#any estonians following me who could translate it

[yekokataa]

argo shared the original sketch of the precinct layout from the revachol tabletop campaign. finally we can see how it's ladybug shaped!

[eurosong]

Undo my ESC

Good evening, folks! If you saw my first instalment of “Undo my ESC”, the annual feature where I make a year’s Eurovision better for me by making alterations in each country, you might have thought that ESC getting cancelled had dulled my edge, since, comparing to usual standards, I hardly changed much at all there. Well, that’s because, once again, we have seriously uneven semis, and Semi #1 would have been killer, whilst Semi #2 would have been dead. Here is what Í would have done to even those semis up! 🇦🇱 Albania: The Albanian delegation had seemingly done all it could to wash its hands of, well, two years of comparatively excellent results with authentic, melancholically poëtic and qualitative tracks, namely Malland Ktheju tokës. They brought in Byuckman, in whose interest it is for the contest to become as generically “radio-friendly” as possible, and the genius who brought us lyrics like “this is love/rain falls from above”. As judges. Of a serious musical festival. The foreign jurors did as expected, and voted for the appointed “bop”, but were foiled, however, by one of the minority Albanian jurors on the panel who put it  low in her ranks. An actual renowned music professor who got called all the names under the sun for doing so. And so, to an ensuing shitstorm, the classical and powerful Shaj prevailed instead. Unfortunately, the battle was won but the war was lost, because the representative herself took the lessons of 2018-9, threw them down the aeroplane toilet on the way to LA, and ripped the spirit out of the song, reverting back to the previous Albanian trend of terrible “revamps” and laboured translations into English. The result, Fall from the sky, is but a husk of the original. In my ESC, I’d probably simply keeping the original version of Shaj, which was my uncontested #1 of all songs, but part of me would opt for Ajër, which I love almost as well but which doesn’t carry the baggage of hanging over my head like the sword of Democles this entire season. 🇦🇲 Armenia: I’ve more often than not loved the entries of Hayastan, from the joyous Jan Jan to the soaring Fly with me and defiant Walking out. To say they took a step back this year is kind – it was more like a powerful jump backwards that landed them in the nearest ocean, where they sank like a stone. It was one of the most singularly unpalatable NFs that I have ever watched in this era. Rather than retraumatise myself by going into detail about it, I’ll just say, I would have sent Srbuk or Artsvik again to get the top 10 that I feel both warranted!

🇦🇹 Austria: What a journey for Österreich. From Conchita to this guy, a perky homophobe who explicitly said he wished his kids would not turn out to be gay. He comes up with a third-rate impersonator of a third-rate Benjamin Ingrosso impersonator’s third-rate impersonation of a Timberlake b-side. I would throw that in the bin and invite Pænda back from last year for a shot at redemption after her gorgeous Limits got slept on in 2019.

🇧🇬 Bulgaria: Some people had the neck to say to me “who needs Hungary when Bulgaria is coming back?” Well, I do. Hungary were constantly in the top of my rankings, and just quietly and consistently brought quality. Bulgaria has brought me one good thing – Poli Genova’s œuvre – and a tonne of hype. Their song this year was one of the favourites, and I still can’t wrap my head around how other than the force of PR. It’s a bizarre, unsettling combination of passive-aggressive “look how much you’re making me hurt myself” lyrics with Disneyish saccharine accompaniment, topped off with a key change?! For want yet again of a national final, I would bring Poli back – third time even luckier? 🇨🇿 Czechia: The Bohemians (and Moravians) keep it contemporary but superficial for a third year running, although, thankfully, for the first time since they began doing national finals, we finally have a song without a dubious attitude towards women in the lyrics. Not that there is much to analyse in those lyrics. It’s a merely ok song for me, no better, no worse: a superior alternative would have been Barbara Mochowa’s lush and contemplative second effort, White and black holes, or the glorious 90s British indie-influenced All the blood. 🇩🇰 Denmark: Did Denmark confound international monitors into calling it the world’s happiest country by exposing them to the relentlessly cheery songs that they pick for Eurovision lately? And yet – I really do say yes to Yes, To a certain extent, to a limited amount of exposure, and despite the fact that it leans a little too hard into the territory of sounding like a second Little talks. It was one of the few good songs from DMGP – I also liked the 80s shoegaze-ish Den eneste goth– and I feel so mad at DR that they won’t give Ben and Tan a guaranteed second shot to represent their country after they won in front of an empty crowd. 🇪🇪 Estonia: The days of Eesti being Beesti seem like from a distant memory to me, but there was some quality and quirkiness in Eesti Laul, buried under mountains of beigedom, like the rich-voiced Egert Miller’s soulful Georgia, the jazzy Write about me, or the feisty earworm that was Ping pong. Instead, we got a dreary dirge with sub-Hallmark lines about wot luv is, which would have sounded dated in a contest 30 years ago, sung by a repugnant guy who tried to get people to vote for him last year by leaning on the idea that he was the “only true Estonian.” I’d have Egert get his rightful place as Jüri Pootsmann’s spiritual successor. 🇫🇮 Finland: I was one of the few to be jubilant when a bizarre ode to an Italian porn star with a backing track sounding like a violated version of Eläköön elämä came second in the polls to its spiritual opposite: a shy and rather awkward guy singing a quietly moving song about the passing of time. I love Looking back and wouldn’t change a thing. 🇬🇪 Georgia: You never know what to expect from Georgia, except the unexpected, and yet even I was surprised by what they came up with: a close-shaven guy with veins popping in his head screaming “why don’t you love meeeee?” to a rocky, electronic backdrop. Me being me, I actually do like it a lot. “Take me as I am” sounds like a veiled potshot at the big 5 and a vindication of Georgia’s “keep it weird, send what we want” philosophy. I could suggest that the lyrics, that sound like those of a spurned angsty teen, change a bit, but that would be defeating the purpose of Georgia: one takes them as they are. 🇬🇪 Greece: So, somehow, despite S!STERS coming dead last with 0 pts in the televote last year, using exclamation marks to substitute the letter I is now a thing in Eurovision with the advent of Superg!rl. I spent an hour watching folk waffle on in Greek in its reveal show only for them to reveal the song literally at the very end, so after that, it was a little underwhelming, and nowhere near as good as Better love in 2019. I don’t hate it – and the music video’s concept of her being an amazing superhero who can change the world, but instead she’s stopping people slipping over bananas and rescuing cats from trees is weirdly endearing, so it can stay, but I’d improve the lyrics, particularly in the chorus. “I’m a supergirl, supergirl, in a crazy world, crazy world” is not much higher than “this is love, rain falls from above” in historically bad Greek lyrics at ESC. 🇮🇸 Iceland: Daði Freyr came back from near-victory with the delightful Is this love, added a lovely inspiration in his newborn daughter to a similarly funky and playful track, and came out with Think about things. Unlike what usually happens with songs that are a little bit odd, I was positively surprised to see it walk the NF, and become a phenomenon even outside the ESC fandom. This was perfect and joyous from beginning to end. I hope Iceland will not be like the other Nordics, and will invite Daði directly back .🇱🇻 Latvia: I have come to enjoy the bizarre chaötic energy of Still breathing, It’s a hot mess, but I take weird over dull any day. It wasn’t my favourite in Supernova – that would be the effortlessly cool Polyester, an earworm with a social conscience, written about the cost of fast fashion but dismissed by many people as “she luvs t-shirts song lol”. Given that Samanta Tina tried over half a dozen times to go to ESC, finally won and then had the chance ripped out of her hands by the cancellation, I don’t have the heart to remove her from my ideal ESC 2020 though. She stays, but maybe the staging changes? It’s odd to have what you believe is a feminist anthem but then relegate your backing singers to in the distance, their faces shielded away. 🇲🇩 Moldova: Life is too short to follow Moldovan national finals, especially when you know, lately, that whoever is backed by the hilariously inaptly named Dream team will win there. They are like a parasite, sucking out the colour and fun out of a country that once had plenty of both – cross-reference Hora din Moldova or Lăutar to name just two examples. I guess out of an uninspiring lineüp, I’d go for Moldoviţa for having at least a hint of the brassy folk that used to be their calling card. 🇵🇱 Poland: Speaking of calling cards, after a one year hiatus with an arresting combo of white voice and rocky instrumentation, Poland has returned to what it has most often done in recent years – presented us with an absolute dirge, Empires, which seems like it was written by an unenthusiastic English student whose homework assignment (for which they received a generous C-) was to write a poëm with a bunch of metaphors “we’re moths to a flame, birds to a pane of glass, gasoline and a match”. Despite having a big music industry from which to choose many gems, Poland offers me little alternative choice given that there were only three songs in their grand final – one by the Czech representative last year who, as you might guess from what I said literally a sentence up, isn’t even Polish!Horny Elf, who’s contractually obliged to write only creepy lyrics for songs, tried to represent Polska with a song inspired by a true-life situation where he went around Tel Aviv with a cardboard cutout of one of the hostesses of the show. It’s a love song inspired by gallivanting around with a piece of cardboard. Addressed to that actual hostess. And it’s an almighty earworm that hasn’t escaped my mind since. Amazingly, his Lucy would be my Polish representative. 🇵🇹 Portugal: Portugal is another country beloved by me by for dancing to the beat of its own drummer, or perhaps, rather shedding tears to the strumming of its own fado guitar. They struggled being different, they won being different, and for the last few years they’ve struggled again, despite having a lot of support for both O jardim and Telemóveis amongst fans. This year, the televote went for one interesting song, the charmingly Gallic, accordion-drenched Passe-partout, a song about a cultured girl shaking off her boorish ex who could “never even get into Piaf”, whilst the jury got behind another interesting song, Gerbera, an entrancing, arresting and poëtic song laden with metaphor about the idea of music competing itself. This let Medo de sentir,second in both polls, turn silver into gold. It’s a lovely, heart-felt track, but rather unexceptional - I would have had one of the other more singular songs win. 🇸🇲 San Marino: The weird boil on the face of ESC that somehow never pops, SM is back after its bewildering qualification with a tone-deaf dentist wailing to a microwaved disco song… with something actually palatable, sort of. The aptly named Freaky is dated, odd, overly busy, but Senhit has a lot of charisma, and the idea of “break[ing] all the rules, mak[ing] up some new [ones] and destroy[ing] all of them too” and “life goes by too quickly not to be freaking it up”, well, maybe we do get on board. 🇷🇸 Serbia: Serbia is usually a byword for quality at the contest – they won with one of the best 21st century winners hands down in Molitva, and also sent some of the most beautiful compositions in the contest’s history at the hands of Željko. This year, they decided to join in the leitmotif of reliable countries sucking by sending a group that sound like a third-rate mid-2000s girl band from Transnistria when beautiful songs like Cvet sa Prokletija were right there. 🇨🇭 Switzerland: Fair play to the Swiss for not doing a Cyprus and leaning in on their success with their male Fuego, She gat me, and instead going in a completely different direction with this moody effort. I’m not entirely convinced by the teenage emo-ish lyrics or the unnecessary falsetto, but Répondez-moi is a refreshing effort, and has the bonus of being in French too! And the automatic qualifiers: 🇫🇷 France: You’ve heard of France, right? You know, that wee country south of Belgium, north of Andorra, not much of a music industry… or so you’d think, given that the troolee jeenyuss new delegation, who abandoned their brilliant national final which showcased how diverse and qualitative their music scene is despite it being a huge success in the fandom, and instead reached out to the writer of last year’s last place song for the UK and a few other rentaswedes and they produced something that sounds like a b-side that not even Westlife would have recorded, replete with a stock key change. About as French as IKEA köttbullar. A real shame for one of Europe’s most highly esteemed cultural hotbeds. If they wanted to pick Tom Leeb, who seems like a nice guy and has written some lovely music, he could have made his own song and it would have indubitably been scores better than this. 🇪🇸 Spain: I’m going to apply this to all the automatic qualifiers voting on this semi-final: they scrapped a national final for this? OT was not an ideal format as last year demonstrated with its shit show of contestants sabotaging themselves so as not to get picked for ESC – but still. There’s not much I can say about this other than I don’t like it much and I’d rather Spain return to a proper NF. You don’t spend time trapped on a bus where this song with its torturous falsetto was on replay and emerge with fond feelings. 🇬🇧 United Kingdom: Usually, in this space, I can point to a song that the UK should have sent and that I fell in love with – like I wish I loved you more or You. Once again, though, another big 6 nation scrapped their NF after tanking it with a bizarre format last year. The BBC said nothing for months, then were unwilling to spend tv time on ESC this year so just blurted out an announcement of an announcement in  about 40 seconds after some dance show. And then they dropped this song. It’s… passable at best, with an annoying chorus (especially that beat in “my last… breath”) and a staggering amount of repetition in a song that clocks in at only around 80% of the standard Eurovision song length. James Newman surely could have come up with something better. It’s a baby step in the right direction, but one taken at the shore where you need to start running to avoid getting pulled away in a rip.

