naistest lihtsalt

"Are you the one who ordered the blowjob?" The sultry eyed Asian hostess ran her hands over my shoulders as I shimmied into a seat besides my comrades. I was late for dinner. The restaurant was thronged with humanity. I could see why they picked the place.

"I'm too jetlagged for a blowjob," I told her. "Better just bring me the menu instead."

If I had been 15 years old, I might have blushed. But I am cruising in on 30. The word 'blowjob' to me sounds like 'pretzel' or 'anchor.' It's as desirable as a chocolate chip cookie, and I usually don't blush when someone offers me chocolate chip cookies, even if that person is a transsexual. That's what she was. A man with mascara and implants. This was a transvestite-themed restaurant in San Francisco's Mission district.

"So glad you could make it," my British comrade holds out his hand and then fills my glass with white wine. "We were beginning to worry about you."

The Britisher loves this restaurant. He comes here every time he's in town. Why, the transsexual help even know him. This married father of three gladly lets them unbutton his shirt and massage his pectoral muscles. Later on, they escort him up to the bar to do a shot out of one of their bikinis as the crowd cheers him on. By that time, we're all liquored up.

"You know, if I were really drunk, more than I am now," slurs another Britisher, "I wouldn't be able to tell that she's, you know, not really a she." He points at the cute Filipino tranny with the chocolate-colored ponytail who just gave up the shot. Now she's feeding a banana from her mocha-hued 'bosom' to a genuinely female guest at a nearby table. This guest is special: not only is she just about to turn 30, but she's also about to get married. Two bananas!

She's accompanied by genuinely female friends. It's a bachelorette party. They are real women with real boobs and rotund backsides. They are real women with master's degrees in linguistics and area studies. They'll tell you about the plight of the Peruvian sweatshop workers, or their work to create clean energy jobs. They drink fair trade coffee. Yes, real American women. Not men with mascara and implants.

"Those are real women," I tell the Brits. "These trannies have no cushion. It's like what that British group Spinal Tap sang about in 'Big Bottoms.'"

"Those girls are ugly," my comrade declares. "And Spinal Tap were not real Englishmen," his lips shrivel. "They were Americans."

Some American ladies of my generation like to celebrate their impending marriages in the company of transsexuals. I've been to places like this in New York before. They are always chocked full of bachelorettes. They seem to be ridiculing gender stereotypes of the 1950s. The problem is that nobody in the audience was actually alive in the Eisenhower era. We must familiarize ourselves with the old stereotypes in order to mock them. This is the mindfuck of the liberal arts.

"Do they turn you on?" I remember one of the New Yorkers asking me about the men in mascara.

"No," I told her. I remember she was big all around, a real woman shaped like the Liberty Bell.

"Are you sure? You can tell me." She was puzzled. How could it be? I mean, the 'waitresses' did look like Barbie.

If instead I had confessed to her that I really did like transsexuals, maybe she would have let me crawl up in her lap and given me comfort. "I can't help it," I would sob, "they look so real." "That's ok, sweety," she would stroke my head like a wounded animal, "you're not alone."

But if I had confessed that I was secretly attracted to her, her Liberty Bell shape, all that estrogen swimming around, if I had pulled the curtain back and revealed all that ugly biology to her, she would have made quickly for the door, her face contorted, mouthing, "the horror, the horror," like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.

This is the mystery of American sexuality. These are the issues with which we grapple, the incomplete feminist upheaval, the aborted sexual revolution, the poorly defined notion of desirability, fed by a Hollywood that tells you that if one puts some makeup on a man and give him implants, he's attractive. Like us stupid American guys can't smell the difference. And they wonder why we run away in droves to Europe to rejoice in post-feminist bliss, to bathe ourselves in the blue lagoon of nature, where a man is attracted to a woman because ... she's a woman.

"A Swedish woman expects her mate to do 50 percent of the work," my friend Ingmar once told me. "If you only do 49 percent one day, then you're on your own."

See, clearly defined rules. I may be American, but I can follow rules. I am frequently asked why, why do so many foreign guys wind up with Estonian women? Is it because they look like Barbie? No, it's because they abide by stated rules. These American Odysseuses were lost on the jagged postmodernist seas of transvestite pirates and college-educated harpies. Then one day they washed up in the soothingly geometric cities of Northern Europe. Like a well-played game of the videogame Tetris, the shapes fit. At last, everything fell into place.

"How was the shot?" I ask my British friend as he returns to the table from his conquest.

"Frothy," he grins. I think I know why he's so happy. They just don't do it like this out in the Midlands. He's like Walter Raleigh or Francis Drake: an intrepid explorer. He speaks the local languages, can tell a breadfruit from a pineapple. He's worldly. This Britisher speaks San Franciscan.

***

According to Jüri Estam, Estonia is "bleeding brides to the West." Inga is one of them. She calls the San Francisco Bay home, but she grew up in Ida Virumaa. She says she's from Jõhvi, but, according to Inga, most people in that area claim to be from Jõhvi, even if they only go to school there or pass through on their way to work. Nobody wants to be from Kohtla-Järve. Jõhvi it is.

Inga's pinginaaber at one point was Kristiina Ojuland. For Estonians, the pinginaaber – your bench mate in school – is an institution of intimacy. The pinginaaber knows everything about you, your fashion catastrophes and high school crushes. If you fall anywhere on Earth at any time, your pinginaaber will be there to catch you. And so it is between Inga and Estonia's new representative in Brussels.

"Ojuland?" I say. "Didn't I see her on Dancing with the Stars?"

"Kristiina doesn't take shit from anybody," says Inga of her friend's relationship with fame. We're crawling across San Francisco. It's the night after my encounter with the transsexuals. "I don't care what anybody says about her. She's successful and she deserves it."

Sometimes it seems in Estonia that Ojuland is everywhere. I once shared a plane with her. Another time I bumped into her at Abakhan Fabrics. Then there was that encounter at the foreign ministry. You can't go berry picking in north Estonia, without coming home with a bucket full of Kristiina.

"I remember some of the local journalists liked to run her photo," I say. "They had a thing for her."

Inga looks away in disgust. "The reason you saw her at Abakhan is because she makes her own clothes," she pivots. "She's always been her own boss. The teachers in school gave up on her. They punished others for trying to act the same way she did. There was no use in trying to tame Kristiina."

Ida Viru ladies like Inga and Kristiina walk the tightrope between east and west. They grew up in a soup of population transfer and multilingualism. Many of them come from mixed families. Who is an Estonian? Who is a 'Russian'? And where, perchance, are the elusive 'Soviet people'?

I personally don't care who you are. If you claim to be Estonian, then I'll vouch for your self-diagnosis. I'm fine, so long as you don't soak me with 'great Soviet Union' nostalgia, with sepia-toned yearning for the years of the Politburo gerontocracy and the wild parties and ice cream orgies at Jurmala. Like an old hombre down on his luck, the Soviet dreamers still slip a wrinkled dollar into a Saloon jukebox and request Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69." You told me it would last forever, they tell Brezhnev's ghost as their tears drip into their beer foam, those were the best days of my life.

Brezhev's ghost was not to be found at the North Beach Saloon later that night, just old sinewy gray ladies who looked as if they had been high every day since that first Country Joe and the Fish concert back in '66. They've been living the 'style so long, they've become Hippie incarnate. Their brains are made of hemp. Patchouli oil flows in their veins. Their eyes tear LSD. The San Francisco grannies have come to see a co-ed blues band, one with a female guitarist and bassist, or at least, musicians that appear to be female — you can never be sure in this city.

The horn player starts bearing his soul, the girlie rhythm section kicks in, and I am overcome by Delta blues melancholia. I am saturated with guilt. Poor Inga, poor Kristiina, I rub my face. Poor Ida Viru girls growing up at Fast Times at Lenin High, contending with male pig dogs everywhere, male pig dogs that only know them for their dance moves or put them on the cover of their newspaper because they look nice.

But it doesn't matter, because they are Estonian soul sisters, pinginaabrid. They stand back to back, pistols out, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. One of them lines the haters up, and the other one mows them down. Never mess with an Estonian woman, these northern birds caution, or you'll wind up with her pinginaaber's mushrooming knife in your back.

***

The night before, we left the cross-dressers at the Asian restaurant and ensconced at a trendy bar down the street, one with soft red lighting and gurgling electronic music. We were served by a real woman this time. There were no offers of blowjobs or pectoral massages; no bananas or frothy shots. I ordered club soda though, lest I pass out in the Brits' laps.

"Did you see the photos of Putin in Siberia?" asks one. He's not really English but Scottish. And not really Scottish but Glaswegian. He's from Glasgow.

"You mean Genghis Putin?" I remark. "Vladimir Khan?"

"He just can't keep his shirt on," he says. "Is that some kind of Russian thing?"

"The Russian ladies adore him. He's in good shape and he's not a drunk. He's their ideal man."

"Are there a lot of drunks in Russia or something?" he asks.

Are there drunks in Russia? Are there stars in the sky? I want to tell him. Though I have never been to Russia, I have heard the screams of the hungover from across the border. Hell, the Estonian drunks even built a pipe across the Narva River to funnel moonshine from our neighboring Putinate.

"Are there a lot of drunks in Scotland?" I counter.

He shakes his head. "No drunks," he says. "None at all. We all get on just fine."

