given day: he isn’t creative enough to do anything else. Regardless of this he demands respect... Most Finns know better than to challenge the weather forecast. “It’s the weather,” they would say in a monotone voice. “Why would it be different than what is written?” They understand it as a basic input-output, and because of this they have unwittingly met the demands of the Caveman.
In spite of my naturally rebellious American spirit, I refuse to get with the program of this raving troglodyte.. I choose to plan for contingencies, like a sudden bout of rain or a cold chill in an otherwise humid afternoon, and for this I am punished greatly. I’ll decide that morning to wear a light jacket, and by the time I’ve had my morning walk I’m cycling through more water than Three Mile Island... I stumble into grocery stores panting like a dog and reeking of homegrown sweat.
The matter of food is another question. If you visit a grocery store – a real grocery store, that is, not a corner store – and there sits a “Tex Mex” section or something of equal consequence, avoid it like the plague. There is nothing there for you. You want to find fresh, good fruits readily available and in abundance (but not too much abundance...) and sitting squarely at the entrance of the store, and you want to find a large bakery section with pastries of National Importance. Anything else and you risk going corporate, which is an absolute no-go when it comes to food. Welcome to the Embassy of the Reich; take a number and don’t forget to use the banana weighing station... Better keep your rewards card for the border guard.
Jaywalking is a curious one. In every country you will find a strata of people – usually geriatrics and new parents – who absolutely refuse to cross the street under a red light. Rebellious teenagers and anarchist agitators will always jaywalk to Stick It To The Man, but when slick businessmen and people who don’t shake the proverbial beehive are willing to just be done with it and get to the other side of the road, that says something about how complicit the people are with the status quo. Ho, ho! Sociology debunked! Where’s my honorary degree, UCD? Surely you can spare another one... Mahalo.
My main takeaway from Tallinn is that it is a city of many secrets. Public parks would have streams that lead to new pathways. Underneath a souvenir shop in dimly lit streets, a glowing night club hidden damaged blinds in a tiny window... a bar only accessible to those who know the passcode (and I did). Where there stands a tourist trap restaurant with waiters that call you “m’lord” and peddle novelty meats for 39 euros, there is probably buried the victim of a long-forgotten war that doesn’t matter now and mattered then even less. Even the beach has vaguely post-Soviet whispers of proximity to Leningrad, and maybe in a past life you could have paid a few rubles to get there. Just what is the deal with these people? What makes them tick? This is the question I asked myself when I stepped off the boat, and the only thing close to an answer I’ve received is the fact that I don’t know, and they probably don’t know either... if everyone was predictable, the world wouldn’t have so many secrets.
Oh, right: The Presidential Debate. I guess I have an obligation as someone writing about the aftermath of the American Century to at least give my opinions on it. I didn’t actually watch the debate when it happened. Why would I? Nothing about this particular presidential election gave any serious voter a reason to tune in. Both candidates are utter dogshit, and the only thing that makes comparing them side-by-side interesting (at least, to anyone who’s been paying attention) is the inclusion of a financial incentive like gambling or dubious insider investments. Talk about a raving troglodyte...
My genuine take is this: Trump is a great orator in the same way your backwater uncle is a great orator, and he has the legitimately correct take on Ukraine. Biden needed to drink more water and only got his thoughts in order by the very end, which is a shame because he could have had a chance to play dirtier with his personal attacks. Just let the two bastards have their golf game! Interesting times, in the Chinese sense... Time for a topical golf metaphor: We’re really in the sand trap with this one, huh?
Anywho, we’re fucked. Royally so. Over and out... Just don’t flee to Europe; I’m told it’s full, and they might toss you into the ocean if they catch you acting like The Caveman without all of your documents. Oh well: I’m told Atlantis is nice this time of year. I wonder if they jaywalk...