[flapperfromthefuture]

I’ve been experimenting with a couple of new ways to beat the winter blues—baking with such frenzy that I have to buy the 18 egg cartons and the person at the register asks me, “Big weekend plans?” every. single. time, and expanding my horizons with such gusto that I nearly got dropkicked by a jazz enthusiast.

Let me explain.

After watching a beautiful tombstone-grey sunset at 3:30 one October afternoon, I had the urge to bake because “You can’t stick your head in the oven if there’s other stuff in there.”

So I have been baking. Like, obsessively.

I’ve even gotten fancy. I made a povitica, the Aaron Burr of breads, with raspberry and then apricot jam (very sticky, but tasty). Then I wanted to try a savory challah, so I experimented with adding different amounts of cardamom and THEN za’atar.

I tried making challah with harissa because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was super messy working the harissa into the dough and then braiding it before the whole loaf could fall apart, but the end result was delicious and made my kitchen smell like a spice market in the midst of somewhere warm that is not Michigan.

I made two Bienenstich, or bee sting cakes, which I hadn’t attempted since my brioche class. I managed not to overdo the topping this time! No almond-induced structural collapses here.

Then I made this gigantic cinnamon roll, which the recipe claimed was an Estonian Kringla, and since the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had was in Estonia, I tried it out. And it was pretty good, but didn’t quite get me to pre-winter euphoria levels, aka enough energy to stay awake past mid-afternoon because it’s so dark outside.

My sister really wanted to make Halloween desserts together, which translated into me buying all the supplies and then baking everything myself while she lay on the floor.

She had just run a half-marathon . . . five days earlier.

I don’t like making Rice Krispie treats as they are a tactile nightmare. Everything you touch sticks to you forever and then continues to stick to you even after you die. I also gravely miscalculated how many marshmallows to buy (because weight and volume are different, apparently? School never covered that) and my mom will not let me live it down—anyone who stops by the house is asked, “Do you want something to drink? Or maybe some marshmallows? Elizabeth bought a thousand.”

Stella likes to say, “God knew you’d be too powerful if you were good at math.”

I don’t enjoy cooking as much as baking, but I made my yearly stab at sides for Thanksgiving. These harissa sweet potatoes looked beautiful but were a little too spicy for my weak-ass family.

(I also may have put in too much harissa. But it’s expensive and I wanted to use it all!).

A and I are officially in the throes of cabin fever, and when our beloved Midnight Madness rolled around, she decided that we needed to mix things up and elected to check out a jazz club downtown that we had never visited. Our friend Julia was with us and her mom was in town from the East Coast, so A thought we’d show them a sophisticated time . . . after visiting the holiday petting zoo, of course, and making a quick stop in the Himalayan Bazaar to see if the Yeti was around—he was not, because he never is, BUT I WILL SEE HIM NEXT YEAR SO HELP ME. 

Stella did not join us for Midnight Madness, electing instead to stay in and watch The Crown, which in hindsight, was too much of a gamble to take without supervision.