"Functional alcoholics then."

"Aye, functional alcoholics," he nods. "That better describes us. I have done some business with Estonians. They seem a bit like Russians, but they make it very clear that they are not. Just a wee bit different."

"It's like the Irish and the Brits," I tell him. "Would you dare call U2 a British rock band?"

"No," he shudders. "Never."

"Besides, they are different," I pull out my identity card, my isikutunnistus. "Here, try and read this."

He holds it up to the candle light. "What's that say?"

"Ameerika Ühendriigid," I tell him. "The Unites States of America."

"I've never seen a language like this."

I'm pleased. Never again will this one soul mistake Estonians for Russians again; only several billion more souls to go. "It's like Finnish. Know any Finnish?"

He shakes his head in the swirl of red lights and electronic music. Frothy shots from transvestites? Genghis Putin? Ameerika Ühendriigid? It's more than he bargained for on a Thursday night. I feel like a guy with an odd hobby, an insidious stamp collector, a bird-watching savant, or reclusive spelunker. Then I realize I am in the company of British molecular biologists.

I stagger back to my French hotel and take the lift up to the sixth floor. Each floor is decorated with the artwork of one artist. Chagall's on four. Toulouse-Latrec is on two. Mine's Modigliani. Sprawled across every wall are nude French women from 1918. 1918! The year one. Nude after nude after nude after nude. Breasts and blank stares. Women thrown across beds or seated stoically in chairs. That's all Modigliani could paint. Give a Parisian a paint brush, and he'll give you a naked woman.

"This Modigliani's on to something," I think as I tuck myself into bed. "Maybe I should get myself one of his coffee table books."

vähi pöörijoon

When my cousin flew from Las Vegas to New York last year, airport security was waiting for him at the arrival gate. He was stoned out of his mind and had been watching a boxing match on his personal TV on the airline JetBlue. So invigorated by the stunning camera work and liquid human motion was he, that my cousin began to box the seat in front of him with his fists, annoying his fellow passengers, and he was eventually escorted out of JFK by security and banned from JetBlue for life.

I thought about my cousin as our plane glided across the country this week. The two passengers seated beside me -- a man and a woman, both middle aged -- were following a New York Yankees - Boston Red Sox game with passion. As I tried to traverse one of Tropic of Cancer's thick interior chapters, they yelled at the miniature umpire on the screen or clapped their hands when someone scored. Yes, there was a loud little baseball game going on in row 6. The flight attendants were passing out concessions. The crowd smelled blood. As our plane approached our destination I wondered, if you can get banned from an airline for being a boxing enthusiast, can they also ban you for being a baseball fan?

***

It took a long time for our luggage to snake through the organs of the airport. I was hungry and thought of the mouthwatering cafeteria I passed upstairs before descending to the baggage claim. Here there were limited opportunities to find nourishment, unless sustenance meant donuts or candy bars. Up there one could eat passable Mediterranean or Asian food. When I approached the door to the escalators I met a security guard.

"Can I go back upstairs to the cafeteria? I am really hungry."

"What does the sign say?" she swallowed once, wrinkled her nose, and looked at her shoes.

"What sign?"

She pointed to a small red sign on the glass door. No Entry.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see it," I said.

She said nothing and looked away again. I felt so sorry to trouble her. Terribly sorry. If only I had seen that little red sign and not bothered her. Ashamed, I found relief at a nearby bookstore, tinkering with a new book on how childhood memories define who we are. According to some of the useful charts, older siblings are more responsible and ambitious, while younger siblings like me are more entertaining and carefree. For every Bill Clinton, there's a Roger Clinton, according to the author, or, for you Estonian readers, for every Rein Raud, there's a Mihkel Raud.

The night before started at a German restaurant called Suppenküche in San Francisco where I ate schnitzels and slammed beers with Mike and Inga, an Estonian-American couple. I was desperate to talk about the Second World War in a Teutonic joint like that, but somehow I felt like if you mentioned totaler krieg in such a boisterous establishment, you deserved a swift kick in the pants.

"Nobody ever changes," Inga opined after a few beers. "My son, he's 20 years old, but he's the same as he was when he was two." She sipped her beer again. "The girls at work think their boyfriends will change. They say, 'He'll mature.' But he's never going to mature, honey. He's always going to be that way because nobody ever changes."

Everybody dumps their personal problems on Inga. She says she's like a greasy goose, the water just slides right off her back. It's all just water, and Inga never gets wet. We got another round of beers and I raised my glass.

"Elagu eesti!" I proclaimed.

"You're more Estonian than you know," Inga said. "You're like half Estonian and your wife is half American."

I don't even know who or what I am anymore. Not an American. Not a European. Not a New Yorker nor a Tartlane. It's all just water. It rolls off my back. Later that night we are joined by some old college friends in North Beach. I haven't seen them since I left university. Now they work for the unions, though none of them are steel workers or carpenters. But they love unions. In fact, one of them is doing his master's on Brazilian steel worker unions. Lula is his God. He's from Missouri but now speaks Portuguese and has lived in São Paulo. I order cannollis and limoncellos, talking about a Noor Eesti poet.

"I can't help it, I love crazy writers," I explained my selection in mate. "In class, we were shown a photo of Marie Hedberg. I saw her face and I felt that I knew her. I thought, 'What is it about this woman? Why do I feel drawn to her?' Then the professor told us she had schizophrenia and died in a mental institution. And I said, 'Ah, now that explains everything!'"

I've been to this restaurant before. The manager's name is Giovanni. He sings along to Andrea Bocelli or Renato Carosone tunes. I am the only one at the table who knows "Tu Vuo' Fa' L'Americano." I am pleased because Giovanni's limoncello tastes only a little better than mine. I fantasize about becoming a limoncello magnate. I would use Estonian vodka, of course, because it's the best in the world. Typically, I use Saaremaa. It's accessible; not for snobs.

Inga's husband Mike is a chameleon. With a big bushy mustache and broad smile, he could be anything. If he told me he was a German, I could picture him in leiderhosen. A Frenchman? Just add a beret. A Mexican? Give him a sombrero and he's the boss at the hacienda. Japanese? Well, he does belong to a San Franciscan sake club. Mike's older. He knows things. He's been places.

"I saw Van Halen, before and after," he informs us.

"Before what?" I ask.

"I mean with David Lee Roth and with Sammy Hagar."

"What did you think?"

"They were both good," he meditates. "In their own ways."

David Lee versus Sammy. Estonia versus America. West Coast versus East Coast. From JFK, I traveled to Penn Station. With a half hour to kill I tried to find dinner. My trick in locating suitable food is to look at who is standing in line. The problem in Penn Station is that all the people are enormous. I spied a woolly mammoth in front of the hot dog stand, a pack of polar bears buying pizza. And then there were the blue whales with their buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. At last I saw a cafe that looked vaguely European: Au Bon Pain.

I picked out a chicken asiago salad wrap and cranberry juice. I handed it to the cashier who was talking to her friend. After a few moments I noticed that the cash register had a number on it: $9.83.

"So does my food cost $9.83?" I interrupted the cashier and her friend.

"What?" she looked at me.

"Does my food cost $9.83?"

"Oh, yeah," with an absent stare she checked the register.

I handed her my card, she swiped it, and handed me the receipt, all while continuing her conversation with her friend. They were talking about boys. I felt as if we had traded places, as if I somehow for a second had become the cashier at Au Bon Pain, informing myself how much my food cost. I could have stamped my own drink card. Thanked myself for shopping. Maybe if I had some useful relationship advice, I figured, I might have been a more attractive customer.

In Estonia, it's different. Paying at a cash register is a high-intensity affair. There's the frenetic ringing up of items, the question of whether or not you have a discount card, the queries on how much change you may or may not have in your wallet to make the transaction as efficient as possible, and, finally, the rabbit-quick deposits in and out of the clinical plastic dish, the pressure from the drunks behind you to hurry it up so that they can pay for their liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

In New York, its best not to trouble the security guards or cashiers with your queries. Read the signs. Read the registers. Do it yourself.

***

"So I was like and she was like and we were like and like and like and like like like ..."

They were American girls on a train in Secaucus, New Jersey. The final leg of my journey was nearly over. I couldn't understand what they were talking about, but I knew it was infectious. If I stayed on that train with them, it could happen to me, and soon I would be like and they would be like, and we would all be like like like like.

On the train before, I had a riveting dialog with a Nigerian about music and weather and life and stuff. I felt like Femi was my African brother. We could talk all night about West Africa, about the Anglophone and Francophone countries, and, if things got more personal, broach the topic of religious strife. He's a Nigerian San Franciscan. It's always all cool. I wasn't worried about his laid back African attitude seeping into my soul. But the Jersey like girls? They were dangerous. I could enjoy Nigeria. I didn't want to become Secaucus. Have I become Estonia already? Is it in my Elagu eesti?

People ask me funny questions about Estonia. "I'm afraid of going to Eastern Europe," a colleague confessed in Silicon Valley. She's going to Tallinn for a conference next month. "I'm afraid of the crime."

"The only criminals you have to watch out for there in Tallinn are Brits attending stag parties," I told her.

"I resent that," said a third colleague from London.

"That's how it is," I tell him. Maybe he believes me. He said its hard to be English in America. Everyone either thinks you're a villain or gay, like Morrissey or Andy Bell or Boy George or George Michael or Neil Tennant or.

