wow! I could vote!

that's right... one of the many elections taking place each year was today and since it's a small, almost a private one (for deciding who'll take the post of the leader of the Democrat party), they let foreigners vote too. Nice, now I have some right to complain about the politics here.

Make no mistake - I don't care particularly much about politics. If anything, I'm annoyed by the duality of everything in Italy and how the right automatically opposes anything the left comes up with and vice versa. If the left is about supporting culture (human rights, helping the poor and whatever), then the right is against it. What would happen if the left would start holding up national ideals, talk about state security and legalizing money laundering*? Would they be stealing Berlusc*ni's agenda?

This duality means that if the parents make their children go to church the children get back at them by joining a communist or socialist party. As it seems, asking around: left is cool because left means intelligentsia, culture, human rights, attention to Burma and whatnot. Right are the yuppies who don't care about anything farther than their own wallet. The youth who listen to reggae are automatically the left. The middle-aged accountants are automatically of the right. I still don't know how to wrap my mind around this concept.

As the government changed one and a half years ago, I started hearing people say that the state TV suddenly has much interesting programs. This was new because the Italian TV must be one of the worst I've ever seen. Why? Because before the change the TV was made for earning. The masses don't care about documentaries, they care about reality shows. So why doesn't the right care about general culture? Answer: because it doesn't earn. This is the most plausible explanation I got out of my friends. And quite an appalling one, too.

It's (still?) quite different in Estonia, where being active in politics is mostly uncool and the uncoolest of all is the left-ish party who likes to call themselves "the centre". In Italy it's possible to hear someone declaring oneself to be Communist and proud of it. In Estonia this would be political suicide. I wish the naive young men handing out leaflets with the hammer and sickle in Padova would ever happen to go to Eastern Europe and try to convert someone. This should be fun...


* as a second thought, I think that's already legal.

Once out at the Bay of Tallinn

I had been out of Estonia almost a year. It was great to be back and pleasant to find the people just the same*. A number of strange new houses have been built, there are more types of soviet-nostalgic ice-cream on sale, but apart from this - well, it's enormously comforting to find everything just as it always was. I had enough time to sleep for a week, spend time doing nothing with my mom, read the new Harry P_tter book, visit friends, study some, and host Riccardo - the latter being a demanding task: he had already been in Estonia 3 times before, and we had to go beyond the usual tourist attractions and see closer.

As a part of my family's effort to make Riccardo have fun during his visit we took a ride to Naissaar (an island roughly 10 km northeast of Tallinn) in my uncle's tiny inflatable boat. We packed up the tent, food and beer until it took up almost half of the little boat and set out. The weather had been dodgy all day, but it had cleared up just as we reached the port, and the ride was great fun. The waves weren't too big, but it seemed like a good idea to agree among the four of us that we can say later they were approximately 2 metres or so. As we reached the northern tip of the island the waves rose until they really did seem to be 2 metres high - the stones at the shallow bottom were giving us their greeting this way. The waves closed with a foamy rumble behind us and suddenly one of these reached out over our little boat, the water green against the sunlight. I thought: "Wow..." and felt myself sliding down into the warm water under the overturned boat.

When I emerged and saw the others' heads bobbing around the bottom of the boat my first thought was to gather up as much of the baggage as possible. I grabbed the first plastic bag I saw and heaved it on top of the boat bottom. It was canned fish - I still have no idea how it could float. The only other thing we found was a 5-litre bottle of water (also floating). Nothing else was to be found around. As I sat on top of the boat, trying to pour water out of my sleeves, having water, paddles and canned fish with us seemed to be a poor consolation. I remembered vividly the transparent waterproof bag into which we had packed all phones, car keys and documents - it hadn't been tied to the boat as the tent and food was. I deduced it must have sunk and, between taking turns to paddle ferociously towards the shore, said goodbye to my (already second) brave camera, driving licence, id and everything that would be a mess to reapply, not to mention pay, for. The situation definitely didn't seem serious enough to take on the "earthly things don't matter" stance yet.

When the first surprise had passed and we had congratulated ourselves accordingly for having ended up in a proper modern-day shipwreck (merehäda, literally "trouble-on-the-sea"), my uncle took out his waterproof pouch holding a phone and, calm as if he would be rescheduling a business meeting, called a few of his friends living on the island. "Hey, how's it going? Are you at the island? Ah, too bad, a wave overturned my boat here at the north tip... Yeah, very strange, never heard anything like that around here... Well, I'll just call x then..." Of the people who were in a position to help us from the island most were right at the other side of it, more or less 10 km away. So, instead of making a big deal out of things, a decision was made that a few guys from the north end would come to pick us up in a row-boat.

