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sleek—often flaxen-haired, with piercing blue eyes. Andrew, Rebecca, and I are of average height in Amer-
ica, but walking around Helsinki we feel like stunted hobbits. Our faces are like a foot below the typical
eye level of the locals. Have you ever been at a party where you swore you were invisible? That's how
our entire stay in Helsinki feels. “I swear,” Andrew muses over dinner, “I could walk into a bank here, rob
money out of the vault, and walk out, and still the Finns wouldn't notice I exist.”
Our resulting inferiority complex has prodded us to look for faults with the city. But we just can't find
many. It's cute and walkable. It has a terrific public transportation system that has been zipping us around
with great efficiency. There are windswept, grassy islands in the middle of the harbor where you can hike
and have a picnic.
I guess if I were to name a flaw, it would be Finnish cuisine. While there's lots of delicious, fresh fish,
the food as a whole here is a bit too mushy for my taste. Foreign dishes attempted in the restaurants often
go awry—as with the “bruschetta” we were served, which turned out to be cold, floppy pita bread. Perhaps
I'd feel differently if I'd worked up the courage to sample the pressed, canned bear and reindeer meat for
sale in the gourmet markets.
AT almost exactly 60 degrees north latitude, Helsinki is as far north as we plan to get in the course of our
circumnavigation. We do feel some temptation to make a run for the Arctic Circle, at 66 degrees. But mak-
ing a detour of some nine hundred miles just to cross an imaginary line probably isn't worth the trouble.
Instead we decide we'll brave another ferry, due south to Estonia. It will drop us off in Tallinn, the capital
city. From there we can hop on an overnight train to Moscow.
Most single-hulled ships can't exceed 41 mph, as at high speeds a wall of water builds up at their bow
and becomes tough to fight through. A catamaran—like the ferry we catch in Helsinki—distributes the
load onto two hulls, allowing the ship to go a bit faster. Our catamaran ferry cranks up to a top velocity of
47 mph, cutting across a narrow corner of the Baltic Sea at the mouth of the Gulf of Finland. The ride is
silky smooth and comfortable. In contrast with our previous ferry, it's almost elegant. People are reading
magazines and ordering cocktails from the bar. Most of the passengers on board are Finns, who often make
the ninety-minute journey to Estonia because they can get a better price on beer there. (Many have brought
along folding carts, all the better to lug back bulk quantities of brew.)
When the catamaran arrives in Tallinn, we disembark and start walking into town to look for a hotel. As
we stop at a corner to wait for a traffic light to change, we notice a wild dog—and not a small one—loping
casually down the middle of the street. A few other nappy, feral dogs join up with the leader, forming a
confident pack.
Toto, I've a feeling we're not in western Europe anymore.
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