tallinn
Safe arrival after another bus journey of 5 hours. Snow everywhere but the city itself was pretty much clear. These Baltic people are very good at snow management. It continues to amaze me. The Irish would be beside themselves in panic!
It was dark when I arrived. Not wishing to be brave and find my way to the hostel, I took a taxi. My rib wasn't up to it either. Naturally I paid well over the odds for it! The hostel was top drawer rubbish with some patronising ginger bearded Yank in charge. I asked him the usual questions. He enquired whether I was a travel journalist. What a w*nker! He listed off a load of rules. My irritation was obvious. One rule covered the prohibition on taking 'special friends' back to the hostel. For f*ck sake, if I was wishing to indulge in the sex trade then I would book a hotel. If I was lucky and scored with some beautiful Estonian girl then I would never take her back to such a sh*t hole. Needless to say my fists remained clenched in my pockets but they really wanted to go to work.
Soon after this encounter with the ginga minga, I met a chap from England. Rather posh, refined and highly educated. Only 21. Apparently the grandson of a former Bishop of London. I kept my Catholic disgust under cover. That was a joke by the way. Anyway, he, I and my damaged rib went off for a beer to discuss the Barbarossa Yank. I was declining rapidly. The excess of the previous night was stalking me. Fortified by alcohol I returned and promptly informed the Yank that his service wasn't up to scratch and demanded the return of my dough. This was midnight. The English guy, James, had noticed another hostel nearby. We booked in. It was a wonderfully clean and well managed place. A pleasure to reside.
Tallinn is a pleasant city. I explored. Me and my damaged rib. But I have become rather bored at looking at touristic things. Someone mentioned the condition as ABC: 'another bloody church'. It's true. Moreover my rib was causing me great discomfort. Cobble roadways don't help when one has to constantly adjust one's deportment. But it was nice all the same. The city, not the rib.
One highlight was going to a bar called 'Stereo'. Completely furnished in white, walls and seats. Like something out of 2001 Space Odyssey. The waitresses were attired in nurses uniforms. Wonderful. The music was drum n bass. Wonderful. My rib still wasn't happy. B*stard. After we went to a jazz cafe. More vodka. More idle chat. We noted the arrival of a guy with his posse who clearly had the look of someone involved in organised crime. It was very interesting to observe the group dynamic. How people behave in front of someone they fear. Anyway, a Yank, loud mouthed and cocksure, felt it okay to make an enquiry in open forum. 'Is that the Russian Mafia?'
Oh dear!
The tension was palpable. The table of the mobsters went quite. They were calculating what to do. I hoped that they would take our their shooters and dispatch the Yank. I had enough of them for one day and it wouldn't be me on a murder rap. They decided to let it go. Soon after they left. The head mobster (attired in expensive suit, shoes and blinged to the standard of an east coast rapper) who had a face only a Mother could love, said goodbye to James and I. Politely and nicely. I returned to the bar but it had closed. Mobster man was there. During our brief conversation, I tried to figure out how many times he had been punched in the face. At least 50 times, I reckon. What I found most funny is that the bar lady prepared 6 take-away cocktails for him. All in polystyrene cups. I joked about this with him. Silly. He took it well and said he was waiting for his car to arrive.
Probably had a drive-by to take care of.....
It was dark when I arrived. Not wishing to be brave and find my way to the hostel, I took a taxi. My rib wasn't up to it either. Naturally I paid well over the odds for it! The hostel was top drawer rubbish with some patronising ginger bearded Yank in charge. I asked him the usual questions. He enquired whether I was a travel journalist. What a w*nker! He listed off a load of rules. My irritation was obvious. One rule covered the prohibition on taking 'special friends' back to the hostel. For f*ck sake, if I was wishing to indulge in the sex trade then I would book a hotel. If I was lucky and scored with some beautiful Estonian girl then I would never take her back to such a sh*t hole. Needless to say my fists remained clenched in my pockets but they really wanted to go to work.
Soon after this encounter with the ginga minga, I met a chap from England. Rather posh, refined and highly educated. Only 21. Apparently the grandson of a former Bishop of London. I kept my Catholic disgust under cover. That was a joke by the way. Anyway, he, I and my damaged rib went off for a beer to discuss the Barbarossa Yank. I was declining rapidly. The excess of the previous night was stalking me. Fortified by alcohol I returned and promptly informed the Yank that his service wasn't up to scratch and demanded the return of my dough. This was midnight. The English guy, James, had noticed another hostel nearby. We booked in. It was a wonderfully clean and well managed place. A pleasure to reside.
Tallinn is a pleasant city. I explored. Me and my damaged rib. But I have become rather bored at looking at touristic things. Someone mentioned the condition as ABC: 'another bloody church'. It's true. Moreover my rib was causing me great discomfort. Cobble roadways don't help when one has to constantly adjust one's deportment. But it was nice all the same. The city, not the rib.
One highlight was going to a bar called 'Stereo'. Completely furnished in white, walls and seats. Like something out of 2001 Space Odyssey. The waitresses were attired in nurses uniforms. Wonderful. The music was drum n bass. Wonderful. My rib still wasn't happy. B*stard. After we went to a jazz cafe. More vodka. More idle chat. We noted the arrival of a guy with his posse who clearly had the look of someone involved in organised crime. It was very interesting to observe the group dynamic. How people behave in front of someone they fear. Anyway, a Yank, loud mouthed and cocksure, felt it okay to make an enquiry in open forum. 'Is that the Russian Mafia?'
Oh dear!
The tension was palpable. The table of the mobsters went quite. They were calculating what to do. I hoped that they would take our their shooters and dispatch the Yank. I had enough of them for one day and it wouldn't be me on a murder rap. They decided to let it go. Soon after they left. The head mobster (attired in expensive suit, shoes and blinged to the standard of an east coast rapper) who had a face only a Mother could love, said goodbye to James and I. Politely and nicely. I returned to the bar but it had closed. Mobster man was there. During our brief conversation, I tried to figure out how many times he had been punched in the face. At least 50 times, I reckon. What I found most funny is that the bar lady prepared 6 take-away cocktails for him. All in polystyrene cups. I joked about this with him. Silly. He took it well and said he was waiting for his car to arrive.
Probably had a drive-by to take care of.....
posted by Ciarán at 10:29 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home