In the meantime, paddling was serious business. The strong current kept turning us away from the shore, directing back towards Tallinn. There was no way of turning the boat right way up again - even if only half of the things were still latched to it, it would definitely have been too heavy to turn for 2 men and 2 women at open water. Also, this operation would certainly have liberated everything that had still remained inside, so the little hope of procuring our belongings from the sea with no working engine would have been lost. While paddling was doing little to take us closer to the shore (in fact, we seemed to drift farther away with each minute), it did give a sense of purpose to the situation. While wondering how long it could take for someone to set up their boat and reach us, we had time to make an endless series of jokes on how to open a tin can without any tools save a cellphone and a bottle of water; create a keep-warm boxing match and agree on telling lies to any family members until the whole adventure would be safely behind us. It must have been by the end of the second hour or so when we saw a tiny spot moving towards us across the waves.

Our saviour wasn't three men, but one - a stout fellow with the look of a weary old Basset Hound, pulling on the oars of his tiny boat with the impression of being quite somewhere else. Riccardo and I transferred to his white plastic rowboat and, having connected the upside-down rubber boat behind it, pointed ourselves once again towards the shore that wouldn't come closer.

It went on for another hour. I didn't have another chance to paddle and staying immobile soon made my teeth clatter with cold. Waving hands around just to move some part of my body, I listened to my uncle arranging for another boat to come from the other side after all - the current was too strong to row across and darkness would be coming in a while. The sky had turned a brilliant pink, contrasting the sharp outlines of the dark clouds against the sunlight that would soon be gone. It takes time for the night to come in Estonia, but we didn't fancy having to try our luck in the dark.

There wasn't much more to do than wait. Being in trouble didn't seem as much fun as it had before and the pool of water inside my pants was quite cold to sit in. As the twilight started to thicken around us, we finally saw the border guard arrive. They headed for the location we had previously communicated and passed us without noticing. Great! So much waiting and now they don't even see us! It was a relief to see the boat finally turn.

Watching from the warm inside, we saw 3 border guards, my uncle and our valiant saviour finally grab the rubber boat, its propeller still sticking out, and turn it the right way up again. At the moment they had managed it, we saw all the waterproof bags spread around over the water. The blue tubes in which my backpack and shoes were, the black plastic-packed ones with food, the yellow bundles with warm clothes and - miraculously - the tiny transparent package, most important of all. One by one, the closest bags landed in the border guard boat. I remember sighing at the irony of the situation - there it was, while the documents were floating off towards south, and they were saving the beer first...

It took some time for the boat to circle the surroundings and make sure no other bags were left. It seemed unreal - we really hadn't lost anything except some of the boat equipment. I couldn't believe our luck. As we took our course towards the south end of the island, my uncle's phone rang and for the first time it wasn't anything about boats. My mother wanted to know why I hadn't answered my phone for the last few hours. "Ah, well, you know, I switched it off until we were in the boat. We're setting up the tent... Yeah, it's nice here... Hey, I've got to go and help with the cooking, talk tomorrow..." It had been a while since I had told such outright lies to her. But the opposite would have been worse, at least she could sleep that night.

It was a wonderful feeling to set foot on dry land. A friend of my uncle's gave us a sauna and a place to sleep for that night. Arriving to the warm house and starting to unpack all the wet bags felt like being extremely rich. One thing after another that I had already believed lost emerged and I turned random things in my hands, returned to me from under the sea.

The best news of all was a mountain of food that had stayed dry (unlike the clothes). We had an excellent feast and good old traditional ways of warming up – vodka for the inside cold, sauna for the outside one. By that time we were already wondering how much planning it had taken for my uncle to arrange all that and how long should our thank-you letter to Nokia and the Estonian coast guard be. It has been a while since I have slept as well as that night.

But on the other side, I felt it was my duty to thank the sea the old way. It had gotten us in trouble, but also let us go and take all our belongings with us as well. If there is one thing that growing up on an island teaches you, it's that the sea is not always so kind. I bought a bottle of vodka and said thanks at the tip of the farthest peninsula.

* except bj, who I was glad to find looking much happier than before.

to Alitalia!

This is a true story of our amazing adventures as Alitalia passengers on our way to and back from Prague for the new year. We were supposed to fly out on the 27th of December and return on the 5th of January. The way it eventually turned out will definitely beat all of my Ryanair/Easyjet adventures and give a valuable insight into Italian organising.

At first, it seems a bit too careful to leave home at 1pm for a flight leaving at half past 6 in the evening. But with the country-line bus usually taking at least an hour to reach civilisation, and the trains moving as it happens (75 minutes late, and the only way of reaching Venice), we arrive in the Marco Polo airport barely in time.

The three queues don't seem to be in a particular hurry, as the huge clock over the departures board is showing 40 minutes until take-off. For the first half-hour we don't move at all. 10 minutes to take-off. The poor Japanese guy is still standing, humble back turned to us, at the first check-in desk. The Russians in front of another queue need a translation by phone. Restlessness show in every face. Will we catch our connection flight? Do we have to sleep in the airport? People meet each others' eyes in search of news, or just a comforting eye-roll – yes, I too think it's outrageous. The tiny Dutch woman in front of me keeps dashing off to the information desk, turning more and more red every time.

