Summary of Scandinavia and impressions on Estonia
My love for solitary environments
Here I am, almost one month later, on the ferry acoss the Baltic, from Finland to Estonia. On my way north I sailed with Eckerö and now I'm taking Viking Line, which from Helsinki to Tallin costs € 54. That's the problem with sleeping until late: everything's more expensive. The morning ferry, Eckerö's, costs only 35; and there's also another cheap one in the evening, but arrives late at night and then I'd need to make a stopover in Tallinn, which I don't want. One month in Escandinavia. Thus said sounds like little, but I feel as though it had been twice as much: I've gone through all of Finland from south to north, I've done a considerable part of Norway's litoral, visiting many fiords and islands, including the famed North Cape; I've then crossed Sweden and then again part of Finland; I've met people, visited friends, and I've even taken some short ‘days off’ riding. That's why it seems to me amazing all what has taken place in just one month. Now the journey must go on.
I try to get some rest in the ferry, for I didn't sleep well last night — but I don’t succeed. Upon arriving to Tallinn, while I get ready to leave the boat, I chat for a little while with another biker I've met in the hold, a French who has spent his summer working in Norway —where the salaries are very high— and now, on his way back, is taking a short route along the south of Scandinavia. The hold's gate opens, Rosaura and me get ashore and, after crossing the city —which takes a while—we head directly for Viljandi. More or less half way I stop at a road bar. The waitres is a young, pleasant and beautiful lady; she's got a charming smile and doesn't seem too bothered by my age for a little flirt. That reconciles me with women, who behave here so different from progresive Europe. I order a tea and a homemade bun, and when I ask how much, I almost can’t believe it: € 1’50. Compared with Norway, where identical ordering costs exactly 10x, it seems I'm robbing them. But, actually, no: this is much closer to the real value of goods; and in fact that's how it's going to be for the next few days, at least until I exit Poland. As I've already said somewhere along these travel log, the problem with travelling to Norway is not so much how expensive it is, but that, afterwards, everything else seems so cheap that you may easily start wasting money just for the joy of handing it out.
In Viljandi —a town already highlighted on my way up— I'm going to stay three days this time, at the same accommodation, a sort of hostel run by a group of volunteer ladies. This time, however, when I hang around the place, I'm perceiving a different Viljandi than before: back then, the annual international folk music festival was about to start, and there was people all over, visitors from many countries. Now the town is more like its natural self; and also I have more time to know it better, so I will be able to confirm or revise the pleasing impressions of one month ago.
By the way, I'm surprised to notice so many women everywhere in Estonia. Just the same —and almost forgotten— impression I got when first arrived in Poland, eight years ago, that now strikes me again. Same back then as now, it's interesting to see those many women all over the place, on the streets, on restaurants and bars, cafés; groups of women of all ages, young, adults, elderly; and most of them quite cute, by the way. I have the feeling they're a graceful mixture between the Slavic and Nordic types, blondes, pretty and nicely built.
Funny that, on my onward trip, because I was coming from other less developed countires such as Latvia and Lithuania, Estonia seemed to me, by contrast, very Nordic (except that, being much poorer, there are no immigrants nor refugees here), and I concluded then that Scandinavia didn't really start in Finland, but in Estonia. Now, however, travelling in the opposite direction, it feels exactly the opposite: everything seems quite Slavic here. So, truth probably lies in between both impressions, which would mean Estonian is a society halfway between the Baltic and the Scandinavian ones.
Now in one of my saunters I've found the place: the ideal place for this time of the day, just before sunset. It is a hotel and restaurant with a terrace on the first floor, overlooking a parking lot and facing straight to the west, without any obstacle to the distant horizon; so that, when the rest of terraces, restaurants and taverns in town are already in the shade, there's still one extra hour of sun here. Let's enjoy it with a Bothers toffee cider; one of the best ciders I’ve ever tasted. It feels great here, so peaceful!
In my restless analysis of myself, I can't stop wondering why is it that I'm so strongly drawn to solitary and isolated places, specially when abroad. I ask to myself —playing the psychoanalist—: maybe the language barrier provides me with an excuse for not having to communicate with people? Am I then a social misfit? Is it a subconscious search for self-isolation, and I've settled in that loneliness? Am I deluding myself when believing I want to be in company? Am I chasing the impossible? And if so, is it something I do suspecting the falsehood of such search, or is rather the romantic and daydreamer in me who's taking me to this kind of places? Is it just a bunch of hopes what I'm after?