We swept into the jazz club with our heavy coats and dorky beanies and I immediately felt way too square to chill with the jazz cats. Everyone had sleek scarves and trendy eyewear and even the gorgeous modern light fixtures seemed to judge us as we sat at our table.

There was a lady wearing sunglasses inside. At night. In winter.

It was below freezing out. I thought, “Is this an awards show?”

I had only eaten roasted almonds and hot chocolate for dinner so I needed something revitalizing . . . or barring that, mozzarella sticks.

This jazz club did not have mozzarella sticks. Mozzarella sticks aren’t cool. They had charcuterie plates, pate, foie gras PB&J (why?), and charred baby octopus (WHY?), and everything was super expensive, but there was a jazz quintet onstage that seemed really legit, so I was excited to get some culture, even at the expense of mozzarella sticks.

A stared down at the menu like she could intimidate it into submission. She will eat anything, but draws the line at baby animals that have been set on fire.

“I don’t know what to get,” she said. “This never happens to me.”

“What are you guys ordering?” I asked Julia and her mom.

And then, out of nowhere, SLAM, a hand smacked our table loud enough to make me jump. An older man glared at me and said, “I’m not paying to hear you talk.”

He looked a lot like Santa, which made it even more distressing. I don’t want to get in trouble with Santa!

A is from Chicago and doesn’t take anyone’s shit (which is good for me, because to quote John Mulaney, “You could pour soup into my lap and I’d apologize to you“), so she looked Santa right in the eye and said, very calmly, “You don’t need to take that tone. We’ve never been here before and we’re trying to figure out what to order.”

Santa scowled and said, “Just be quiet.” Like we were children, which we are not. We patronize jazz clubs!

Just so we’re clear, A was the most well-behaved child who ever childed and practically showed up to preschool with a briefcase. No one has ever told her, “Just be quiet.” And I was so hyperfocused on craft kits and Legos that no one ever told me that either. In fact, adults scolded me to be less quiet because “You’re like a little ninja.”

“That wasn’t very Midwestern,” said Julia. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Mom. People in Ann Arbor are usually very chill.”

“He’s probably a boomer,” said Julia’s mom, who is a boomer herself, and incredibly cool.

We ordered our drinks and tried to enjoy the jazz.

Here’s the thing about jazz. People think they enjoy it, because music, right? Who doesn’t like music? Everyone loved La La Land, and there was jazz in that, right?

But what you don’t know about jazz, until you’re trapped in a jazz club with incinerated child octopi and furious boomers, is that the average jazz song is about fifteen minutes long. There’s the normal part, that sounds like a song and tells a story you can follow and enjoy, and then the improv starts. Every musician starts playing scales or hitting the drums in a way that should be exciting but really isn’t, and should build to something musically but really doesn’t, and then when they’re done the audience claps and the next person does the same thing, but it’s like listening to several minutes of joke set-ups with no punchlines. Over and over, until they just stop and then the next song starts.

“Are they going to do this for every song?” I thought about saying, but then did not, because I didn’t want to anger the man.

Instead, I checked my phone for a quick primer on jazz appreciation.

I still hadn’t eaten anything and A had declared that we wouldn’t be ordering any food so we could leave sooner . . . but not soon enough.

Other people were chatting and eating and enjoying the music, but I wasn’t doing any of those things.

A was glaring daggers into the back of Santa’s head.

Julia and her mom weren’t super into it either, to the point that Julia claimed that if she rushed the stage and pretended to be the next act by riffing on a triangle, no one would question it. Her mom was supportive of this, so it was time to go.

We said good-bye outside, relieved at finally being allowed to speak freely.

“That drum solo went on FOREVER,” said Julia.

“I thought the cymbal crash meant it was over but it just kept going!” said A.

“I really liked La La Land an hour ago and now I hate it,” I said.

So my journey to find something that will beat seasonal affective disorder back to whence it came continues. Will I go complicated and attempt to make my first panettone, which can take 24 HOURS to bake?

Or keep it simple and just get some mozzarella sticks?

          Baking vs. Jazz: Holiday Showdown I’ve been experimenting with a couple of new ways to beat the winter blues—baking with such frenzy that I have to buy the 18 egg cartons and the person at the register asks me, "Big weekend plans?" every.

[le-petitmort]

Ye olde smut time machine II

***Back in the day I wanted to prove I could write any genre of erotica. Of course, I did. Here's a tidbit of my take on a sadistic psycho dominatrix with multiple personality disorder. Enjoy. ***

He had a noticeably Estonian first name, with a surname which made me reminisce of a prodigious, departed stranger from a winter’s night tryst in Bruges. A marbled chest, of which The Louvre was unworthy and that smile. That smile which screamed “rape whistle, where are you!?” Inhibitions to the wayside in the name of conquest and danger.

Yet why worry? As always my trusty girl, the dagger of my dreams was by my side. “Baby Doll I love you.” No silly, it wasn’t this dusky manchild baying his affection in a not very subtle attempt to woo and conquer. It was Karo, La Karolina, adjusting unblemished eyeshadow before sliding my crimson tipped index and middle finger over each faultless framing brow. One soft luxuriant palm dropped to pat the pearl encrusted handle of the trusted dagger at my hip. ‘Baby doll, I love you.” A girl and her poniard should never be underestimated.

I had allowed my suitor to accompany me home. Coy moves along the way ensued. He would twirl me into his arms. A dip low enough for my highlighted tips to nearly touch the filth of the sidewalk below. Natch, you naughty boy. As much pleasure as you seem to take in your own personal grooming, treat the Goddess with respect. It was as if he could read my mind. Chiseled forearms steadied me back atop my stilettos.

Slam, I crushed him against the nearest brick wall. Looking into his filled with shock eyes I bit hard at his collarbone. An abrupt release of my incisors from his salty skin followed.“A love bite, lover.” No sense in being bashful, my mouth attacked his. Voracious, open mouthed seductions between two tongues. He was smitten. I was decisive.

Back at the Palais de Figaro I asked that he make himself comfortable. By comfortable I meant shirtless. I made my way towards the bar. One of those girlish saunters that sent the finest of my assets swaying for his delight. U’luvka vodka was in order. On the rocks. The humorous thing about U’luvka is that in my mother’s native tongue, Polish, it quite literally means legless. My head tipped in a ponderous moment. I wonder what this manly piece of cheesecake would look like legless?

Would it be like the odd little knight in the Monty Python movie. Filled with a false bravado as each limb separated from torso? Or would he succumb to his failure? Sobbing a mournful bale of regrettable sadness at his impending doom. Begging for his last breaths to be taken by the shiny, delicate blade of Baby Doll. Fuckwit.

Slim fingers silently searched into the bartop drawer, identifying an small folded envelope whose contents were emptied in a slight of hand motion into loverboy’s drink. Stir and prepared. I made the same coquettish steps back towards my new man, handing over his tumbler, then dropping to my knees.

I sipped at the glorious clear liquid while my free hand latched to his buckle. Chin lifting I urged, “Drink my lover. Pić oraz moją miłość.” A tender smile cracked before dropping my head to engulf the incessant growth of his virile manhood.

Some say it’s all in the wrist motion. That light twist and grasp as your head bobs ruby lips and porcelain teeth to graze past the coursing with blood veins of his shaft. There is the requisite gasp before beginning. “It’s so large Baby! Can I even fit it in my mouth? Oh my?” That’s right before you go deep, burying your nose into the musky essence of his mons pubis. For effect I will allow him the auditory pleasure of my gagging, as if I were a trashy porngraphic harlot. Yes, big boy. Roll your fingers through my hair, scrunching it, messing it up, ruining it, you indignant fuck.

I pull back, a faux heaving breath as the trail of my spittle dangles precarious like an Amazonian bridge in the wind from my pouted lower lip to bulbous head of his cock. Deft digits pump at the shaft, I go back to work, head jackhammering over his rigid molten shaft until my tresses cascade back like a winged phoenix behind me. Breathe. Assess.