"Gay?" I believe him. Americans are a bit hung up on sexuality. They smolder about health care reform. They erupt over gay marriage. Everyone has to have a well-refined opinion on these topics. You must consume and consume information, then offer up some witty insight to the never-ending math equations of the day. One simply cannot avoid it. You must participate.

"Is Estonia developed?" asks another colleague. I tell him yes and no. The kids all have wireless. They can take digital photos with their eyes and upload them to Flickr telepathically. But vanaema and vanaisa are still out in the outhouse, partying like its 1939. I've become the bearer of the Two Estonias. I tell the people what Ivari Padar wants them to hear. I'm a sots.

I hate the street people and desperately want them to stop bugging me for change. They call government handouts entitlement, but aren't I entitled to not being stuck up for a quarter everytime I use public transportation? Mayor Bloomberg, I adopt the same tone with which Reagan told Gorbachev to tear down that wall, give these people some frigging quarters.

It's getting late as our train winds north. I let all the water roll off my back and shut up and eat my sandwich. Who am I? Just a writer. A greasy goose. It's just me, the night, my jetlag, and Tropic of Cancer. To me, it's the last book, the coup de grâce. It's colossally pretentious and yet I feel as if I wrote it. It shatters me.

ameerikas

Plastic utensils, plastic drink containers, paper napkins sealed in plastic; every meal is disposable, you can only hope that someone somewhere sorts this junk, because there is no other place where to put it other than in the trash.

Not that I am angry about those vanilla frappuccinos or falafel salads or spinach-feta wraps I consumed en masse upon arrival to the United States this week; they were all quite tasty, a welcome respite from the ubiquitous saiakesed of Eestimaa. But my revulsion to clinical plastic ware confirms the diagnosis: I've become a filthy European.

I had the misfortune of catching a glimpse of FOX News' Sean Hannity on TV while I was in search of child-friendly cartoons at the hotel. All it took was that brief exposure and the poison of the cable news channels consumed me, a rush of shit to the head.

To balance a nanosecond of FOX's Hannity, I had to watch 10 minutes of MSNBC's Keith Olbermann. Hannity's casus belli is liberal hypocrisy. Olbermann's is conservatives – the worst people in the world. My brain's gone soft on Estonian political discourse. America's cable news blood sport is too much. I hold the cool plastic of an iced frappuccino to my temples to soothe the pain.

Today's shouting match is about health care reform. For me, the idea that we still don't insure all our people is a stain on our American nationality, nay, our Westernness. Most other Western democracies do it. We don't. Why? Is it because we are exceptional? Just like we don't buy into the metric system or learn second languages, we don't guarantee you the right to a bed if you get sick?

Maybe we're still Anglos deep down. In the same way that our British cousins can extricate themselves from being Europeans, Americans can convince themselves that everything is fine with a system where a sizable chunk of the population isn't covered. It's your own damn fault is a resilient strain of American thought. Maybe we have not yet come to see ourselves as a country because there's always more where we came from. If we run out of healthy people, there are always more over the border. We're disposable. Use us once. Throw us away.

midagi inglise keeles

The entire news staff of the Baltic Times quit recently, according to various news reports.

Vello Vikerkaar's got a stirring piece up on the issue right now: his Postimees piece inspired this venture into "me too" blogging.

I am not surprised, having seen editors come and go through the years. Several tried to reform the newspaper for the better but failed. At one point, one even told me, "If you want the job, it's yours for the taking." For some reason, I declined and decided to remain in my auxiliary capacity.

When I used to freelance for BT, I would fantasize about how I would remake it. First, I would kill all the cosmetic "Baltic" crap, whereby any creature living within the territory of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania was a "Balt" -- a term originally used for Baltic Germans. Go into an Estonian supermarket and ask the cashier if she's seen any Balts lately. See what she tells you.

After the death of "the Balt," I would add an office in Helsinki to make it a full-fledged "eastern rim" newspaper. That might irritate people in that post-tsarist nordic country, but they deserve it.

Finally, I'd set up stringers in major Baltic Sea cities: Stockholm, Gdansk, St. Petersburg. The Baltic Times would have daily online content, and suddenly make other local English-language news sources in the region look provincial. It would be a sea-sized publication. We would keep a pensioner at a desk in Riga, the natural center of the region, and call it our headquarters.

That was a fantasy. Accomplishing it would have been impossible. I suggested the "Finnish office" idea to an editor once, but was told that Finland was labyrinthine and "you have to have a cousin up there to get anything done." From there, one could guess that an expansion to Stockholm or St. Petersburg was not really an option. BT would march on, publishing on such topics as "Baltic fashion," "Baltic music," and "Baltic fiction."

Nowadays, if you want something in English on the region, you've got to search the blogs, decipher the news stories on BBN, or wait patiently for The Economist's Edward Lucas to write something, when he's not in Ruthenia or Moldova.

Or you could just learn Estonian.

kaitsemisest

There has been a lot of talk in recent weeks about defense.

Most recently, Atlanticist thought leaders from central and eastern Europe sent the American president a letter to voice some disappointment with NATO, reaffirm their belief in the benefits of transatlantic relations, and stress the need for the same contingency planning that older NATO members enjoy.

Signing on behalf of Estonia were Mart Laar and Kadri Liik, head of the International Center for Defense Studies in Tallinn. Other notable signatories were Vaclav Havel, Lech Walesa, and Vaira Vike-Freiberga.

It is right that Estonians would like to know exactly how NATO would fulfill its Article 5 duties to come to its aid in the event of a conflict. At the same time, I would personally like to know what kinds of security guarantees other small northern European NATO members like Norway, Denmark, and Iceland enjoy.

What would NATO do if the Russian Northern Fleet would anchor off Kirkenes and annex the city? How would NATO respond should the Baltic Fleet leave port at Kaliningrad and launch a blockade and invasion of Copenhagen? We treat such ideas as preposterous but, other than the nuclear option, what would be the response?

Lost in the shuffle here when talking about the CEE is that Estonia is the last stop on the central and eastern European highway (or lack thereof). There are two very large nations in our neighborhood, Sweden and Finland, both of which play significant roles in our economic, not to mention cultural lives. While we use their banks, buy their products, and talk on their telecommunication networks, it seems our security has been outsourced to Washington.

I have no doubt that there are strong links between the defense ministries in Tallinn, Stockholm, and Helsinki. A Nordic Battle Group has even been created under the auspisces of the EU. But I keep feeling that, if we are talking about Estonian security, it would be helpful to clarify what roles two of its largest and wealthiest neighbors would play in a given crisis. Until then, we will have an incomplete picture of how Estonia fits into the puzzle of northern European security.

nagu kaks tilka vett

Estonian author Friedebert Tuglas, author of "Meri" (1908) and Väike Illimar (1937) and ...










Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.), author of Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (2003) and The Truth (With Jokes) (2005)








-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the way, we are selling or renting out an apartment in the homey Tartu neighborhood of Karlova. You can find information on this housing opportunity here.

hammer of the gods

They took an Estonian Cross of Liberty from 1919 and stuck it on a pedestal in Tallinn. The monument was officially opened June 22 to coincide with Võidupüha -- "Victory Day" -- which commemorates the victory of Estonian troops over the German freikorps at Võnnu (Cesis, Latvia) 90 years ago.

I like that they built a monument to the veterans of the Estonian War of Independence. I enjoy how Estonian nationalism is focused on 1918 rather than 1945. The First World War lacks the Biblical narrative of postwar Allied history. The narrative of the Great War, the assassination that led to thousands of more deaths, the collapse of empires, the shifts in alliance, the chaotic emergence of new states, seems more representative of the nature of human conflict. Estonia at that time produced heroes, heroes who actually won and made a state from a territory that was only several years prior two Baltic provinces that had been traded by neighboring empires for hundreds of years.

So the victory deserves commemoration. But how? The erection of the võidusammas -- victory monument -- was your typical Estonian production, filled with backbiting and intrigue, allegations of misused resources, aesthetical battles pro and con, and worries over whether it was just too "anachronistic" and "aggressive," in the words of one German-born Tallinn academic, for a modern city center.

I went there Sunday morning. There was no one around. Like most commentators, I was pleased that it was not completely revolting, but -- a Cross of Liberty on a pedestal? That's the best you could do? In Suure-Jaani they have a statue of Lembitu of Lehola on his back, sword in the air, fighting to the death for his freedom. I always liked Suure-Jaani Lembitu. He was fearless man holding a weapon. But the new monument? It looks like a weapon itself.

I could imagine some science fiction film where the buildings of Tallinn come alive. The Stalini maja -- an imposing multistory Stalin-era building across from Stockmann kept intact for historical purposes -- begins to breath fire. From its perch on Liivalaia and Tartu maantee, Stalini maja uproots itself and starts moving towards the Riigikogu on Toompea. It's slicing the air with its hammer and sickle star. It could be the end of the Estonian republic.

The Riigikogu is defenseless -- the Russian Orthodox Church won't allow him to hook up with his stalwart ally Vana Toomas on Tallinn's Townhall Square. But, suddenly, the Riigikogu reaches around the Orthodox priest and grabs a hold of the võidusammas, a ready-made battle axe, a hammer of the gods. A couple swift blows from the võidusammas brings the Stalini maja to its knees. Its remains are jackhammered and used to make new parking places. The Riigikogu dusts off its battle axe and returns it to its place, where little girls in national costumes bring it flowers.

