I walked into the pink box that morning, its presence an introduction to Lossi Street, terrified with anxiety. The bright colors of the university’s 375th anniversary banner just isn’t going to cut when you are struggling to remember which general tried to take over where, what political party screwed up and how the Lithuanians of the past hated the Poles. There aren’t enough Kalev bars and shots of Vana Tallinn to replace this anxiety. This is genuine adversity to the iconic “famous bigshot” professor, the one who found himself being elevated to major figurehead during the riots. You can probably figure out how it goes from there.
He hasn’t been there in eight weeks- someone else has been teaching- and it is obvious when he makes up your final on the spot. He asks you questions you never even covered in the lectures, and when you think he’s European, he doesn’t know better, you remember that he’s a kanadalane, who never grew up in the crisis. He didn’t see any of it, yet he knows all- ironic, isn’t it?
I took that exam with tears forming up inside me, feeling equally humiliated and repressed. Although I ended up scoring a B, I seriously think that that incident continues to sour my taste for traditional, old-boy, do-what-you-want academia.
Two years later, I still feel as strongly about it as I did that Thursday in Tartu.
Luckily, I am smart enough to realize what the proper antidote is for such an incident. There were many a days where, upon leaving class, I simply got on a bus. While people often spent their times on large-group, get-trashed trips, I found myself having the need for simple, solo travel, where I design my own itinerary, depend on myself for all things, and see something that is important to me. In Estonia, my desires went for the small towns; Tiina called it the “petit histoire” in class, explaining the search for the everyday, little, minute history.
I wanted to visit every county in Estonia. I had five left that day, and the night before, I decided I was going to knock two out in hopes of finding solace from the city. So, upon finishing that political history exam, I got on a bus to Haapsalu. I packed my laptop bag with a couple of clothes, books, soap and and iPod, looking for a coastal adventure. Laptop? Nah- no need, really. It was just me, a four-hour trip, a bottle of water and a bag of rice pasties to fuel my venture.
I sat on that bus, with my little notebook open, looking to draw my experience. I had gotten as far as Viljandi before, where I went mad happy seeing the first blades of grass a month after I arrived. But now, I was literally going to the other end of the nation. I sat on the bus in Viljandi, knowing I had to stay on rather than go to the countryside. I sort of wanted to eat black bread with Anu Raud again, as we rode through Heimtali Commune in her old, radio-less Volvo while she philosophized about private property. But that was done.
I don’t remember who I sat by that day. Usually, I sat by old pensioners who sat patiently without any newspapers, books, knitting or anything. Half the time, I’ve got one hand on the Postimees sudoku, another on the sketchbook, iPod blaring to provide a country soundtrack. As I passed through the town of Rapla, I sketched its station, a modernist geometric job that had plenty of people desiring to get on the bus. I don’t know if the town was that bad or people were just itching to do something else besides sit in a town of concrete flats.
I remember Türi’s railroad tracks, and nothing else. I do notice that each town has a direction tree, showing where everything is, even the nearest toilet. It is like it is saying “Methodists, go this way, tourists, this way,” branching you out before you even get started. Towns in America are never like this; you have to get on the computer to find anything anymore, but what happens when you have to get directions to get to the place to get on MapQuest? Roaming is nice, and the direction trees are good for that in the end.
I listened to Tom Waits’s Alice, having my first listen of it (thanks to Francesco) on the road between Türi and Haapsalu. Tom’s gravelly warbling made such a right soundtrack to the bumpiest, roughest bus ride I had had in a while. It was one of those times where you wish you had a cigarette, even a cheap one, to sit and ponder life like those at the university cafe. My theology professor would sit there and discuss life while chain-smoking, and I always wondered what it was like to sit there smoking with a cup of coffee that is as black as the soil. But I think, in this case, I would rather spend life wondering ‘what if.’
Having grown up in an area with small areas based around a church, I saw little towns that I loved. I saw the village of Maarjamaa, where the local Lutheran church dominated the landscape with its white spire. Silently, I wondered what it was life in rural village life nowadays. Are the young folk like me growing up- looking for a way out? Does the hip-hop culture of the cities show up in places like this, clashing with the fields like players in a soccer match? In the end, they just fight for the same thing- a way to live well. But more than often, somebody gets hurt and has to sit out for a while.
In a way, this trip really was about sitting out. In the hostel, I’m surrounded by a culture of vice that, in spite of being fun, is not always the best solution. I may be a talker (something I get from my mom), but I’m just as reserved, seeking privacy and my own vision. For the group anxiety of that Thursday morning, I had no choice but to get away, to surrender my desires for the sake of saving myself. In the end, that bumpy, Tom Waits-soundtracked bus ride meant just as much as the pilsners I would have had in the corridor. It was an experience that only I can claim.
