Tallinn by Night
April 23, 2016
Chapter 1: The Russian Ghettoes
It all started on a boring evening, after walking through Tallinn's streets at sunset; beautiful views of a stormy sky over the red roofs and ochre walls of an empty city. Nowhere to go, no one to meet, nothing to do. Homesick. Tired.

Wavering between wanting to be left alone and having some company, I decided to head for a cafe - anywhere would do - where I could sit in a dark corner and have a comforting slice of pie and a tea. Tea was scarce, pie had nothing special to it, and the dark corner turned into the table closer to the band. Apparently, I was out of luck.
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On stage, the young and inexperienced singer and accompanying guitarist were attempting covering well known American songs. Help was sorely needed. A drummer came to the rescue, soon followed by a bassist. At some point, the singer swapped, supported by his own band, and the small already overcrowded stage overflowed. So when an acoustic guitarist enlisted in the evolving band, he spilled over to my table. Naturally.
He pulled the unoccupied chair and might have apologized for ruining my forsakenness for all I know. For a while, I made an effort to go on tapping on my phone and brooding over the distance separating me from my loved ones, but my table guest kept asking forgiveness for his intrusion in a very proper English, both for good reason since he was Canadian. This alone may have been sufficient to prompt me to communicate with this potential cure to homesickness. However, to improve the entertaining odds, the music had switched to Slavic tunes and his jamming skills were impressive.

Canadian conversation, Russian Estonian music, American silent movie and Czech beverage got the better of me. A few sets later, I was still enjoying the rotating show, glimpsing the black and white picture floating in the background, and chatting now and then with my newfound link to homeland.
This is when the bassist woke me from my stupor by loudly and bluntly asking me to take him home.
I was shocked - no one had ever asked my favours in this fashion - and I was irresolute.
 I bid my time with a joke and quickly analyzed the situation: In the span of the evening, the scarce words we had exchanged consisted of my refusal to have a drink on him, and since my bed was located in a nearby hostel, practicality would dictate heading directly there. His English was broken and my Estonian or Russian skills non-existent, which made clumsy wording the only viable option.
On one hand safety and boredom were patiently waiting, on the other the unknown. Should I even hesitate?
I threw my fate to the four winds and decided to accept his offer: I would drive his car in exchange for a taxi ride back.
Music carried on, closing time came, and closing time went. The bassist proved to be the owner of the bar - which explained the drink offer earlier on, and the invitation to the sacrosanct kitchen grotto where what was left of our company greedily shared cheese pancakes. Our stomachs full, we exited the den’s depth to unsteadily hobble down the streets in search of the car. There, to my surprise, young waitress, awkward drummer, chatty co-citizen and tipsy owner all entered the confines of the vehicle, and I was given the key to this cargo’s safety.

Driving in Tallinn is no different than driving in France or Canada, you just need to sort thought the informal chatter to find the instructions. Thus, I drove to what they described as the Russian ghettoes to drop them off, one by one, to their massive concrete grey blocks. Last but not least, I was left with the boss. To his command, I parked the car on the curb and exited the vehicle, still not knowing what would come next. There, late at night, clouds obscuring the stars over this Soviet jungle, he called a cab, shook my hand, and I headed back to the city proper, leaving him behind to his wife and sleeping children.
Safety passage home had been granted, the adventure had ended, and a new set of friends would be waiting for me the following day.
Chapter 2: The Drumming Company
As planned, there I was the next evening, sitting at the bar, sipping on a foreign beer. My fellow Canadian joined me soon after. On the stage, the singer was back, the guitarist different. Better. The evening gently trailed off. A Swedish group was cheaply drinking away, live music playing, the same silent movie plastered on the wall. A couple came in, foreigners. Another left, she drank more than he. A cocktail was being prepared. The usual… Until an inconspicuous fellow walked in.
Tall, thin, a chiseled face, well dressed. Russian probably. A nervous kind of man. In his wake, one of Tallinn’s finest, but certainly not a cop. A heavily jawed cherub, his wide shoulders sporting a leather jacket affiliating him to an anarchy brotherhood. Typically, his bulky motorbike was parked close by.

Brains appeared to be undecided: Mingling on the floor and winning his way to the sweet waitress’ heart, or exploring the underground world; Smilingly rolling up his sleeves to help the bartender, or seriously weighing a heavy bag of what seemed to be coins?
Brute was stealthily following, surprisingly filling his plausible position to the perfection; I even caught myself forgetting his presence.

I had to think twice: Were their attire and obscure behaviour hinting to reality, or was it my wild imagination? The answer to this question was partly granted to me, their shady role in society somewhat confirmed, when my compatriot and I went for a smoke, followed by these odd protagonists. Nice enough devils. Sadly, I will never have the guts to ask them the whole story.
Back at the bar, the same singer and guitarist were playing, the Swedes highly spirited, and the couch between their two tables free. Some comfort was most welcome and the sight over the stage pleasant. However, it wasn’t long before that sofa got crowded with inebriated Swedish bears drumming on red plastic flowerpots with thick colouring crayons. How this had materialized will forever remain a mystery; the only sure thing is that these gadgets multiplied until everyone in the group I had visibly integrated had their hands full. A bongo was found. The set of drums was taken by storm. The Swedish Off-Beat Drumming Band had been formed.

Slowly but surely, the cafe emptied, starting with the singer obviously not intoxicated enough. To my astonishment, the boss was either fine or oblivious to our small group’s merrymaking - dancing, hugging and thundering included. However, I have to admit that the men drinking and standing by the door looked like they were having a blast watching us.

It is impossible for me to say how much time elapsed, but among the uncontrollable laughter, the drums were given a rest, the guitarist stopped playing, arguing that his fingers had had too much to drink, and found his seat next to me in the collapsing sofa - stunned by my drumming skills I suppose. The Swedes vanished. I was left alone with him. He was American.
Sadly, nothing remains of this evening; only a lasting memory and these mere words.