It would make a great film but, in reality, the monument looks kind of out of place. Tallinn's vibe is a Hansa one. It's the air of thrifty merchants of various backgrounds making a living backdropped by picture perfect cobblestone lanes. It was the hometown of Jakob de la Gardie, a statesman of French extraction turned nobleman of a German-speaking city in the imperial Swedish center of its Estland province. There's a shopping center named after his family now, across from the McDonalds near the Viru gate. That's Tallinn right there. That's what the city is about. Is it also a home for this hammer of the gods? Apparently so, but I am not yet convinced.

hingame üheskoos

Who can describe music? The sound of thousands of people singing? It's an impossible task, but why not reach for other musical metaphors to guide the way?

When I was in Tallinn this past weekend, the music of one group kept coming to mind. It wasn't any of the hundreds of choirs that made up the singing organism of the Laulupidu, where balloons drifted by bearing the soulful words: Hingame üheskoos! -- "Let's all breathe in concert." It wasn't the sweet rock'n'roll of Rein Rannap, one of my favorite Estonian songsmiths whose works were on display at the festival, sung by rows and rows of ecstatic teenagers. It was Led Zeppelin.

Why not? They were the teachers of Norse Mythology 101 to junior high school students everywhere. And there was something deeply northern and slightly mythic about the whole event. The hordes of the blonde and blue-eyed. The noise as the crowd egged on the giant flames of the Laulupidu torch. The cool and soothing winds of the north coast, putting thousands of austere blue, black, and white flags to move. And then, the opening of the mouths, the flow of sound, the breathing in concert. I am not of this land, I sensed, but I understand what these people are saying.

One recurring thought I have when in the company of Estonians is that they are still pagans. They have modern technology and speak the language of liberalism, but when you are out in the countryside with them, seated next to a bonfire, it's not hard to imagine how their insurgent armies slayed Cistercian monks during the St. George's Uprising of 1343. Such thoughts resurface, even as I watch floats pass by bearing the young choir singers of Saaremaa -- they whose forefathers renounced Christianity in 1261 and slayed all Germans on the island.

Pop music and pop history aside, Laulipidu is an exercise in identity building. Our friends and acquaintances may make up one voice in one local singing group, but at Laulupidu, all of the chains of singers are connected. The people breathe as one. They have been doing this since 1869. Young people take the bus from, say, Sillamäe to Tallinn as local singers. They leave the Laulupidu as one of the Estonian masses.

The folk costumes that people wear at the Laulipidu though are exemplary of Estonia's ardent individualism. Sometimes it seems every local parish has its own folk costume. The men of Mulgimaa -- a band of south Estonia stretching through Pärnu, Viljandi, and Valga counties -- wear the Mulgi kuub, a long, black robe symbolic of affluence and ambition. The ladies of Setomaa -- a border region in Võru and Põlva counties, wear on their chests kilos of silver jewelry. Once upon a time, it served as their doury. Now it is purely for fun.

For our family, choosing rahvariided -- national clothes -- is a conundrum. Epp is from Mulgimaa, but her mother's family is from the West Coast and her father's family from near Rakvere. As mentioned previously, we have now shacked up with the Setos, but Epp's mother used to wear a folk costume from Muhu island, "because its the most stylish," she explained. I told her that if I have got to dress up, then I am going with the Mulgi kuub. No emasculating knickers for this writer. And the president wears one too. "Folk costumes don't have anything to do with where you are from," a friend told me during the rongkäik. "You wear what you like best."

You may think that Laulupidu is an event that can only be experienced at Lauluväljak. This is not true. In some ways, the TV coverage is better. At home or in a cafe, you can get a much clearer picture of what is going on. The crowds are invigorating, but Laulupidu can really break you as you contort your body to best use your minuscule amount of personal space. I got a taste for what the event was like for the armchair singers in the cafe at the Tallinn bus station. The waiting passengers sat mesmerized by ERR's coverage. Most sang along as the festival rolled on past the festival's scheduled set list.

elagu epu mees

Rongkäik. If I was translating it into English, it would literally mean "train way," but really it's a parade, and yesterday the parade to Tallinn's Lauluväljak (Song Festival Grounds) where Estonia's famous Laulupidu (Song Festival), held every five years, was set to take place.

Th parade started at 2 pm. We heard the drums beating, and soon it seemed all of Estonia was marching past in folk costume, city by city, parish by parish. There were even singers from Kiev, Ukraine; Stavanger, Norway; and Vancouver, Canada. Other places too. Hungarians, New Zealanders, Latvians. It took a very long time for the big Estonian counties to filter through during the rongkäik. I wasn't even aware that so many people lived in Ida Virumaa, "where the sun starts to rise over Estonia," as they declared proudly.

To show ones appreciation for a certain parish or singing group, you have to yell out Elagu ____, or "Long Live ___." For example, when Tallinn gümnaasium 34 passes by, you must salute them by crying out Elagu Tallinna Gümnaasium Kolmkümmend Neli! I waited patiently for my pet towns and parishes to pass by just so I could salute them with a little Elagu Sürgavere Kool! or Elagu Karksi Lauljad!


Actually, I let others cheer them on. I was too busy trying to keep an eye on my wandering Pippi Longstocking-esque daughter who makes friends and gets into adventures wherever she goes. When Pippi grows up a bit more, she'll happily cheer every choir that passes her during the rongkäik. But I was a little shy. I am used to that "I'm paying more attention to you because you have a funny accent" look I get from cashiers in Estonian shops. I was afraid that if I belted out "Elagu Meremäe Vald" the wrong way, I might get 25,000 of those stares. So I kept my mouth shut.

Then a funny thing happened. I was keeping one eye on Pippi and one eye on the crowds of lovely flaxen-haired Estonian ladies when one of them saw me and shouted out for all to hear Elagu Epu Mees! -- "Long Live Epp's Husband!" The women in the choir, which was part of the long contingent of Tallinn singers, immediately cheered this husband of Epp's. Epu mees? It took a moment to register. Noh, mina olen ju Epu mees. I spun around and waved to my admirers. They flashed smiles of warmth in my direction. The sun gleamed in Tallinn harbor. I felt flattered. It's been awhile since I was cheered. I'm not a nobody with a funny accent anymore, I beamed. I'm Epp's husband.

Hurrah!

summer reading

I was impressed. My Lithuanian host in Kaunas spoke not only English but Russian as well. He had to be the same age as me, or even younger. How did he do it?

"What, speak Russian?"

"As far as I know there aren't too many Russian speakers in Lithuania. How did you learn?"

He gave me an odd look, as if I asked him how he learned to swim or tie his shoes.

"We learned in in school and," he paused, "it's a very useful language. You should learn it."

"No way," I told him. "Learning Estonian is a full time job."

He gave me that same strange look again, as if I had escaped from the Kaunas insane asylum. His look said, He speaks Estonian but not Russian? How could that be possible? He probably doesn't know how hard it is even to learn Estonian, and I mean really learn it, learn it so that you can read any newspaper article or book off the shelf. It takes time, patience, and a good dictionary.

It also takes stamina, stamina that is not fit to be wasted on learning Russian or any other "useful" language. If I opened the Russian door or Arabic door or Chinese door, they would become more languages I had tinkered with but never really learned. That's not what I intend with Estonian. I intend to be as functional as possible. That's why my summer reading is Pikk Jutt, sitt Jutt ("Long story, shit story") a newish Estonian-language title by Vello Vikerkaar.

Who is Vello Vikerkaar? He's a foreign Estonian, a väliseestlane, and like a lot of väliseestlased, he brims with witty insights and a hint of arrogance. Until they became presidents and ABBA managers, most väliseestlased could be seen as having drawn one of life's medium-sized straws. They weren't farmers running from the Khmer Rouge, but life was no swanky suite in Vegas either. They were citizens of a country that existed on some Western maps and in corners of the universe of international law. They couldn't restore the family farm because the family farm had been collectivized.

So Vikerkaar can be forgiven the dry way with which he digests life's absurdities. In a way, it's what's made him famous. Aside from cross country skiing and šašlõkk consumption, dissecting other Estonians is a national passtime. Another is wondering how Estonians are perceived by outsiders. Put the two together in one weekly column, and you get the success of Vello Vikerkaar.

The dictionary and I are two chapters in already. I've already picked up nifty words like jändama (to make a fuss) and kütkestav (glamorous). I've followed Vello as he and his Estonian-born wife Liina take in Liina's Aunt Virve, a woman with a very inconvenient, wire-gnawing pet bunny. I've been there with Vello as he traces the origins of the famous Ernest Hemingway quote, "in every port in the world, at least one Estonian can be found."

An added bonus is that Vello, who was reared in Canada, writes in English, which is later translated into sturdy, riigikeel Estonian. There are few funky south Estonianisms (they have a habit of slippin a dialect word in here and there) or metaphors about farm animals in the book. From my perspective, it's a good place to start for an Estonian language student who yearns to break free of tiresome self-help books.

jaanipäevast

There are five things every Estonian needs to celebrate Jaanipäev, the all day and night, midsummer's eve extravaganza that makes Christmas look tame.