There we go little boy. Those kind eyes are beginning to falter. Lids drooping like the shades of my bedroom window when the perv next door removes his trash, standing at the curb far too long for my liking. I give a shake of his once proud, now diminishing cock. A suitable result, enough to plaster a smirk to my face. I rise, towering between his spread legs as he falls faster towards slumber, arm stretch to swipe away the remains of his drink. Then I spit. Not once but twice. A projectile towards his weak shriveled wanker and one to his cheek. Lotharios are not made to be loved.

Used is their purpose. I watched his jaw draw slack and the first audible snores, throaty and masculine. Good enough for me. With my own drink now in hand I retired to the den, snatching the remote from the mahogany coffee table and tuning in the DVR for a marathon of Young and The Restless. Time was on my side. 1:14 AM.

Three hours of that inglorious bastard Victor Newman later I returned to my sweet prince. If a daily regimen of pilates, crossfit and yoga have done anything for me it’s made this slim, flexible body more than just a fuck toy. It’s made capable of taking care of any situation and more than capable of heaving twice my weight across lean shoulders for the fifty seven steps towards my pleasure room. Stilettos included, because no pain, no gain and balance training is unf.

My heart rate bumped a slight acceleration in what turned out to total fifty nine steps with this lumpy sack of potatoes slung over me. Was it lumpy or was it the cut definition of his rigid abdomen and toned like Adonis pectorals? Clinically speaking as a physician I must err towards the latter.

With a thud I dropped Mister Beef to the safety and comfort of the adjustable examination table. His jeans were thigh high like a lingerie on a Victoria's Secret model, easing my ability to yank them away for the proverbial toss to the corner out of sight. I liked him better this way. As he was brought into this world and how he, time and date dependent upon my mood, would depart from it.

The task of moving him into place went by with ease. I took time to marvel at his feet as I strapped them into the stirrups. Hairless with a crescent curve to the instep leading down to the display of his obvious penchant for pedicures. Pretty nails deserve to be painted. Twisting my head back towards the clock, 4:47 AM. Time enough to pretty up my pretty boy.

In all of my lust induced revelry I had failed to notice the one predominant trait of my newfound friend. Tattoos. Yuck. No rhyme or reason to them. Now, as an educated woman I understand we all have the right to choice. Yet, these. These were random with no story to tell other than possibly a bad decision on drunken night. I am an artist of pain. Preference is given to a clean canvas. Tonight I would take the sullied, and revile him further for poor choices. Whether he could hear me or not.

I sucked in a long, tedious breath through the nostrils of my perfect button nose. “Relax Karolina. Oddychać Karo.” My entertainment had yet to begin and already I was becoming a manic mess.

“He wants to enjoy your gift Karolina.” I walked beside my paramour, finger sweeping away errant hairs from his brow. “How serene you look my lover. At peace. Rested in wait for me to give myself to you.” I clutched each thick wrist in a firm hold, a brusk yank over his head to bind them encased in supple brown leather cuffs. “So pretty. So, so pretty my beautiful boy.”

Six o’clock came and went, the golden sun rising in the east as I stripped and adjourned to the sanctity of my poolside patio. Saturday morning meant Ashtanga yoga. Strenuous poses performed rapid fire between exhale and inhale. Vigorous and absolute focus like the steeled eye of a killer. Perspiration beaded upon my golden skin. Sensual drips sliding over me in a cascade as I bent myself into a fevered pitch. “Namaste Karolina. Namaste.”

Namaste is a word which I love because it has a rough English translation of “Bow to you.” I’ve never been known as one to bow but, I have a sincere appreciation for those who do. Bow to me, that is. My benevolent and guiding hand will lead them along their path. Is it towards righteousness? Hardly. I only deal in the sinners. The wanton. The divisive. The scum. “I, Karolina Figaro, born upon this earth of Italian and Polish heritage seek the guidance of our lord and savior in purging the earth of misdeeds until I take my last living breath. Amen.” I am a proponent of spirituality.

Spirituality and grooming. Mi amore would soon begin to awaken, becoming aware that our tryst to his delight would continue through the daylight hours. Lucky man. To have me catering to sexual needs. Bringing him hurtling toward crescendoed skyrockets of orgasmic bliss.

I cracked two eggs on the skillet waiting until they began to congeal and covered them to baste. A girl needs her protein and from dripped taste of my inamorato I needed a little something more. Breakfast complete I climbed the stairs to the bright lights and mirrors of my elegant white dressing room. A pop in the shower cooled my skin as I adjusted the jets, soon adjusting the water temperature higher until steam billowed at my feet, flowing lazy cloud-like circles above me. “Heaven. this must be heaven.” My mind clicked. “The time Karo. Damn it you insolent child. You have a visitor waiting!”

“Get ready girl. Get ready. Now ragazza stupida!” I could hear the stern voice of my childhood governess chiding me. I felt mortal, small, as weak and low as a meaningless insect. “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am.” I rushed ahead preparing myself and in the tradition of a fine Figaro woman, making myself a stunning display of feminity for my man. My man. I couldn’t even remember his name now. Just those god awful, disgusting gutter trash tattoos. Freak! You freak!

Penciling mascara around my luminous sapphire orbs brought me back on pointe. Babycakes was sure to be up, groggy no doubt but, awaiting me. I did the final preparations, sliding on only a pair of six inch Louboutins and flew towards the stairs. Hey, I needed the shoes. Don’t judge. Extra height, leverage, kinky fuckery. A man appreciates a lady in heels.

As I approached the room I slowed my pace. Stay confident Karolina. He’s going to love you. How can he not!? “You fucking whore bitch!” It was the first words uttered from his foul mouth in hours.

I felt hurt. troubled by his verbal lashing “Baby, is that any way to talk to me after all I’ve done to take care of you.” I rushed forward throwing my arms over his straining physique.

“Let me out of here you fucking cunt.” He screamed. That word. The C word resonating like the chime of a bell tower. It was cause for me to withdraw my earnest goodwill and tidings.

“Cunt? Did you call me a cunt you pathetic excuse for a mammal.” My hand cracked splintered pain across his cheek, a gob of my spit meteoric in travel towards his eye. “You sub-human piece of shit.”

Thankfully, my examination table is well stocked. I threw open a drawer, grabbed a ball gag, which in turn I jammed in his vulgar mouth. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all darling.”

He truly did look like a Greek Olympian or Roman gladiator. Dark skin and solid muscles struggling against his restraints, fighting as if he were in a colosseum battling to the death. I could imagine him a victor valiant. A Goddess bestowing an olive frond upon his head. Then I remembered that he had called me a cunt in a not so nice tone.

“Time for your examination.” I sing songed the words just as I had when I was a lowly Johns Hopkins resident working with underprivileged pediatric patients. “Don’t you worry now lovely. Everything will be alright. Doctor Figaro is going to take wonderful care of you. Loving care.” Reaching into the still open drawer I slipped on a pair of latex gloves before grabbing a fresh tube of lubricant.

I gave my swain a benevolent smile hoping to subside his pain. “Don’t be embarrassed now. I’ve done this many time before.” The lube squirted onto my fingertip, thick and clear. “Let me warm it slightly.” Rolling it over my finger I felt the substance lighten then dropped my hand between his sinewy thighs.

Index pressing at the tight balloon knot between his bubbled buttocks, I began to circle clockwise. Urging, coaxing him to loosen. To not resist like a burdensome baby. I spoke with stern authority. “Let me slide it in. Do not make me force it.” I could feel his ass cheeks clamp together harder. Frustrating little shit. My free palm rose. Not one crack, not two, nor three. Five solid and crushing slaps to his limp little scrotum had Mister Gorgeous hearing my message loud and clear.

The barked order flew forth. “Push outward. It slides in easier if you push like you’re taking a shit. God! Everyone knows that idiot!” I grasped those reddened balls like low hanging grapes and twisted. “Stop being a little bitch. You want this as much as me.”

There it was. A slip past that first ringed muscle. Twirling my finger I began the process of loosening his insides as he groaned. “Delightful isn’t it?” I queried, accompanied by an eager smile. “There we go.” The digit slid deeper, his flaccid cock beginning to grow. “Mmm, you really do like it you naughty boy.” Loverboy’s hips jutted then instinctively clenched at my words. His bony hips lowering flat as an iron, in a thinly veiled attempt to subdue any further delving inside his virgin back door. It was time to help him find pleasure.

