My Estonia

Justin Petrone

See on nii romantiline! Mitu inimest on mu käsikirja kohta kasutanud just seda fraasi ja neil on õigus: noor kriisis ameeriklane armub põnevasse eestlannast ajakirjanikku ning alustab teekonda, mis taastab noormehe usu endasse ja maailma. Nõus. See on romantiline. Aga see teekond ei olnud lihtne. Välismaalane saabub keset kõige pimedamat talve ja peab jääma ellu sel kõige õnnetuma saatusega Skandinaaviamaal, kus iga perekonda kummitavad minevikuõudused, kus inimesed söövad verest tehtud vorste ja tarretiseks keedetud lihatükke, joovad sooja leivajooki, ning hilinemise eest võib neid tabada surmanuhtlus. Ma hakkasin seda maad armastama tema ilus ja inetuses, ja armastasin edasi ka neil hetkedel, kui mind maale tagasi lasta ei tahetud.

Justin Petrone

My Estonia

A MOMENT IN ZAVOOD

I met Epp in Helsinki. Usually when Estonian ladies ask where we met – and only ladies ask – they respond with interest in this fact. “Helsinki!?” they say in surprise. “Why, what were you doing there?”

Could Helsinki really seem so distant to some Estonians? Were they really that local in their mindset? All one had to do is take a ferry north from the capital of Estonia, Tallinn and they’d be in the Finnish capital, Helsinki, surrounded by moi[1 - �Hi’ in Finnish] and moi moi[2 - �Goodbye’ in Finnish.]. Other foreigners must have been lured to Estonia by its womanhood via this route. Other foreigners like me.

Having met Epp in Helsinki has allowed me to extract myself from some awkward conversations. Once in Zavood, the basement-level bar that stays open the latest in the Estonian university town of Tartu, two muscular, sweaty, blondhaired townies – let’s call them Hardo and Janar – decided to make something of the fact that I had stolen “their” table, where their empty beer glasses had stood for 5 minutes or more.

“This is our fucking table,” swore Hardo, clearly looking for an excuse to hit somebody, anybody. In the background, young co-eds played pool and sipped beer. The cacophonous sounds of a local rock band blasted from the speakers.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied nervously, in Estonian. “I thought that this table was free.”

“You have a weird accent,” said Janar, who also seemed itching to punch somebody. “Where are you from?” he demanded. Janar’s heavy hands were covered in dark marks, perhaps from fixing bicycles or car engines. Or strangling people.

“I’m from New York,” I said, quickly moving to explain my situation, “but my wife is Estonian, so I can speak Estonian.”

“Your wife is Estonian?” Hardo exploded in jealousy. He clearly didn’t have his own eesti naine[3 - �Estonian woman’ in Estonian.]. Hardo looked at Janar as if this fact – a foreigner making off with one of their women – was enough to try and convict me in the name of southern Estonian justice. Not only had I stolen their table; I had stolen one of their women as well.

To Hardo and Janar, I was surely just another undeserving wealthy foreign man who had decided to take an Estonian girl as a trophy wife. When it came to women, multicultural marriages always moved West. Finns, Brits, Dutch, and Americans married Estonian girls, while Estonian guys settled down with Russians or Ukrainians. Or so I had heard.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, guys – we actually met in Helsinki,” I explained in a calm voice.

“Helsinki?” they looked at each other in curiosity. “What would a nice Estonian girl be doing in such a faraway place?” Janar asked.

I thought he was kidding. But then I realized that, for a lot of Estonians, Helsinki – only 80 miles from Tallinn – was some far-off metropolis. Anyway, Janar and Hardo suddenly calmed. Two minutes later we were deep into a conversation about the challenges of learning the Estonian language.

“Do you know,” Hardo admitted as we sipped our beers, “that you speak Estonian really well.”

Janar agreed. “There are people who have lived here for fifty years,” he gestured with his meaty fists, “a