1. Liha (meats) -- preferably plastic buckets of chicken or pork šašlõkk -- what we in the US might refer to as shish kebab. Chicken breasts, sausages, and basically all other socially acceptable animal by-products are welcome, but no Jaani celebration is really complete without some serious šašlõkk grilling. Šašlõkk comes in various marinades, ranging from vinegar to plum to blueberry to yoghurt, and tastes best after being roasted over an open spit. Because the sun rises at 4 am and begins setting at 10.30 pm on Jaanipäev, a celebrant has several opportunities during the day to consume šašlõkk.

2. Õlu (beer) -- I know there are a lot of people who look down on beer drinkers as lower-class alcohol-consuming heathen and would prefer to toast the longest day of the year with vodka or maybe even a nice chianti. On Jaanipäev, though, you've really got to drink beer, and I say this as someone whose magic cure for the wintertime blues is limoncello. But what brand of beer? If you are in northern Estonia, they'll try and push a Saku on you, while the southern Estonians will force you to drink A. Le Coq. I even know some crazy muthas who go for Alexander or even the boozer's choice, Saaremaa X (10 percent alcohol), which is also manufactured by A. Le Coq. Ultimately, beer brand is not the most important question. If your lawn is littered with empties the next morning, half of which you don't recall imbibing, then you've done your service to the Estonian state.

3. Makk (radio) -- No Jaanipäev celebration is complete without a boombox blaring the Estonian jams and their modern dance facelifts. For a small country, Estonians have produced a large corpus of music, ranging from country-influenced thumpers to covers of AM Gold hits, like "Sugar, Sugar" by the Archies, which you've never really grooved to, until you've grooved to it in eesti keel. My personal favorite yesterday was an old accordian-driven tune by Kihnu Virve called Imeline jaaniöö -- "wonderful Jaani night." What's great about stations like Raadio Elmer, is that they won't just play, say, Roosiaia Kuningana by Anne Veski, but they'll also play a new, sped-up 21st century dancefloor version of the 1980 hit to match the rest of the drink-to-you-drop party programming that just keeps going and going and going. Why I bet, they're half way through a disco-upgrade of Uno Loop's classic, Mis värvi on armastus? right now.

4. Tuli (fire) -- A Jaanituli is the most essential ingredient of a Jaanipäev celebration. An old pagan tradition, the bonfire is actually a great way to dispose of old crap. Estonians gladly seize this opportunity to torch old boats, remont leftovers, archives of SL Õhtuleht newspapers, and whatever else will burn. The spark is put to the wood precisely at sunset. From your nook in the Estonian countryside, you can look up to the sky and see the smoke drifting from neighboring jaanituled. If you are feeling festive enough, or have had enough Saaremaa X, you might feel moved to suddenly leap over the towering flames of the Jaanituli for good luck. Those Estonians who accidentally fall in feel no pain, as there is no pain on Jaanipäev.

5. Sõbrad (friends) -- Estonians are infamous for being rude jerks most of the year, but on Jaanipäev, no matter who you are, you are welcome in the village. People call out to old friends from car windows, guests show up out of the blue with Gin Long Drinks, and roving gangs of strange children invite themselves over to eat your food and play with your kids' toys. Here's your neighbor Ants helping himself to a beer, there's your black sheep cousin Marju, savoring your tasty šašlõkk, and nevermind the old schoolmaster Teodor, who is playing one-handed badminton by himself in the corner (as he has a beer in the other hand at all times). Jaanipäev is the only day out of the year when you can count all 1.34 million inhabitants of Eestimaa as your friends.

eesti nokia surm

The representatives of Estonia's main investors, Sweden and Finland, are not the type of people who attract a lot of attention.

These glazed-over northern neighbors are usually polite at all times, even when they vehemently disagree with something. Recently, though, the ambassadors of Estonia's Nordic investment class have begun to speak up. What is their central message? It's time to build a modern Estonia.

The dream of Estonia's Nokia, a wonder product that would lift all boats, is dead and gone say the northerners. Instead, Estonia should invest on building the infrastructure and investment environment to attract small- and medium-sized enterprises(SMEs) from its most reliable partners, Sverige and Suomi.

Two channels of information from this interest group come via the Swedish Chamber of Commerce in Estonia and the Foreign Investor's Council in Estonia.

Depending on the year, Swedish foreign direct investments usually make up around a half of all FDIs in this country. SCCE puts out a quarterly magazine called In Focus. In the latest In Focus, SCCE Chairman Anders Hedman pops the question, "Is it right to criticize Estonia?"

"I think it is very painful indeed for many Swedish-Estonians when their friends in Sweden read about the bad Estonian economy and the possible devaluation of the Estonian currency," writes Hedman. "It was for sure funnier three years ago, when you heard people with similar background describing the Estonian success story," he writes. "Even funnier today was the statement by Ansip that Estonia was soon going to be the richest country in Europe!"

That was Estonia in 2007, but what to do in 2009? Point A: Be receptive to criticism. "What are the usual reactions to criticism here on the street? I have always met two reactions here. First is; Go home if you do not like it here! Second one; You must be working for KGB!" Point B: Take responsibility. "If someone is in charge, which I think it is difficult to say that [Prime Minister Andrus Ansip] is not, the PM has to take his responsibility and the consequences of his mismanagement." Finally, Hedman makes Point C: It's time to build. "This time not based on luxury consumption and real estate bubble based on borrowed Swedish money, but on high productivity, competitive salaries, qualitative production, investments in infrastructure and exports!"

Meantime in a June 10 letter to Ansip, FICE Chairman Martin Breuer, of the Holland Business Club in Estonia, declares Estonia's elusive Nokia dream moribund. "We suggest that we no longer hunt for the iconic Estonian Nokia, it’s a rare species that once in a while happens to evolve," Breuer writes. "A large and thriving SME community is in our opinion the ‘industrial’ base that a relative small and open country as Estonia suits best."

How to accomplish this? Better air connections with less landing and service fees and more state investment in Estonian Air as a "strategic national carrier." Increase the talent pool by making it easier for talented multinationals to live and work in Estonia. Improve support for foreign investors by providing them with more English-language support. (Note: In Focus, despite being the language of the Swedish Chamber, is not published in their national language). Invest more in vocational education. Relax state and educational language requirements to encourage multinational talent to relocate to Estonia.

Hmm. I understand why multinationals, who hop from job to job around the world, would prefer to benefit from Estonia's tax system and IT infrastructure while not letting too much of its Estonianness interfere with their lives. But what I don't get, from the Swedish perspective, is why they have no national pride. Estonian Swedes or "Swedish-Estonians" once were and, now obviously are again a national minority. Why are they demanding services in English, when they could be clammoring for them på svenska?

Second, I am not sure I understand how exactly this new ideal Estonia would work. Nordic and multinational companies relocate to Estonia to take advantage of its hypothetically gifted workforce and business-friendly infrastructure while typically paying most of their taxes in their home countries, therefore depriving the state of money that could be used to fund investments in the airport, vocational education -- all the areas where the same investors claim attention is needed? Como?

Unless these SMEs actually incorporate in Estonia as their home country and pay the bulk of their taxes to the Estonian state, I see a lot of benefit for them, but less for the country. But maybe that is the model they are after: More "Swedish-Estonian" managers plus better qualified work force = one of the five richest countries in Europe and Eesti Nokia all in one? That just might work. But I am not an expert on these things. Your opinions are very much invited.

kiri kaunasest

At 10 pm on Friday night, I finally got the chance to explore Kaunas.

Lithuania's second largest city -- its onetime capital in the 1920s and 30s -- left a bad first impression. I walked to my hotel across a city that seemed underpopulated. There were so many buildings and so few people. Where could they be?

In the center of the city I was greeted by ruined wooden buildings that looked that they had been evacuated suddenly and left to rot. I wondered if their former owners now reside in south London or south Chicago. Uneven sidewalks guided me past disappointing facades and bland Maxima supermarkets. The truth is that such sights exist all over Estonia. It's just that I have gotten used to them and they tend to disappear over time. But in Kaunas I noticed few signs of construction -- I only saw two houses with scaffolding on them during my trip -- and I felt as if Kaunas was stagnating.

The old city, though, was a different world. Cut by a snaky cobblestone walking street, it was fun to explore, and helped rid me of my initial dissatisfaction with Kaunas. Though it was similarly empty (and this was on a Friday night) the ubiquitous balconies and Catholic churches reminded me a bit of New Orleans. I could imagine Fats Domino in one of those corner cafes, munching on some smoked pigs ears and singing, I found my thrill, on Siauliai hill.

Suddenly I was glad I came, even if I never really had any plans to visit Lithuania. That's the funny thing about the concept of the Baltic countries. These countries are right next door, but too often there is absolutely no reason to visit your neighbors. It's like the little old lady who lives behind our house here in Tartu. Technically, we are neighbors, but I have only spoken to her one time when her cat got stuck in our tree.

Last year, I met a Baltic enthusiast who told me about how much she loved Riga. I wish I could have shared her sentiment, but I've inly been to Riga twice, both for extremely limited amounts of time. Almost anyone you meet will tell you its a divided city groaning under immense social and economic pressures. The international media is currently tearing Latvia's image to shreds. All I can really tell you is that the bus station looks exactly the same as it did six years ago.