Grasping his excited tumescence, I began with languid strokes. Base to tip, insuring my thumb ran over that bundle of nerves under the head which would set his head spinning in sensual erotic craving. “There we go. Let it go. Let your hips rise to each stroke like you’re fucking my mouth. Close your eyes. Imagine us making sweet love in the ocean. Blissful waves crashing over us. Envision how you want to come inside me. Claim me. Make me yours.” His panting and engorged cock was the clue. He was soon to explode jets of his seed, like a fountain, spraying across that hot heaving six pack. “Stop!’ I quit pleasuring him and discontinued the enraptured loosening of his backside.

Sure that he wasn’t going to waste a drop I restarted on his ass. A withdrawal brought two fingers into play, scissoring his sphincter as he gasped in gratification. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? To get your boy pussy finger fucked? Do you want to be taken? Fucked?” the words were but a murmur from my lips. His consent evident in the higher, responsive thrusts.

I managed to step to the side of the table without missing a beat. Pulling from the drawer a heavy, black eight inch strap-on. I believe I heard an incessant no but, no means yes when you make love to a beautiful woman.

The harness slid up my slender, shapely legs. The same legs which many a man had worshipped and which would forcibly guide us towards a climactic denouement. Another squirt of lube and I tossed my soiled gloves, beginning to oil my own phallus before leaning forward to place it at his randy hole.

“Do you want to fuck baby?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“Do you want to get off?”

The shake continued.

“Let me pop that cherry and you can return the favor. Maybe. I’ll let you bathe me with that nasty tongue. Call your Daddy. Be your nasty little slut.”

Like that, the imagery of retaking his rightful place as a man overtook all thought process. My faux cock driving further into his milking, constrictive depths. His cock reacted to the prodding. That lightning bolt as the rubber thundered at his prostate. I could sense the tingle flashing throughout his body. That insidious, body enveloping way, much like hitting my own g-spot, which could make him squirt a cascade of his sinful juices. Withdrawal time.

I slipped back and held before pushing forward rhythmical. An insistent rocking motion as I latched to his hips. My pointy nails dug into the epidermis of his skin, ripping coarse gashes of pain that made his howls grow between the cosmic satisfaction of my downstrokes in his fiery little fuck hole. I was making him my decadent squirming bitch and he was all in. Hot.

My own salacious enjoyment could not be denied. Head falling, sweeps of hair a metronomic brush across my back. Feral moans emitted as I cupped my flushed perky tits providing a forceful twist to the coral pebbles. A storm of release was brewing. The sensation of touch like mind addling drugs to the overexcited nerves between my supple thighs.

“Say my name. Say Karolina. Say you want me to own your boy cunt.” I pounded harder.

“Say my name bitch. Say Karolina I adore. I love you Karolina. I am yours Karolina.” Nothing but tedious groans. Those tight nuts were back in hand in a nanosecond. Squeezing and caressing the fertile life out of them.

“No coming.” My eyes pierced through his. Into his cuckolded soul.

“Karolina.” I grunted guttural. “Say, you are my Goddess Karolina.”

And he did. Profusely exclaiming his assent to my commands with wide eyes and mumbled, gargling words. He was into our rite of passion. His body bucking, jerking on the edge of a stars shooting through the sky explosion of desire. Which is when I reached for the tray next to me, grabbed my beloved Baby doll, pressing down hard until his jugular bulged.

“Fuckwit.”

A sudden sound erupted behind me. Steel clanking a loud clatter as I became bathed in the glow of white light. My neck jerked, eyes hazy on the fevered edge of carnal obsession.

“Figaro..time for your lineup.” Those fucking dyke jailers. This dream was too good to be true. Oh, but soon. Soon enough I would be back on the street. Mommy said so. But, only the guilty do sleep in jail.

[inimene-skates]

Kodu [DenEst fanfiction]

Summary:  Tallinn, the 1990s. The first foreigners come to Estonia that has recently freed itself from the Soviet terrors. Mathias Kohler becomes one of those daring people while seeking inspiration for his book. Thrilled to find out more about Estonian punk culture, he stumbles upon one of its particularly interesting subjects named Eduard. What follows next is a story about trust and freedom, revolution and philosophy, love and culture. A story about the land where they found kodu – a home.

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094802

Notes: After my rather prolonged hiatus I finally came up with something decent. I believe this world needs more DenEst since this rarepair is absolutely stunning. All the events in the fic are a mere fruit of my imagination; however, it is based on the events that really took place in the 1990s: the times when the USSR dissolved and Estonia regained its independence. At the time, the punk culture in Estonia was particularly popular.

I have previously posted this fic in its original language (Russian) here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6731059

The main inspiration of the work comes from a song of the famous Estonian singer Ott Lepland "Kodu", you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbyOx-1AGNg

There’s a lot of Estonian slang used in this story so please refer to the notes for translations. ___________________ Ma ei oska vene keelt — I don't speak Russian Tõmba nahhui, idikas! — fuck off you idiot Ime lahti! — same as previous Oota — wait Putsi — Estonians would use this word to curse if/when something goes wrong Vend — dude Lilla (also: pede) — fag Keppi mind — fuck me Mida sa tegid? — what have you done? Mul on nii kahju — I am very sorry 

Also, I tried to illustrate punk Eduard for you so take a look for a better reading experience! Enjoy!

_____________________________________

Mathias first saw him by Kadriorg. He was the one who the Dane caught his sight of from all six members of that frenziedly formed circle. Mathias could not be sure exactly why: perhaps, it was his hair with its part being tousled up and dyed unbelievably intense, almost acidic, pink, and making him look head up taller than the rest of the gang, even though, in reality, he appeared a rather short person. Perhaps, it was all a cocky look he gave the Dane with his mesmerizing eyes of cornflower color boldly fetched out by what seemed to be poorly blended blackish eye pencil. Or, perhaps, the reason could be the way he stood up front deeply inhaling the smoke of his self-made joint as Mathias approached him.

One way or another, Mathias knew for sure it is this fascinating man who would become the main focus of his next improvised interview.

“Tõmba nahhui, idikas!” One of the fellows standing straight behind the subject of Mathias’ attention and whose forehead was crossed over by an apparently fresh wound decided to move forward with an uncovered attack on a stranger. Mathias could not blame him. In Estonia, the land that tried to make it through the quite tough times, people like him, that is to say, people devoted to the punk culture could only hope for a better perception of their selves. That involved, for a kickoff, a better understanding of the origins and existence of their culture and, ideally, less or no condemnation of the bad habits that most of the punks had, according to the public.

In any case, Mathias knew he did not make any mistake by having chosen him. It seemed to him that the young Estonian himself was the leader of that offhand punk gang judging by how daringly he rebuffed his fellow gang mate with a clear and abrupt ‘oota!’. His frown vanished freeing space for a spark of interest. Hoary smoke disappeared into the soft blow of the April wind, not freezing yet not too warm. He was looking at Mathias and his astonishingly vibrant eyes revealed emotions rather opposite to the light dimming inside his body. To Mathias, it seemed like the tragic but, nevertheless, stunning fate of the Estonian folk itself was reflecting in the eyes of this young man.

“Ma ei oska vene keelt,” The Estonian breathed into the air thickened by the cigarette smoke and locked his eyes with the stranger. Mathias gave him a smile getting his message. In the scope of the latest events, he could not even ask for the opposite.

“Ma ei oska ka vene keelt.” The Dane felt that his Estonian language skills had just reached their limit. “English?”

Someone in this incredible company seemed to have started to be running out of patience. Someone else pocked the leader in his shoulder but he shrugged it off making it clear that the next poke would cost his fellow not a mere shrug but a punch. With the back of the hand. There was someone who smirked and spit on the gravel-inlaid road.

“No English, vend.” Here is where Mathias started losing his hope in the abyss of the language barrier. Up to the point when the Estonian himself restored it by giving it a chance to exist with a soft but clear, “Aber ich kann Deutsch sprechen.”

