Musings about my holiday in Estonia
Lisa Kiil
As I embarked on my second journey to my dad’s homeland last July I had surprisingly sketchy memories of my first visit there in 1992. What I did remember was a very damp place with a lot of dilapidated buildings. There didn’t seem to be much going on. People wore Adidas tracksuits. Our chauffeur for much of that five-day trip was a relative of some sort who drove a rusted yellow Lada and smoked foul smelling Russian cigarettes.
The highlight of that initial trip was when my dad located the old homestead where he was born, near Lümanda on the west coast of Saaremaa. Very few improvements had been made to the farmhouse over the years. The current occupants graciously allowed us to look around, though, and presented my dad with a jar of what appeared to be pickled eel, and looked pretty repulsive. Moments later we found the old windmill on their property. Although in disrepair, the stone structure spoke of the history of the family and the country.
I knew that things would have changed in the country in 13 years, and so I went hoping to have some new memories, hopefully of a more lasting variety. And this time, with 13 relatives on the same trip, there was guaranteed to be a few stories told, a few more translators to explain things, and a few more beers consumed.
We arrived in Tallinn exhausted, and made our way to the guesthouse in the Kriistine neighborhood. It was a modern place with pine interior, and freshly tiled washrooms. My cousins Tiit and Andres had already visited the corner kaubamaja to stock up on Saku beer. Our first meal was at nearby restaurant. The menu was in a photo album format, which was helpful for my nephew and me, as the non-Estonian speakers in the group that night. The food styling wasn’t exactly from the pages of Canadian Living, but I chose the pork dish. My plate arrived with several pieces of deliciously moist meat, a few fried potatoes and two slices of cucumber (to ward off scurvy?). The Lonely Planet guide had described Estonian cuisine as “meaty.” I had a pretty good idea why, as I came back home craving a tossed salad.
We left for Saaremaa the following morning, taking the short ferry ride after the short car ride to Virtsu. For a Canadian, the distances in Estonia seemed trivial. Our B&B in Kuressaare was also modern and comfortable, although the bathroom was small, and I came close to burning the place down when I tried to use my hair dryer with an adapter. The hosts were particularly friendly, and they chatted up my dad at every opportunity, sometimes practically chasing us out the door to say hello. Their breakfasts were a multi-course extravaganza, but otherwise we spent very little time in their home, and more time traveling the dusty gravel roads of Saaremaa. I’d heard from my dad’s more recent trips that Kuressaare had become a bit of a tourist mecca for Finns. It was certainly set up better for tourists than in 1992, when we’d stayed at a clean but run down old sanitarium with toilet facilities down the hall for $4 a night. The central part of the town was filled with restaurants and gift shops. The marketplace was much the same as it had always been, selling juniper wood souvenirs, hand knit woolen goods, and in season produce. We lucked upon strawberry season, and enjoyed the soft and sweet treats on the lakeside beach at Karujärve one afternoon. However, the town was still in no way what I would call crowded.
I had my first opportunity to swim in the Baltic Sea this time. This hadn’t been possible in the rainy cold of late September 1992. It was a gloriously hot and dry day filled with sightseeing, most of it spent driving around in our red rental car devoid of air conditioning. In late afternoon we found our way to the cottage of my dad’s cousins at Atla. Located a few hundred metres from the juniper-laden beach area, we availed ourselves of their log outhouse, built conspicuously up about 15 feet, and with a picturesque view front and back, apparently showing no discrimination for either gender. We hit the beach for a surprisingly warm and salty bath. The slippery rock bottom as we entered the sea was reminiscent of a similar beach in Georgian Bay, where I’ve spent several wonderful vacations since childhood.
Earlier that day we’d dined at a country restaurant in Lümanda, and visited the school where my aunts had attended. It seemed strange to me that the large country school with all the amenities, including computers and other supplies was left wide open without a soul around on a summer day. It was almost as if they were expecting us. After going through the building, we met in the schoolyard and took turns trying out the kiik style platform swing.