Riga supposedly is a jewel, if you take that scenic photo of one of its old squares from the right angle. It's a diverse, cosmopolitan city of Letts and Latgallians and Livonians and Russians too. It does feel more worldly than most of Estonia. I can see why they think they are the center of the universe. Estonia meantime is the windy-headed land, the home of the stubborn peninsula people. Of what is Riga the center? Latvia?

I want to respect my Latvian and Lithuanian hosts, but I've never gotten used to the names of the Baltic currencies. Lats? Litas? Could you imagine Portuguese Portas or British Brits? "Fish and chips with extra vinegar, please." "That'll cost you 10 Brits, mate." And see, there you have it again. The Balts speak Baltic languages and have Baltic currencies. They live on a sea they themselves call the Baltic. The Estonians? They're a little different. They call it the West Sea.

Last week, a panel that included the Lithuanian Minister of Foreign Affairs was asked by an MEP-elect from Lithuania about the future of the Baltic region, which to them meant Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia (there were no Finns or Prussians on the panel). Despite being distracted by their Lithuanianness , I noticed that both of them mentioned the same fellow: one TH Ilves of Estonia, who once had some wacky ideas about rebranding his nation as the only post-communist nordic country.

I asked the panel why it was that Ilves gave his speech 10 years ago and people are still talking about it. They informed me that the Jõulumaa reference was strictly humor, yet it doesn't seem to die.

It's true the outside world looks at the three countries as a contiguous unit. If Latvia is forced to devalue its currency, so the logic goes, then of course Lithuania and Estonia will follow. It's fate. The fiscal management of sovereign countries cannot withstand the underlying Baltic bedrock that joins these three sisters together, with a common capital in Riga. We all know this isn't true. The world doesn't stop in Tallinn harbor or at the Curonian spit. It keeps going.

The Lithuanian foreign minister made some salient points. The Baltics must cooperate because they have mutual interests, interests that concern energy, security, energy security, and historical truth. I agree with him. I think all these identity issues should be left to work themselves out. We don't need to argue about what Ilves said. Common interests should define cooperation rather than cooperation for cooperation's sake.

As my bus headed north from Kaunas, I kept waiting for something resembling Estonia to appear. Outside Riga, I saw my first thicket of sparkling birch trees. As our caravan rolled into the wooded hills of northern Latvia, I considered how batshit crazy those Teutonic crusaders must have been to invade such an impenetrable fortress of greenery all those centuries ago. I conjured images of Estonian sumo wrestling star Baruto or Olympic discus champion Gerd Kanter armed with axes and paganism. Scary thoughts.

Our bus pulled into the Tartu station at 10 pm and it was still light out. I stood amongst buildings -- the Tasku shopping center, the new Tartu Kaubamaja -- that did not exist that last time I went to Riga six years ago. Walking through the city, I was suddenly overwhelmed by throngs of Estonian ladies and gentlemen in folk costumes. There were Setos and Mulks and other varieties of Estonians. They were coming from a song festival and they were happy. It felt good to be back.

leedus

The Estonians had warned me that Lithuania -- Leedu in their cutesy Finnic tongue -- was an especially boring place.

Even the teenage girl who babysits my daughters informed me that it was an igav maa ("boring country"), chock full of Maxima supermarkets -- and this was a comment from a human being that has spent most of her life in south Estonia.

So, I was prepared for boring. What I got was central European. Yes, I know, everyone hates it when you try to break out of the Baltic straight jacket, but I am an observer, and I don't feel much more different here than I did in Prague or Ljubljana. It's humid, cut by rivers, and populated by ladies who somehow manage to walk over cobblestones in yellow high heels.

What's the difference between Estonia and Lithuania? Well, Stereotypes are nasty little things but we DO rely on them to find our way in foreign surroundings. I asked my seatmate on the bus if there were any especially dangerous pockets of Kaunas, you know, something like the Baltimore City Bus Terminal at 4 AM of the East. He said no, and, so far, he has been proven right. But my stereotype of Kaunas, is that there seems to be no innate rush among the populace to give the place a facelift.

In Estonia, I feel as if there is a collective determination to exterminate every last outpost of shitty Soviet-created ruin and replace it with something shiny, efficient, and new. Nothing is ever finished, but one day, one glorious day, all of Estonia will beam with buildings refurbished with materials from Ehitus ABC or Bauhof. Old monstrosities will be demolished and replaced by modernity. Ancient farm houses will receive a fresh coat of paint. Everything will be as it should be and there will be free wireless Internet.

In Kaunas, I get the feeling that people are happy with the way things are. Unkempt grass? Dilapidated buildings? Eh, what the heck, let's grab a Svyturys and go watch the game at the bar. This city feels like it is what it is. The Lithuanians just happen to live here. That's how I feel right now, at least. But who I am I to arrive at gross generalizations after spending one day in a place?

Here's another observation. Lithuanians have funny names that bring to mind some Roman epics. Consider: "Eimantas sat in his cashier seat at the local Maxima, plotting his revenge against his cruel manager Daumantas for stealing his fiance Jadvyga's heart. I know what I'll do, thought Eimantas. I'll put poison in Daumantas' pierogies!" Or something like that.

We'll see what the next days bring for your man in Lithuania. Seeing that a trip to the local Maxima can even fire up my synapses, I doubt they will be boring.

inglid ja deemonid

Even though I have lived here in Estonia for two and a half years, and my wife and two daughters are all Estonian citizens, those fascisti up on Toompea have not yet bestowed upon me the right to vote in European parliamentary elections.

Nevertheless, I have eagerly followed the elections of Estonia's six delegates this year and was surprised by independent candidate Indrek Tarand's awesome victory.

It is said that Tarand -- with whom, like every other human in Estonia, I have exchanged e-mails -- achieved victory with only 40,000 measly Estonian kroons.

This is only partly true. He also had a string of quasi endorsements from the Estonian media and rode high on a wave of popularity nurtured by his role as a TV host. Finally, one can never forget that Tarand was disciplined by the University of Tartu for bringing candles to the grave of War of Independence hero Julius Kuperjanov back in the Soviet era.

In every county and city, save Tallinn, Ida Virumaa, and Võrumaa, Tarand won. He beat the Center Party's lead candidate, Edgar Savisaar, also known as his wife, Vilja Savisaar. He beat Tunne Kellam, the free-coffee-distributing wise conservative, and Ivari Padar, the personal-hygiene-ignoring passionate social democrat. Why, he even beat Kristina Ojuland, the dancing liberal.

The Estonian punditry is now lining up to argue that his performance is an indictment of current lackluster party politics, and maybe they are right. For years now, Estonians have been voting against the other candidates. It's like my brother-in-law explained one day: "I have to vote for Isamaa Res Publica Liit in Tartumaa to cancel out the votes for Keskerakond in Ida Virumaa."

It's a political landscape where everyone seems arrogant and a little crooked. You've got to hedge your bets. Tarand, though, has also been accused of arrogance. And I am not sure if, independent candidates aside, it could be any other way. I mean, it is politics we're talking about here.

And so Estonia will send a TV show host to Brussels, along with someone named Savisaar, a farmer from Võrumaa, a dancing liberal, a coffee-distributing conservative, and others. The people have made their choice.

noh, kes peeretas?

Andrus Ansip has completed the valitsus remont - government renovation - he began last month by firing the three Social Democrats in his government.

An attempt to woo Rahvaliit -- the agrarian People's Union -- into the government failed when Isamaa Res Publica Liit , the conservatives, killed the agreement. IRL party boss Mart Laar had been saying that a minority government was a possibility from the beginning and, wouldn't you know, he was right!

Interior Minister Jüri Pihl has been replaced by Marko Pomerants, Finance Minister Ivari Padar's chair will now be warmed by Jürgen Ligi, and Population Affairs Minister Urve Palo's spot will not be filled. Her duties were split up and transferred to other ministries.

Now, with two parties running the Estonian government that the majority of Estonians did not vote for in the last parliamentary elections in March 2007, it's a right wing love-in. Not only do most of the ministers ascribe to the same political philosophy, they look the same and come from the same places. They'll be counting on the support of the Greens and Rahvaliit to get things done. Let's call them the loyal opposition.

Out of a cabinet of 13 ministers, 12 are male, 1 is female. Four were born in Tartu, but Culture Minister Laine Jänes (born in Moscow) and Education Minister Tõnis Lukas (of Tallinn) call the city home. So most of them are Tartlased. Defense Minister Jaak Aaviksoo, age 55, is the eldest. Social Affairs Minister Henno Pevkur, 32, is the youngest. Of course, the environmental minister hails from Saaremaa and Pevkur is from Ida Virumaa, so you can count that as diversity if you like.

But just because this male, middle-aged, ethnic Estonian cabinet looks homogenous, doesn't mean it is. Each minister has their own personal touch that distinguishes them from the rest. Pomerants in particular is known by some as Minister Kes Peeretas? -- Minister "Who Farted?" -- for his habit of keeping his nose to the political winds. Somebody called him that in my presence when he was social affairs minister during the Juhan Parts government, and it stuck. I can't help it. Each time I see him, it comes to mind.

Meantime, the opposition shows no signs of coming together behind a certain platform or alternative leadership. Pihl and Padar politely wished their replacements luck, while Savisaar has been telling the press that IRL now controls the Estonian government and that Ansip is, essentially, the prime minister in another Laar government. Laar's job is to make the decisions, argues Savisaar, while Ansip's job is to take all the criticism.

