here's to swimmin'

... with bowlegged women ... This is what the oldtimey fisherman Quint says in Jaws. I've written too much already about Estonian wimmin here on this blog, as if I was an expert, or that anyone desired such insight or expertise. But honesty, honesty ... the honest message is that when I returned to Tallinn a week or so back and was confronted with the gray and the white and the brown and the black, the stale glow of shop lights on the slush of the rutted sidewalks, this soul of mine plummeted to the lowest rungs of "What have I done?" and yet was resurrected by the female kind, hope! ... these local girls know how to dress, they dress well, buttons up, zippers down, they'll take your angst off, knock the foam off your coffees and beers. And it ain't like Elsewhere East Europe, where they'll disgust you with yellow-high-heeled whorewear ... these are Estonians, blue, black, and white, tight-lipped and tidy and taciturn ... that's what the roving foreign fishermen who harbor in these waters don't understand ... they may look pretty pretty on the outside, but behind those fruity bosoms (that just make your mind icemelt over with warmth and champagne bubbliness and harp-playing angels) is just another stoic, stalwart, seafarin' Estonian man ... one may appear more pleasant than the other, but they are still one in the same, flesh from flesh ... incarnate. Imagine me, though, transplanted to this part of the world as a young man, a Walking Hormone set down in a biological Nor'easter.

I never stood a chance.