Mathias’ lips stretched in a wide smile of relief. He knew they would make it work from that time on.

***

Only two things in this world could Mathias not stand – being bound to one place and the lack of inspiration. The prior was pretty hard to live with yet easy to handle. At least, for the man that made a living from writing articles for an independent publisher, finding himself in different points in the world to seek unconditional and outstanding events was quite a regular thing – later on, Mathias used them as sources for the new pieces of word art. He could not say that such activity earned him a fortune though; it happened to be just enough to make ends meet. Not that Mathias longed for more. Most of his time he spent outside the walls of his tiny apartment in Aarhus and in times of inspiration did not care much for a place to sleep or the food offered to him but was thrilled by a single fact of being somewhere new and uncharted. In the end, his every little adventure ended up with a new article sent to the publisher for editing – and off he went again as he found himself at the starting point of a circle of his life.

The inspiration was a completely opposite problem. Especially in the recent times. Although the nineties, the times of drastic changes in the unstable world, gave practically endless room for seeking inspiration, Mathias could not find a single place to plant his seed of creation. Everyone around him was making too much noise about the fall of the iron curtain and the collapse of the entire (post) Soviet bloc. But the Dane found it absolutely boring.

This was how Mathias ended up in Estonia. While the rest of the First World was enjoying the comfort and coziness of their apartments reaping the benefits of the post-industrial society and shaking their heads in disapproval of what was going on beyond the borders of the former Land of the Soviets, Mathias had got enough of this worthless pleasure. The decision was made out of the blue. The Dane visited his office the same day letting the boss know with undoubted valor that he was going to chase an ultimate breakthrough in the art of periodical writing in liberated Estonia.

So here he was, standing in the middle of a paved street road having his light scarf wrapped around his neck and put on the variety of decent tourist equipment: a backpack full of snacks and items he did not even recall, a fresh t-shirt, a new coat and a map with a proud ‘Tallinn’ printed at its top. However, this is where the tourist image of the young Dane came to its limits. Tourism as such was the last thing he sought in this cold land not yet recovered from the terrors of the last fifty years.

Mathias knew exactly what he sought. He sought people that were deemed yet not threatening but rather isolated. The young men wearing high boots and creating colorful masterpieces, that could easily beat up the most professional barbers in the art of hair styling, out of their hair. The young ladies changing the ‘right’ and ‘socially acceptable’ garments for the ultra-short skirts and combing their hair up in the chaotic shape to the point when even the strongest storm could not bother their cocky looks. People that could spit on the ground with no back thinking and drink themselves until they dropped in public, not really caring for anything anyone could say and leaving their feelings and thoughts live within the community of their own where no outsider was ever welcome.

Mathias sought them, the people with no right to be spoken of. The free folk of free Estonia, the folk that the rest of the society called punk, somewhat with disgust, somewhat with generalization. Mathias could not find peace unless he told their story to the world, the story shaped by historical, social and political events that had no equivalent anywhere else on Earth.

And so he went along the streets of Tallinn gathering the tiny pieces of the Estonian punk culture found in the words and faces of those who cherished it and allowed the Dane to take a grasp of it as of their souls and cores. Just when Mathias thought his journey was complete, he met Eduard. And oh, he proved the Dane wrong.

***

“Over here, vend!” A loud voice made Mathias almost let go of his camera, not because of the shock, though. It was more because of how familiar the voice seemed to him, that mellow, somewhat leisurely but also daring voice speaking German with a particular Estonian accent. “Out there, you hear me, vend? Putsi...” said the voice once again and the Dane looked back facing its source. Literally.

It was not the first time he and Eduard met by the Viru Gates. At first, he did not even hope for The Estonian’s consent to come and keep his promise to Mathias. However, here he was. He came to the spot every single day, first bringing some of his fellow friends along who had absolutely no command of German and therefore could not grasp the idea of the talks Eduard and Mathias shared. Soon enough Eduard found the presence of the gang members rather useless and started coming to their ‘usual spot’ by himself. Frankly speaking, Mathias was thankful for the opportunity to have conversations without the presence of any third parties around.

The reason for such an attitude was not really the fact Eduard’s pals did not give Mathias the same inspiration as Eduard himself.

Eduard was not tall. In fact, his height made the Dane look down at him every time they spoke. He was shameless, too. Although his voice revealed no impudence, it did not take the credit off his shamelessness. He was cold as the ice on the Tallinn roads when winter decided to remind the country of its long presence with the snowfall: it did not last long having melted in the early spring sun but as the twilight fell the puddles got deeply frozen causing Eduard to swear in his own language, totally incomprehensive for the Dane yet warm and sweet as latte in the cafe next to the Freedom Square. He was as plain as the rest of one million people forming the population of Estonia. Being one of them but also incredibly different from them, he left no room for comparison, the reason being hidden somewhere in the depth of his cornflower eyes dimmed with black makeup. He was conditional like apartment blocks of Tallinn’s Uus Linn, the New Town, reflecting in the lenses of his glasses yet careless and vibrant like the medieval houses of Vanalinn, the Old Town. Eduard smelled of salt of the Gulf of Finland that washed Tallinn’s shores and sweetness of infamous ginger caramel walnuts spreading the sugary smell all over the Old Town.

Someone might say he was perfect. Flawless. At a time, he was a mere Estonian guy, though, piercing Mathias with his cocky Estonian look and dictating him the rules of this cold land. Mathias did not mind. That was the reason he came here, after all.

This time the way led them to the park bench next to the Orthodox church at Toompea hills where the Dane, slightly amused, was observing Eduard drink out of the beer bottle and catching glimpses of every single passerby. At a certain point, Mathias even thought that he himself became a target for a part of those glances. However, The Estonian could not care less.

“How come you speak such perfect German?” Mathias broke the silence but Eduard did not seem to mind at all.

“My full name is Eduard von Bock,” he said watching his favorite beverage splash behind the dark green glass.

“Does not sound Estonian at all.”

“I come from the Baltic Germans folk. Well, half of me does. Not many of ‘em decided to stay after the occupation. The major part was returned to Germany by the Nazis. Back to the land of fathers where they were said they belonged.” Eduard slipped the glasses back onto the nose bridge where they also belonged. “But not my- what’s the word?” he cut the phrase short trying to remember the correct German word, “Ancestors. We all speak German. To not, like, forget our family roots or something. I don’t give a fuck about the roots, frankly. At least I can speak to you now. More or less a reason to have learned it.”

All this time the Dane was silently scrubbing the pages of his rather old but nevertheless priceless notebook with the tip of the pen. This is how the notes taken in this book usually turned into profound articles. His job was not to judge – he was there to listen, to comprehend, to write things down, to live them though and then to share them with the world. Judgment, in its purest form, was the readers’ job.

“Dare to tell me what you’re writing there all the time?” wondered the Estonian.

“Your story,” the Dane smiled. He could not ignore the change of emotions from amusement to understanding in Eduard’s eyes that followed after Mathias’ line and the way his lips stretched in a smile.

“’Course. You told me before,” smirked the Estonian and decided to finish his drink off. “I’m gonna be popular, ha. Life well spent.”

“Well, for purposes of confidentiality and protection of your personality I’ll have to change your name. For your own good.”

Eduard slipped off the bench carefully looking around to make sure no regular folk or law enforcement officer was watching and threw the empty bottle into the nearest wall observing it break into hundreds of sparkling pieces. Once again, Mathias did not say a word. Eduard put his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket and, instead of taking back the seat next to the Dane, sat down straight at the cold sidewalk watching Mathias carefully. A sudden breakout of wind tousled his pink hair strands calming down as unexpectedly as it started blowing.

“You’re nice, vend,” he said.

“How so?”

“Well... you’re not from our folk but I guess you have our spirit.” Eduard started rummaging through the pockets of his clipped leather jacket apparently looking for a pack of cigarettes. “You don’t judge. You’re trying to understand us. Usually, all we’ve got is people spitting in our faces.”

“You spit back at them, though,” said the Dane pursuing no purpose of insulting him with those words or point at his imperfections.

