I once spoke at a seminar for a Swedish software distributor. The
conference took place on one of the ferries that run overnight from
Stockholm to Helsinki and then back the following night. It was March,
which is cold but survivable in Stockholm. Helsinki was another
matter. Our ship was designed to break through ice of up to a meter in
thickness. Although the ice that trip wasn't quite that
thick, it was certainly thick enough to impress me. (It made a sort of
Rice Krispies in milk sound as we broke through it.) I was also
impressed with the city itself, or at least what little I could see in
the two hours before all my extremities froze.
One of the benefits of traveling on holiday is that you get to
choose when to go. And after seeing Helsinki in the dead of winter
I was glad of a chance to visit when it wasn't covered in
ice. It's really quite a lovely city, with its parks and its malls
and its waterfront (and -side and -back) and plenty of interesting
architecture. I was particularly impressed with how clean the city
is. Especially the morning after an annual festival that
demonstrated that the locals' reputation for alcoholic excess wasn't
mere rumor.
When my tour guide announced a stop at a local church I was less
than enthusiastic. But I wasn't prepared for this particular
church. When presented with a commission to build a church on a
rock, the architects decided instead to build the church in
the rock. The result is unobtrusive from the outside but airy, warm
and inviting inside. A pleasant place for a service, I imagine.
And even better for an impromptu piano concert during our visit.
This country-looking house was the creation of Finnish architect
Eliel Saarinen. Saarinen and two partners created a small village
at Hvittrask as a combination of residence and workshop. It's a
lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Despite the traditional
exterior, the inside is a remarkable example of Scandinavian
design. Many of the rooms and furnishings reminded me of the work
of Frank Lloyd Wright and Charles Rennie Mackintosh, both friends
of Saarinen. (Although who influenced whom would be hard to say.)
The partnership at Hvittrask wasn't without problems, of course.
One of the partner's wives decided to change partners, a
story told in this stained glass window from Saarinen's home.
You'll notice that, although the lady is being serenaded by two men,
she only has eyes for the one on the left.
For the geographically challenged, a bit of explanation. Estonia is the northernmost of the three Baltic Republics that were annexed by the Soviet Union and then gained their freedom with its collapse. Tallinn is due south of Helsinki across the Gulf of Finland. Its proximity and its prices (particularly for alcohol) make it a popular destination for Finns and Nordic people who like to have a good time. (A very good time.)
My visit to Estonia was brief, arriving one morning by sea from
Stockholm and leaving the next morning for my encounter with
Russia. Our transport was an Estonian
ferry called the Baltic Kristina, a small and not terribly glamorous
ship. (You haven't lived until you've tried to sleep aboard such
a vessel. And my experience with the shower in my cabin deserves
its own page.) But the ferry did have its compensations, including
good and inexpensive food and drink, magnificent views of the
archipelago as we left Stockholm and some wonderful entertainment.
These folks were a pleasure to watch and sometimes to hear. But the
highlight was a singer in the other lounge. His renditions of Bob
Dylan and Johnny Cash were remarkable. And his performance of Bad
Moon Rising brought forth emotions never imagined by Creedence
Clearwater Revival. Imagine Bad Moon as done by Dylan and you'll
have some idea. By the time he was done I was ready to kill
myself. (And the shower in my cabin was happy to oblige...)
Estonia has a tense relationship with its Russian neighbors. The
country has spent most of its history as a colony of one conquering
nation or another. But most of them left the Estonians and their
culture alone. The Soviets had other ideas; in their
determinination to create a new Soviet state they did their best to
destroy every aspect of their subject people's lives. They moved
huge populations from one country to another in an attempt to break
the common bonds of language and heritage. The Estonians are left
with the result: a large minority of ethnic Russians who have
lived in Estonia all their lives and neither know nor care to learn
the language. Theirs is the imposing Russian Orthodox church on the
right. It's ironic that the church faces the pink palace of the
Estonian Parliament, a reminder
(as if they needed
one) of their neighbors to the east and the unreconciled
minority within their borders. And the Canadians think
they
have problems?
The Parliament building and the Russian church stand near the
entrance to Tallinn's old city. The old city is so picturesque you
almost can't stand it. It's on two levels, with long stairways
leading down to the narrow lanes of the old walled city. Nowadays
the old walls are home to sweater merchants, selling knockoff
versions of Norwegian designs at much better prices.
Eventually you reach the old square, filled with open air cafes on
such a brilliant day. Better to stay here and enjoy the local
brew. Because as soon as you reach the end of the old town you're
in the modern city. And that's as ugly as anyplace else designed by
the Soviets. I did enjoy my wander through the imaginatively named
Tallinn Department Store. Until, that is, a well-timed bomb scare
suggested that the old town might be a better place to shop.
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