Good old Edgar. He doesn't mince his words, now does he. He leads what is, according to opinion polls, the most popular party in Estonia, and yet nobody ever seems to want to form a government with him. And the others in his party gladly lineup behind him, like lambs to the electoral slaughter. Something just doesn't smell right.

tõesti sündinud lugu sürgaverest

Vana Kull was disturbed by his son Kullipoiss' drinking problems.

"Kullipoiss," said Vana Kull. "I will pay you a weekly allowance if you stop drinking."

Kullipoiss thought over his father's proposition, and decided that a weekly allowance was a better deal than being a drunk. He agreed.

For decades, Kullipoiss lived off of his father's weekly allowance and he did not touch a drop of alcohol. But then, one day, Vana Kull died, and Kullipoiss inherited his estate.

Now Kullipoiss is a drunk again.


( A true story heard while visiting my wife's relatives in Viljandimaa yesterday.)
* photo courtesy of Johannes Pääsuke.

cycles of rebirth

Estonia, right now, is experiencing a period of transition that will lay the foundation perhaps for the next 20 years.

Seemingly overnight changes are taking place that make the past seem more distant than it really is. Change comes in many forms. My bank, for example, is no longer Hansapank. It's now Swedbank. Even the ATM signs have been changed. It is as if Hansapank never existed.

The currency in use is now the kroon, but within a few years time it could be the euro, and the Estonian currency will go the way of the markka or the lire. The legal tender we hold in our hands will soon be anachronistic.

Slowly, the next "present" is being stitched together. And, some day, the current Ansip government will seem as distant as the Vähi or Siiman or Kallas governments. People will wonder whatever happened to various party apparatchiks. Maybe they've gone back to academia or the private sector. Because of various events during the past four years, though, the Ansip years may be looked upon with greater controversy, but that is only for time to tell.

Political change is occurring today. By sacking Ministers Ivari Padar, Jüri Pihl, and Urve Palo, Prime Minister Ansip sends the Social Democrats into opposition with the likes of the center-left Center Party and the Greens. Together, they have 46 votes in the Riigikogu, but all poll well, and could perform better in the 2011 elections, especially with the discrediting of the "miracle economy" shepherded by the "financial experts."

I expect this group of parties will do well in the European parliamentary elections and the municipal ones in the fall. Moreover, it creates the opportunity for the first time since 1991 for Estonia to form a "red-green" coalition. And, interestingly, this coalition will have resulted from today's sacking. Things are not well between Reform and SDE. I don't envision the riff healing anytime soon.

The conventional wisdom is that SDE preferred to form governments with Reform and IRL because of their distaste for the Centrists. It's probably true. SDE and the Centrists also compete for the same votes. Meantime, the Estonian media generally favors the conservative parties; even though Reform is rumored to run a state-capture enterprise as successful as Savisaar's, it is less publicized.

Most nordic countries, nay, most European countries have red-green coalitions. One has just taken power in Iceland, for instance. If anything, Estonia's cast of revolving coalitions over the past two decades have been anomalies from a political perspective. Liberals, conservatives, and social democrats in the same coalition? Sounds odd, right? It is. From my perspective, both teams have their unsavory qualities. The bottom line is that I don't expect the political constellations of the past decades to hold. Too many people now have a motive to kill the status quo.

rootsis

Stockholm. I have been to this city more times than I can count -- ok, this is my fourth time -- and I still can't figure these people out.

They live in gigantic inoffensively colored apartment blocks that look like they were built by the Norse gods. Their men look hopelessly preoccupied; their women look clinical; on sunny days more jovial, on rainy days a bit evil. Still, if you ask them a question in Swedish, they might give you an odd look, but they will answer you politely and tell you to go rätt från someplace.

By default, the Swedes are the Estonians' favorite conquerors. The Russians came and killed everybody, several times. The conniving Germans managed to keep their self-serving feudal system intact into the 19th century and then tried to revert back to it in the 20th. The unlucky Poles brought Jesuit priests, but were unsuccessful. That leaves the Swedes, responsible for the vana hea rootsi aeg, the good old Swedish times, when everybody was Lutheran and the köttbullar were plentiful.

Not like today's Swedes would know anything about that. Generations of modernity have severed all links to the past. The best they can come up with are open-air museums. Besides, Stockholm feels so immense that Estonia indeed does seem far away, even if Tallinn is the closest foreign capital.

Lost in the T-Bana, I wonder who runs this country. Who has built this magnificently strong city that looks like it could withstand anything? Who has designed these meticulous parks? Is it the government? So I am told. But if the state is so invincible, how come Fredrik Reinfeldt's face isn't plastered on every wall? There is an engineer driving this train. It's just that nobody's ever seen him before.

Two things I like about Sweden are the Pressbyråns and the language. Pressbyrån is a chain of convenience stores, similar to R-Kiosk in Finland and Estonia, that sell lottery tickets and chocolate and womens magazines and, by far the most important, kanelbulle and vaniljbulle -- warm inviting pastries that fill the air with Scandinavian goodness. They also sell chokladmjölk, which just begs to be consumed together with vaniljbullar. Grab yourself a free Metro newspaper, find a seat on the train, and you are all set.

The Swedish language is perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing of the Germanic languages. I wish I could speak it, and I can muster a few sentences and understand some of what those busy crowds in T-Centralen are saying, but it just seems impossible, because every Swede sounds like they have a meatball stuck in their throat. It's written biljett (ticket), but it's pronounced "bee-yett." It's written Alvsjö (a train stop) but it's pronounced "Alfhuh," the last impossible syllable resting somewhere in the back of the throat. The letter "G," though, makes a pleasant "Y/J" sound. Bergman is prounounced "Berryman," and Mariatorget is "Mariatoryet."

They say the Estonians from the West Coast and those who have spent time in exile in Stockholm speak with the same soft lilting accent. Maybe I should try to emulate them.

under pressure

My daughter and I got two seats to see Queen: the Doors of Time, a musical jukebox ballet based on the work of the British rock group.

Headlined by Broadway star Tony Vincent (Rent, Jesus Christ Superstar), the show opened at the Vanemuine Theater in Tartu tonight. I had no idea what to expect, but I was entertained by the ladies in conical braziers and gentlemen in G-strings. The music was excellent, I felt as if Brian May was in the orchestra pit. The choreography was good too.

We were a bit late, so we sat in the seats in the aisle reserved for the ushers. My daughter asked me important questions, such as "Are those dancers boys or girls?" and I tried to answer them to the best of my ability. After intermission, we made our way to our proper seats. And then I saw someone who looked familiar. Too familiar. Why, I swore I had seen his face before somewhere, on multiple occasions. And when he sat down beside us, I realized I knew the identity of our fellow theater goer: it was Andrus Ansip, prime minister of Estonia, captain of the ship of state.

He was there like me with his family, and I decided not to whisper any suggestions on how better to run the country in his ear. Instead, I respected his privacy. But as Tony Vincent et al. began their resurrection of the Queen songbook, I began to wonder how Prime Minister Ansip might relate to the band's lyrics.

Take "Under Pressure." The current coalition government is running into the kinds of problems that result when social democrats and liberals try to deal with labor laws. To cut spending or raise taxes? That is the question. Things are so bad that Ansip's Reform Party is prepared to talk with the People's Union to cut the Sotsid out of the equation. In other words, Ansip is under pressure, the kind of pressure that burns a building down. It's terror of knowing what this world is about, of watching some good friends screaming, 'Let me out.'

Ansip is straining from his troubled relationship with Finance Minister Ivari Padar. He feels so tied down he even authored a 'private' letter that went public expressing his dissatisfaction with Padar's suggestions. Ansip, you see, wants to break free. He yearns to be free from the Sots' lies. They're so self-satisfied, anyway; he doesn't need them. He's got to break free.

I felt guilty stitching together what I had read in the papers with the man sitting beside me. Who was I to use Queen's lyrics to set his political life to music? I decided to revert my attention to the singers and dancers on stage, and to making sure that my daughter didn't accidentally sneeze on the prime minister and cause some kind of international incident. And so I ignored the prime minister for the rest of the show, even when we stomped our feet and clapped our hands to "We Will Rock You."

I wondered how many other people like me had ignored him in the past. I wondered if a prime minister of Estonia could ever return to civilian life and start up conversations with strangers in dark theaters watching men and women in G-strings writhe on the stage floor to songs with titles like "Innuendo." At that moment, to me, Ansip was like an invisible man. It was almost as if I could see right through him.

svetlana, i want those boots

What to think about Eurovision? It's an annual gathering of obnoxious go-go dancers and mind-numbing pop balladeers from across the continent, and yet it is one of the few occasions where these people called "Europeans" gather together within the same room.

This year's contest takes place in Moscow, the capital of the Russian Federation. In another year it would be a great way to show off the country's stability and economic growth, and yet Russia is now hurting like the rest of us. But wars, shriveling GDP numbers, and troublesome Georgians don't exist within the walls of this song contest: no, what exists is flag waving, comical hosts with outrageous accents, and experimental hair cuts.