“People are weird creatures,” Eduard replied finally feeling a thin body of a cigarette between his fingers and impatiently lighting it on. “They are living in this crap for decades and putting up with shit those idiots are doing to Estonia but can’t stand a view of someone who simply does not look like them. This is why I spit in their faces. Not because they wanna piss off my pink hair or something. I don’t give a fuck. I spit back because they don’t care about the freedom we gave them. Where have they been when we were trying to reach out for the world by transmitting signals via Finland? When we were crafting the self-made transmitters of mercury thermometers in order to receive the broadcasts from Helsinki and spread the freedom of speech? When we were breaking off the Curtain? Where have they all been? Ha, they simply tightened their grip on us as their own opportunity. They saw hope in us. The revolution. We are the cause of the first Song Festival of the Free Land. But now they seem to have forgotten this. Now they are all not worth an old song. This is why I spit in their faces.”

His words forever imprinted in the broad handwriting of the Dane on the pages of his slightly worn out notebook got carried away by the rising wind. Mathias could see with the corner of his eye that Eduard frowned attempting to keep the cigarette lit.

“Jeez, I’m starving. You, vend?” The Dane sarcastically mimicked Eduard with his own nickname watching the Estonian sit on the freezing cold stones of the paved road and have absolutely no worries for the fate of his balls. Mathias genuinely thought that today’s meeting with this shameless young Estonian had come to its end and Eduard would refer to other plans to justify the unwillingness to follow the Dane. However, he did not expect a smile that appeared on the Estonian’s face at that moment.

“Is it on you, then?” he breathed raising up from the sidewalk and Mathias watched his German words disappear into the thin air.

“If you promise to meet me tomorrow at the same spot.”

There was a moment of silence, and Eduard allowed himself to finish his cigarette and give Mathias his verdict.

“Where are you staying?” asked Eduard suddenly giving Mathias an impression that he tried to escape giving promises.

“Anywhere,” he said shrugging. “I don’t need much.”

“That’s dope,” followed the reply and Eduard put the cigarette up by stepping on it. “From now on you’re staying at our condo. I’ve got a room all by myself. If you promise to buy food for everyone, I’m not gonna charge you a kroon for rent.”

Mathias beamed.

***

“Aight vend, here are my boys. Guys,” this time Eduard spoke Estonian addressing his young fellows, “This is Mathias. He’s with me.”

“Here guys, I brought a new dick to stick in my asshole tonight.” Someone in the corner of a great living room made himself heard and the room burst with laughter. Eduard rolled his eyes letting the confused Dane know with the gesture that there was nothing to pay attention to.

“Anyway, from right to left. This is Taavi, he’s joined us recently. We sorta keep an eye on him.” The Estonian pointed at the youngest, to Mathias’ thought, dweller of this spacious flat, and he welcomed the guest with his middle finger. “This,” Eduard stepped over what seemed to be a lifeless body whose soul had definitely departed this cruel world, “Is Erkki. Don’t bother him, he’s a busy man.”

The Dane gave the body whose name had just been identified as Erkki a suspicious look.

“And... what’s so important that he’s doing?”

“He’s thinking of the fate of the Estonian folk,” Eduard concluded seriously shrugging his jacket off and moving on to the next members of his gang. “This is Aare. He got us this condo so his rent share is less than the others’. Here we have Jürgen. He’s got a brain bro, nice working brain. It only works when he’s sober, though. And finally, this is Urmas. Urmas lives for the sake of two things – songs and girls.”

Mathias really had to take his time to get used to the new environment as well as the new housemates who he intended to spend quite some time living with. In reality, there was something more to this excitement he felt in his chest. He was thrilled to realize that the inspiration he was longing for had finally found him here, in the very heart of the punk community that resembled a family more than any other company he had ever seen.

Mathias simply could not believe his own happiness. One shall not lose himself in a dream. One cannot come to the new county, meet such a precious person there in a few days of time and, to sum everything up, blindly trust this person with his own life by accepting the very first offer to come and stay with him and the entire gang of people with the indefinite background. As much as he wanted to, Mathias knew nothing about them. He did not know their reasons to live for, the air they breathed, the sources of their inspiration and ideas or the things that made their lives worth living. Here was where experience came to place. The experience that had the power to distinguish dreams from reality.

Mathias spent the entire night writing. He wrote about the flags decorating the walls, the posters revealing the lines that were banned from use not that long ago. He wrote about the music he could not perceive by himself and sought his new neighbors’ help in order to understand the solid meaning of the lyrics. Mathias wrote about him, about this Estonian sitting on the floor with a recently lit cigarette and his eyes closed in tiredness and a simple wish to face his thoughts. He wrote about Eduard who reached out for the Dane trusting him back, just like Mathias trusted him once, letting him into his little personal world as well as the enormous world beyond the boundaries of his soul. He wrote about his cornflower eyes, his unbelievably calm yet highly inflammable spirit that made Mathias’ heart skip a beat from time to time.

“What are you writing about now?” Eduard spoke and his dense voice reminded the Dane of the cigarette smoke he let through his fingers.

“Urmas lives for the sake of two things – songs and girls,” smiled Mathias and the Estonian gave him a skeptical look.

“Oh yeah, that’s super important. Almost everyone in this room likes girls, you know.”

“Almost?” the Dane asked him back noticing the unease that went through the Estonian’s body as he inhaled the bitter smoke in his lungs particularly deeply.

“You know what they call me? Lilla,” said Eduard avoiding the eye contact. “It actually means ‘violet’, like, a color, you got me? But that’s not really the point here, vend. They use it to insult someone who doesn’t like girls. It means ‘a fag’.”

There was a certain degree of tension settling down in the air after he became silent. At that very moment, Mathias did not feel like joking anymore. Instead, this feeling was replaced by chilling shiver going down his spine, the feeling that usually possessed his body in times of anticipation or shock. The Dane could not say for sure which one of the two feelings prevailed. However, he immediately drew a picture of what could happen in the streets of post-Soviet Tallinn to someone who Estonians called lilla. Someone who could be prosecuted for being lilla not that long ago, if not worse.

“Listen, I can omit this if it makes things better–”

Eduard immediately frowned his blonde eyebrows letting the smoke out of his chest.

“Yea, sure, go ahead if you wanna rid me of my dignity! Not for toffee. I let you in my life, I let you tell my story so do me a favor and tell it right!”There was a sort of anger in his voice but Mathias had no doubt it had nothing to do with the Dane himself but rather with the experience Eduard had faced in a lifetime. “I am not ashamed of who I am. I don’t give a fuck about what those assholes say and what meaning they give to this lilla word. I don’t give a fuck if they’re gonna find me, stab me in the chest or break my ribs. I won’t run. Because you cannot escape from someone who is everywhere. You cannot escape from yourself. It makes no sense! I am not afraid. I am who I am and I’m not alone. Right now we have to hide from the idiots in the streets but I swear to you, the day will come and we will let ourselves be heard. The revolution is not over yet, vend. We are still fighting and we will not stop until we get what we want or die trying.”

Eduard put up his unfinished cigarette leaving it in the common ashtray and stood up to start walking towards his room. He did not even give a chance for the Dane’s disarray to settle by giving him a brief line: “Are you coming or what?” Mathias followed him right away grabbing his stuff from the floor and vanishing behind the door to Eduard’s room until next morning.

***

In the next few days, Mathias’ good old notebook got filled in with notes to the cover. He even managed to find the ways to communicate with the rest of Eduard’s second family (not without his help, of course) whose thoughts and memories he also imprinted in the paper. Mathias tried to grasp every single little moment, every detail of their lives as well as Eduard’s brave and somewhat wise thoughts that came out of nowhere from time to time. Once it happened to him after the Estonian offer him a self-made joint.

“Do you want to die healthy or happy?” asked Eduard raising his eyebrows at Mathias’ refusal to his offer and explanation that smoking does no good.

“You think that dying both happy and healthy is not an option?” he parried. Eduard rolled his eyes inhaling the smoke and letting it out of his deeply smoked lungs.