Some talk of fog reaches the end of the queue. 5 minutes to take-off. The “estimated time” so politely added to every check-in notice board is still 18:30 for the flight to Milano Malpensa, an airport roughly 4 hours away by train. Malpensa, the most important transport centre of half of Italy, the biggest airport of Milano, serving the sprawling mess of a city with the official population of 1,3 million (same as whole Estonia), has happened to be built in an exceptionally foggy area. This means that the airport's strict schedule rules apply only for the passengers, but not for incoming or outgoing flights. Because of fog. Or something else that can be called fog. The rumours moving along from person to person is the only news we receive.

At departure time, a strict-looking woman in a uniform appears to divide the line. The ones whose flight is still scheduled to leave from Malpensa, and the others. - Where are you flying? - Milano. - And then? What is your final destination? - Prague. - (she checks her list) Alright, stay here. It's clear that we won't fly anywhere tonight. In the meantime, the official-woman has found the Russians, and keeps repeating: fiiinnnaaalll destination! Milano, yes, and then?? I see a nerve going in her temple, as she shakes her papers with white knuckles. Apparently the poor Russian woman doesn't understand a word, shakes her head helplessly and repeats to each question: Miljano... Miljano...

Half an hour after scheduled departure time, we have tickets to another flight for the next morning and a promise of paid accommodation for the night. Along with a Greek tourist group and two queues of delayed passengers. The tension has fallen a bit. Nervous as everyone is, they know there is nothing left to do but wait. People are sorted into double and triple rooms. A bus comes. There aren't enough seats, and we are given a taxi instead. It's definitely more comfortable, and the driver is talking in a broad Venetian about all the eccentric tourists he's transporting. We arrive before the bus and park next to a Ferrari on the hotel's driveway. Our accommodation is a five-star 18th century villa, with doubles for 255 euro for a night.


Villa Condulmer

As all the passengers file into the elaborate hall, the anxious faces change. Expressions of indignation turn into curiousity, and then disbelieving smiles. The place is something we've never seen before. The elaborate walls, Murano glass chandeliers, gold-lined mirrors, soft sound-muffling carpets. I, and most likely most of the group, would normally never set foot in a place like this. And, indeed, we do look remarkably out of place. The pot-plants spill some leaves in surprise. Glancing up at the carved ceiling, we lower our voices and straighten our backs, half-heartedly wishing to have worn something smarter than travelling-sweaters. Many will rush off to their rooms to change for dinner.

Considering they could have had only an hour notice of receiving 50 people at once, the kitchen performs admirably. We have a choice between a fish-menu and a meat one, the skinny waiter informs us in the best standard-Italian. The fish-menu is an insalata di mare (sea-food salad) for a starter, the first course a taglierini con frutti di mare (long pasta with assorted seafood), and the second course a branzino con verdura al vapore (fish and steamed vegetables). The meat menu is culatello con verdura (the most tender of Italian hams, with vegetables), tagliolini con anitra (a long pasta with duck), and tagliata di manzo con spinaci (tender beef with spinach). We get an excellent sparkling white wine to start. From the appetizer onwards, my Italian companions go through every detail of the meals and find it to be at least one of their best dinners ever in sense of preparation, quality and style. It's true. The food is wonderful, and I see even the lamentuous Dutch woman looking happier.

The boys round up the culinary experience by ordering some French cognac from 1938, paying 9 euro for each glass, and staying to enjoy all their money is worth for as long as the wide glass allowes them to. To Alitalia! To a good night's sleep! To Alitalia! To Le Corbusier, 1938! To Alitalia!


The flight goes on

We take the bus to the airport at 5 in the morning. Yawning, we check in, nap until the boarding time and find the flight delayed by half an hour. This cuts our time for changing flights in Malpensa fine indeed. But the airport is still foggy. We're delayed for another 10 minutes. Is that how long it takes for the fog to blow off? Apparently it does – we finally take off from Venice. I'm sure to miss our second flight, as we run a record-breaking 5 minutes across the terminal from arrivals to the gate. The second flight is delayed by half an hour, and our queue mixes with people hoping to fly to Delhi – old men in turbans, forever-young hippies in flip-flops, huddles of brown-eyed children. But even this flight takes off eventually. We're amazed.

The time spent in Czech Republic moved by fast enough. It was a great chance to enjoy some snow, ski, sleigh, drink beer and do other things people generally do for relaxing in the winter. By the 5th of January we were quite tired from it all and the thoughts of our own beds seemed more and more appealing. Until the check-in desk tells us that our flight to Milano Malpensa is delayed by two hours. As it's hopeless to catch our connection flight to Venice this way, it means a night in Milano, and probably not 5 stars either. The information desk says they can put us on another flight to Rome. Yes, please, this way we could at least arrive by midnight.

But Rome is notorious for it's transfer flights. As the trip itself hardly takes any time at all (though the noisy Napoletan family right behind us makes it feel much longer), we arrive in good spirits, happily looking forward to arriving home. We finally leave an hour later, after Daniele has reported his missing backpack. It was to be expected, and we were lucky to retrieve the other bags – after all, Rome is a mess in the best case, a black hole in the worst. But the luggage is found in a few days and despite having flown 4 flights, not even one of them without a delay or some other problem, we are left excitedly telling anyone who would listen about villa Condulmer.