Tallinn to Fushiki - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 26

Chapter Three
Tallinn to Fushiki
T HOUGH only a short ferry ride from Helsinki, Tallinn feels galaxies apart both in its architecture and its
mood. The old part of town is a cluster of medieval buildings set into a hillside—all pointy spires, rust-red
roofs, and jutting stone turrets. It's so theme-park cute, I half expect a troupe of merry jesters to come jug-
gling and cartwheeling down the cobblestone lanes.
And yet merry is not a word I would use to describe most of the Estonians we encounter. More like
slouchy . Or shruggy . Perhaps because we've now crossed behind the old Iron Curtain, I detect something
different in the air. Less sunny optimism. More public urination. Also, fashionwise, it appears all the natural
fibers got confiscated at the border.
We've happened to arrive in Tallinn on Estonian Independence Day. Or rather, one of multiple Estonian
independence days. There are at least two. (Opportunities for newfound independence are frequent, if short-
lived, when your country gets routinely invaded and occupied.) This particular independence day celebrates
Estonia's most recent liberation, in 1991, from several decades of Soviet rule.
Hundreds of people have gathered in Tallinn's town square, before a festooned stage. Six little blonde girls
wearing green tunics sing a traditional Estonian folk song. A portly singer belts out an emotional, no doubt
fiercely nationalistic ballad, punctuating the high notes by extending his arms and throwing back his head.
There's a strong current of Estonian pride running through the audience—so much so that when some
teens standing near us start to chatter over a politician's speech they're immediately shushed by older folks
in the crowd. The main vibe I'm picking up on, though, is not collective excitement about Estonia's bright
future. It's more a collective relief that the miseries of living under Russia's thumb seem to be mercifully
over.
IN Around the World in 80 Days , our hero Phileas Fogg leaves London and makes his way southeast through
the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. He cuts across India, then up to Yokohama and on to San Francisco.
We'd thought about retracing Fogg's route. But in the end something drew us north, to Russia, with equal
parts fascination and fear. We can't resist a visit. Russia is an incomparable place: its vast expanses, its epic
themes, its rich cultural history, its shoddy consumer products.
There's also the lure of the Trans-Siberian. I'm attracted by the sheer enormity of the world's longest rail-
way, stretching a nearly unfathomable six thousand miles from Moscow to the Pacific. I want to gaze out a
rolling picture window as I watch Europe slowly dissolve into Asia.
With dusk falling in Tallinn, we leave behind the independence festivities and head to the railway station
for a Moscow-bound train. The frowning, polyester-tracksuited woman at the window sells us tickets for an
overnight sleeper that leaves within the hour. Upon boarding, we discover our four-berth cabin is already
inhabited by our two new roommates.