That evening, we drove back to Pilguse Manor, just up the street from the Kiil family’s old farmhouse. The old windmill on the property was now under restoration, and hidden behind scaffolding. After another heavy meal with the entire clan, we walked down to the water again, this time to see the spot where the family had left in a boat one night in 1944. I’m pretty sure they had no idea at that time that it was the beginning of their journey to Canada. Although I was tired from the long days and almost sick to my stomach from over-eating, we dawdled and explored the area, including the huge wood burning sauna, not in use that night. It seemed that the atmosphere that evening was ripe with contentment, as if we were all coming home after a prolonged absence.
The next day we left, for me rather begrudgingly, for the mainland again. The long, sun-filled, warm evenings, tranquil countryside and simplicity of the straw-roofed country homes had me dreaming. Saaremaa seemed a great place to hide out. A short ferry ride later, and we were on our way to a farm outside Pärnu to meet an Estonian beach volleyball player who was to stay at our home in Edmonton only two weeks later during the World Masters Games. Tiina had two blonde-haired, blue-eyed pre-school aged sons with summer-bronzed skin. Her husband took us on a whirlwind tour of the city, about 20 km away, and then she served us a snack of traditional Estonian open-faced sandwiches on rye bread, some with homemade wild boar sausage. She also brought out a large pitcher of kama. This thick drink, an old fashioned version of a smoothie, was enjoyed by all of us. It had a unique tangy taste of soured cream and various grains. Our hostess declared it “very healthy” in English.
The last few days in Tallinn were full. We ate, went to museums, climbed to Toompea to see the Estonian flag flying atop the medieval fortress tower and visited the Kalev chocolate shop to stock up. When our rental car broke down after circling the downtown Tallinn area delivering copies of Ajakaja we witnessed a more westernized version of customer service when an apologetic young man arrived in less than an hour with a new Toyota Camry. It was larger than the original rental, and possessed the by now highly coveted A/C!
The tourist district of Tallinn was a shock to me. My memories of the kesklinn from 1992 were of a more deserted area, with a single outdoor café. I am still looking for an old photo to confirm this impression. Now, it was an ocean of people and activity. The perimeter of the area is full of trendy restaurants, and all the streets leading from the area are gift shops selling amber, linens and the usual tacky tourist fare. Gone were the Adidas track suits—thin, pretty women with long, straight blonde hair sold local strawberries, wearing “WelcomeToEstonia” t-shirts. Evidently the long, slim legs of the local women are hiding ankles of steel. They all seemed to wear high-heeled shoes, and yet tackled the ancient cobblestones with ease and at a brisk pace.
The trip concluded on another warm summer day. I finished my shopping in the morning; we took a brief tour in the Museum of Occupation, where an old bust of Lenin lay on the concrete floor in the basement of the building, as an unwelcome relic of communist times. That afternoon we headed to the beach one last time. It was jammed with a scantily clad, mostly Russian crowd. The water was so shallow for so long, it seemed we had to walk half a kilometer before it was above waist level. Having been buoyed by uttering my first restaurant order in Estonian when I asked for a glass of water at lunch-time and was understood, I felt confident enough to try the same tactic on the pre-pubescent ice cream vendor on the beach. Unfortunately she was Russian, and didn’t seem to understand kolm, or at least not my version of it, so I had to revert to English to get my three vanilla cones.
Later that evening we attended a classical musical concert at the old Kadrioru presidential palace. The grounds were lovely, although for some reason many of the grander buildings in Estonia, including Parliament, are pink. After the concert we had a lovely and expensive meal at a nearby restaurant. The interior looked like any of the swanky, fusion type places found in the west, but was not busy for a summer Saturday night.
And so I was loathe leaving the next day, even though it was raining for the first time. Whereas after the 1992 trip I had no real inclination or intention of returning, this time my mind was racing with the possibility of it. Next time, I hope to find the “true Estonia”, which I suspect lies somewhere between the damp grayness I remember of 1992, and the sunny hopefulness and sense of belonging I experienced in 2005.
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Lisa Kiil is a first-generation Canadian of Estonian descent on her father’s side. She lives and works in Edmonton as an accountant.
