Tallinn, Estonia

For Stella-Mom and Auntie Julie: who wanted to hear about something other than drinking.

And for Nana: not a single f-bomb to be seen!

The beauty of Tallinn is quieting for me. The grey sea port day. The winter bare trees in hidden courtyards or growing out of moss covered ruins. As I walk past the soaring architecture of Alexander Nevsky Chapel, I have to quickly step onto the two foot wide sidewalk to avoid the cars whizzing down the cobblestone. A colourful lane lined with galleries and stencil graffiti has, on the left side, a steep, concrete staircase. On the right is the original, 800 year old roadway, built at an almost mind boggling forty five degree angle (although Kaare will argue that I am exagerating the angle). How did people, never mind horses, manuever it? Imagine Dawes Hill made of cobblestones. (For those of you who know Vancouver)

I feel like I'm stuck in juxtaposition. Like, all of a sudden, the cartoon Mickey Mouse from "Steamboat Willie" (circa 1928) happens to appear in "Finding Nemo". Stylish (and gorgeous) women in fur lined parkas and jeans that I'm pretty sure they put on with a paint brush, navigate the age worn streets in spike heels. Although we have it on good authority that these women aren't locals, they're Russians. A local told us that. At the top of the city, I can look over both the colourful Old Town and the bustling port area of the new town. Even our hostel, with it's laminate flooring and central heating, has a kitchen situated in what could very well have been a medieval dungeon. Possibly, it still is. We found some very suspicious Hansel and Gretel sized holes in the wall.

And the art community here is like nothing I've seen outside of Nelson or the Sunshine Coast. We accidentaly came across the art gallery/workshop of Aleksnar Savchnkov. We walked through an arched tunnel on a whim, finding ourselves in a hidden courtyard. It was like walking into a faerie garden. Stone arches and staircases covered in vines, stained glass lanterns, wooden planks carved with foreign script and the utter silence of a garden in hibernation. I half expected a little gnome to come racing around the corner and chastise us in gibberish for our intrusion. To our right, an aged stairwell led down into the basement gallery. Inside there were paintings everywhere. On walls and chairs, in tiny alcoves or hanging from the ceiling. Images of women, scenes of snow covered Tallinn and innovative pictures of angels or the Virgin Mary. If the painting was framed, it was done so artistically with driftwood, stone, scrap metal, wool and even with the building itself. There was one alcove about two feet wide, one foot tall and two feet deep, that held a tine painting of the Virgin with a candle burning blithely beside it. Most of the paintings, however, were unframed. They lay in folders on tables, or strewn unfinished around Savnchkov's work space. A fireplace roared, surrounded by comfy chairs, the artist, and a few other tea drinkers. The building, from what I could gather, had been a monastery once upon a time. It was one of the coziest places I have ever had the privelage of stumbling into.

Finally, I apologize to everyone who hasn't been hearing from us lately. Internet has been hard to come by. Right now, we're stealing internet from Jessica's neighbours. (We're in Helsinki by the way) We have officially become gypsies.