Watching the Russia-hosted contest is interesting for me because I have never been to Russia. Yet the cultural differences are readily apparent. A choir of male singers in military uniform singing "Kalinka" and then backing faux lesbian pop duo t.A.T.u., in "Not Gonna Get Us"? Sword-fighting ballerinas? Parading polar bears? Break-dancing cossacks? What kind of country is this?

A country of silly people, at least. For example, the female host complimented the Ukrainian pop diva after her performance by telling her, "Svetlana, I want those boots." There are a lot of boots for eastern European ladies to choose from on the program. The Romanians, the Albanians, the Hungarians, the Azerbaijanis ... even the Finns brought flexible backing singers to the party.

Estonia's delegation to Moscow is led by Urban Symphony singing "Rändajad." The Estonian language is well suited for ethnopop with its preponderance of vowels and rolling 'r's. Urban Symphony pairs this haunting melody authored by local songsmith Sven Lõhmus with strings and an electronic rhythm section. In some ways, I think that Estonia should always send entries in the national language. It distinguishes the country and maybe it is one of the reasons that Estonia finally advanced to the finals this year. So don't be ashamed of your Baltic-Finnic tongue, wannabe Eurovision entries. Flaunt it.

the long slow death of a narrative

May 9 in Tartu is a splendid day because it's just like any other day. From your laptop you can watch the hysterics of Tallinn light up the pages of Postimees or Eesti Päevaleht, and yet it seems so far away.

In Moscow, though, it's the major national holiday and I have come to see the Russian rulers' saber-rattling Victory Day speeches less as aimed at troublesome neighboring nations, but for internal consumption.

Russia is like most post-communist states, Germany included, in that it had to rewrite its history to serve redefined national purposes after 1991. In salvaging pieces of the past to serve the new regime, Putin revived Victory Day to recall some of his favorite themes: encirclement by hostile nations; personal sacrifice to benevolent despots; the moral imperative of intervention abroad; and the fusion of material and metaphysical faith in one person, the national leader, namely himself.

Now it is Dmitri "Jesus Kerensky" Medvedev who stands to command Russia's armies of tanks, missiles, and goosestepping soldiers, and his party, United Russia, is about to serve up some post-Soviet identity-building desserts, a new law that will ban criticism of its victory in the Second World War.

From my perspective, as an American, a law signed by Medvedev will make him look especially unlike the hard rock-loving Gazpromite we all wanted him to be. In my 9th grade social studies class, we debated the merits of dropping those bombs on Japan and, perhaps, internalized a degree of national guilt. Reflection on the manner in which the victory was achieved was part of the curriculum. But I shouldn't worry too much about myself, because Russia's new law isn't aimed at me. It is aimed at states existing on the former territory of the USSR.

From where Moscow derives the authority to prosecute Ukrainians but not Poles or Finns is beyond me. But it is not like the bill is anything but arbitrary. The law will "criminalize statements and acts that deny the Soviets won World War II, or claim it used poor tactics in battle or did not liberate Eastern Europe." So, basically, if you are from Estonia and they do not like you, you could face a fine of up to around $9,200 or up to three years in prison.

Ostensibly, this is just another arrow in Moscow's quiver to reduce the status of politicians in neighboring countries who it sees as not espousing views in line with its interests. Of course, the most NATO-friendly politicians are the ones who are most keen to develop a culture of resistance within their home countries. But there is another reason why Moscow can only target former citizens of the USSR: under the terms of the law, few modern Western historians or journalists who have written about the Second World War could enter the Russian Federation without fear of arrest or fine.

For example, I hold before me Tony Judt's Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945, a bestseller called "superb" and "magnificent" by British media. In his book, he details the widespread rape of women in former Axis territory on the Eastern Front by the Red Army in 1945. He notes that the Baltic countries were "occupied three times" between 1940 and 1945. Would this esteemed Western author be eligible for a fine or imprisonment at the hands of Russian authorities if the draft law is passed? Yes, but only if he were not British, but a citizen of one of the "newly independent" states.

While such circumstances are depressing and foolish, ultimately, the dilemma is Russia's, not ours in the West. As their economy slips and Putin and Medvedev's approval ratings decline -- a trend that is understandable when Putin has held power now for almost a decade -- they have to put battle armor on their ideology to protect it, unless such questions spread to Russia proper, and it seems they already have.

According to Time, the catalyst for the new law supposedly came not from Tallinn's relocated Bronze Soldier or Ukrainian endeavors to resurrect the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, but after Russian television channel NTV broadcast a documentary about the Battles of Rzhev. The documentary exposed the number of Soviet soldiers killed, around a million compared to around 500,000 on the Nazi side, and presented a "negative interpretation of Soviet tactics by, for example, showing how shocked German soldiers who had fought in the battles were at the way Soviet troops were thrown into the fight with little regard for their lives."

So, the nature of the questions are actually less about ideology and more about reform. Then, as now, Russia's military is in desperate need of modernization. Questions about its performance in the sacred victory against Nazi Germany dredge up questions about equipment and training and even respect for the lives of average Russian soldiers.

Russia lost around 25 million soldiers and civilians in the Second World War. The question naturally follows, did the casualty rate have to be so high? Or were so many lives lost due to Soviet-style mismanagement of the armed forces? Does such mismanagement continue to this day? Is it wise to trust the national leader with your life? Such questions are no doubt bad for morale in the Russian military, and dangerous for a regime that wishes to maintain its access to power for as long as possible.

Tuulepealne Maa

Meantime, the Estonian narrative continues to devolve occasionally into mindless squabbling and invocation of symbols that now seem comical rather than shocking. Swastika? Hammer and sickle? Each now carries the political weight of the sign at the local McDonalds.

Just years ago the monument at Tõnismägi was considered sacred to some. Now its image is about as sacred as a golden calf, or at least a paper mache replica painted gold by a local artist. The false idol was erected briefly on the grassy knoll by the national library, but quickly removed by the politsei.

Outside the Russian embassy in Tallinn's Old Town local Estonian nationalists picketed with dreadfully predictable signs and slogans. The sign above reads "Occupants out and down with collaborators!" But who are these collaborators? On closer inspection, it appears to be Social Democrat Urve Palo, Minister of Population and Ethnic Affairs, and Tallinn Mayor and Center Party leader Edgar Savisaar.

While the Estonian nationalists outside the Russian embassy are afforded the same level of respect in mainstream national discourse as fellows like Johan Bäckman or Dmitri Linter (with the obvious discrepancy that Tiit Madisson, author of Holocaust: the 20th Century's Most Depressing Zionist Lie, actually went to jail while the latter didn't), their digs at other Estonians are somewhat representative of the status of Estonia's current postwar discussion on WWII.

It's gone from blaming outsiders to thinking about the roles of Estonians in the services of foreign states, be it the USSR or Nazi Germany. I noticed that in the recent television series, Tuulepealne Maa, which aired last fall, most of the "bad guys" -- Reds during the war of independence, Soviets in 1940 and '41 -- were Estonians. When one of the main female characters was violated and murdered at the end of the series, it wasn't Germans or Russians who did it; it was Estonians in the local destruction battalions.

What to make of the "collaborator/resister" meme in domestic Estonian politics? Unfortunately, it is all too common an undercurrent in contemporary European politics. People try to turn one continental crisis into a Biblical story containing universal messages. It's history as religion, and it's actually quite scary. Good thing I don't believe.

mänguväljakul

In one month's time, Estonia has gone from a dull, gray post-winter abyss to a sunlit patchwork of inviting forests and sunny cities. Once again, I find myself in Tartu's many playgrounds because that's the best place to let wild children out to pasture.

When I am "at the playground" -- mänguväljakul -- I have the difficult task of making sure both of my daughters don't hurt themselves. One might be hanging upside down from a swing, while the other is preparing to launch herself off the slide. But while I am spotting each, I also notice things around me, I notice how the kids relate to each other, and occasionally arise at some thoughts resembling general observations.

Observation number 1. The Estonian name generation gap is huge. As another American traveler to these parts once remarked, "in Estonia, if you forget the name of any man over the age of 55, there is an 89% chance his name is Rein."

But what about the young men under the age of 5? Not a chance. On the playground, you will find no Tiits, Reins, Marts, or any other moniker of the middle aged. But just yell out the name Martin or Oliver, and the little heads will turn. I don't even want to ask the names of nearby children, because I already know what they are. The well of Tiits in Estonia has run dry.

Observation number 2. The division of Estonians by linguistic group is unconvincing. You read so many articles about "Estonians" and "non-Estonians" or "Russophones" and "Estophones," but when you sit on a playground and watch a group of kids play in Estonian AND Russian, such metrics lose their potency.

I watched at a playground in Supilinn as eight children, none of them older than 10, covered the playground like furious ants, playing bilingual games. For the life of me, I could not distinguish who spoke Estonian or Russian as a native language. The nexus of this group was a lanky girl with long red hair who would switch languages on a dime. They played "rock, paper, scissors" in Russian and "hide and go seek" in Estonian. So much for language-based identity.

Observation number 3. Tartu is a child-friendly city. Within walking distance of our house are several playgrounds, and no matter where we are in the city, it seems that there is one within walking distance. Some of them are really high quality, and laid out in a manner that makes it easy for adults to let their kids play for several hours at a time. This may be Estonia's second-largest city, but the playgrounds resemble anything but a crowded urban environment. Having access to these kinds of resources makes it easier for me to be a parent. Thanks Tartu.