“How do you even see this, ha? I know no one who would die because he had too much health. We all die. Someone dies from aging, others from injuries or accidents but anyway, everyone dies from an inability to handle certain effects. Everybody is given a particular amount of energy upon birth. Since that moment, we die every day because our bodies slowly give up the energy we were given. And then it gets replaced by exhaustion and tiredness. You simply haven’t felt it yet. But go out there and find, let’s say, a fifty-year-old dude. Ask him a question. Ask him out for a drink tonight and he will refuse. Because it is you who can drink all night long and then wake up at seven in the morning and go waste your life in the office or whatever like nothing happened the night before. He can’t do the same anymore because his body has let go of too much energy in all the years. One day we all come to this thought and then there’s nothing we can do. And so we let go. And as you see it has nothing to do with smoking.”

Mathias gave him a sly smirk but in his mind, he could not help but agree with the fact Eduard’s words did not lack reasoning.

“You’re way too smart for your 22, aren’t you?”

“It’s as easy as pie, vend,” the Estonian shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about that. There’s nothing too smart about it. It’s just who we are.”

Sometimes Eduard got lost somewhere in town having left Mathias his set of keys to not let the Dane find himself trapped in the apartment (and to allow him to get outside and do some grocery shopping just as agreed). The other day the Estonian would develop certain melancholy which only he could perceive and express by the unwillingness to leave the bed listening to J.M.K.E. and lighting up self-made joints one by one all day long. Mathias just let it be. Very soon both of them started to realize that their lives would have never taken any other direction. The nights they spent being half the time among the other gang members, half the time with each other made their souls collide to the point when they no longer felt that the usual night routine satisfied them both.

That night Eduard made sure the door to his room was locked. He simply did not want a single soul to distract him from the lips that tasted too sweet to Eduard’s thinking. He was the one to take this first step towards being even closer than before and, having made sure the Dane was eagerly reciprocating his insistent, almost demanding kiss, allowed the impossible to happen. The Estonian let him come too close, break through the layers of smeared makeup, pink hair and cocky words to reveal a vulnerable soul in his core. He let the Dane know him as deeply as no one had ever dared to even try to get to know him before.

After all, there was no difference between their bodies rushing together, willing to feel each other’s skin. Eduard lay open and naked in front of Mathias and the Dane contemplated his chest surge heavily, fingers stroking down the ribs, his skin covering some decent muscles underneath, his bluish veins revealing themselves as the Estonian tightened his grip on the Dane’s shoulders, their hips tenderly colliding and making their desires look so obvious. Mathias reached out for his neck caressing it with endless kisses and let Eduard’s hands touch the Dane’s body wherever he wanted. And oh he did just that. He was barely breathing, brushing his fingers against Mathias’ back in slow, soothing movements that trailed down to his hips, found the way to his chest and finally rested on his warm neck. All the differences between them did not matter anymore. There were no boundaries, no history, no culture or politics – anything that would draw a fine line between people in the outside world. In Eduard’s world behind the locked door there was nothing that would remind either of them of the different lives they used to live, though.

So Eduard allowed Mathias to get even deeper under his skin. He allowed the Dane to lock his arms around his body causing Eduard to let out a choked gasp and words whose meaning remained a mystery for Mathias. He allowed him to watch the Estonian arch his spine, to tangle his fingers in Eduard’s hair, to gently put their arousals together shifting the fingers in a soft yet intense touch. A whispering ‘keppi mind’ escaped into the distance between their lips filled with the thick, moist, almost burning hot air and Eduard squeezed Mathias’ waist with his legs letting him in, letting him come closer, letting him thrust into his body, making his insides burn. As they were melting together, the Estonian forgot his own name; he was calling Mathias by his instead for the first time since the very moment they saw each other by Kadriorg. That moment was enough for him to realize that perhaps they would not be a one night stand – and so he got lost in a long, open-mouthed, moist kiss as his body trembled in sweet relief...

As soon as the morning came, Mathias made himself clear about their fate. For the reasons that left the Estonian completely flabbergasted and set him off track, the Dane announced his departure later this evening. His job in Estonia was done and he did not see any other reasons to stay there any longer. At least, this was what Mathias said. He did not even give a single chance to either of them to let things sink in leaving Eduard alone with his bare soul hanging out of his body, shattered and broken into million pieces.

Of course, that was enough for Eduard to throw Mathias out of the condo together with all the stuff he brought in. He did not really incline to any mercy, say any last words or threat him with serious consequences should Mathias ever decide to come back. The Estonian simply did not see any merit in this. Was there any merit in this situation at all?

“Mida sa tegid?” was the only thought that rushed through his mind as Eduard was falling into an unconscious sleep. The regret filled his heart – the regret of having approached the Dane in the first place. If only he had known.

***

“East or West, home is best,” said the infamous expression. Some people praise it as the absolute truth. Others are always ready to challenge its meaning. One way or another, everyone perceives it in their own unique way.

For some of us, home is a place where we first saw the light of day. Indeed, those of us who find such place home contribute to its everyday life in order to make it at least slightly better for themselves as well as the others. For some of us, though, place of birth has nothing to do with home. It is a place that sets such people at a starting line of a lifetime creating numerous challenges and obstacles that make them wonder whether they are actually calling a right place a home. At that point, they wander along in their thoughts seeking a home where their hearts would settle.

Mathias had been running away his entire life. He fled each and every place that bore a threat to him – a threat of becoming attached to somewhere or losing himself. That night, while walking down the streets of the Estonian capital the Dane raised his head to look up at the roofs of two towers forming Viru Gates. Their usual spot. The spot where he and Eduard used to meet. The place that divided the present and the past, split the buildings of the New and the Old Towns as well as two young souls.

“What am I really doing here?” he was thinking. Lonely, lost, having his heart left somewhere in Kadriorg on a cloudy day in April. Standing in the country that used to be foreign to him but seemed to have become something so much more in the end.

Mathias could not tear his glance off the place where the Estonian, whose essence itself smelled of smoke and sweet caramel, waited for him every day the same hour. The paved road broadened in front of him in its medieval glory. The rows of colorful, almost toy-like houses framed the road leading to the place where the Town Hall Square tower proudly winded to the sky. Tiredness and weird thoughts occupied the Dane’s mind and he went through the Viru Gates once again, facing the void of a very familiar spot.

That night he seemed to have lost his ferry ticket to Helsinki, deliberately or accidentally, for he urged to reunite with the light of the cornflower eyes dimmed with the shadows of black makeup, the scent of the hair freshly dyed acidic pink and warmth of the spirit Mathias would never trade for anything in the world.

“Mul on nii kahju,” he whispered as Eduard surrounded him by tightening embrace of his shivering arms.

“Lilla.” That single word was everything the Estonian could say in return, too happy for the sentimental greeting. Mathias did not mind. After all, it was the Eduard he met by Kadriorg. Eduard he never wanted to lose anymore.

***

“Everyone, listen up! I’ve got my contact with the publishing! It means that my book will be translated and printed!” The Dane came back to the apartment on the seventh heaven. The loud cheers followed the announcement, someone in the familiar corner even left out a cheeky comment about all the work Mathias had to do to earn some decent sex that night. That, in return, was followed by a sound ‘ime lahti’ coming from one of the bedrooms revealing Eduard leaning on the door frame and smiling widely.

Surely, Eduard had other ways to express his happiness with the news: that is to give Mathias a particularly deep kiss – behind the closed doors of his room, of course.

“So, does it mean you came up with a final title after all?” Eduard asked exhaling some bitter smoke from a cigarette he reached out for after their lips parted.

“Guess so.”

“Dare to tell me what it is then?”

“Kodu. Home,” replied Mathias. “’Cause this story is about you, about me, about every one of us. About people of this small imperfect land where revolution is still raging. But we’re gonna fight through it, for our home, for our happiness... don’t you think so?”

Eduard just smiled.

[blockbustersgang]

When work brings you new homes around the world

Thoughts of working abroad and lessons so far learned by our Co-Founder Iiris, working as an 1st Assistant Director, currently in Stockholm Sweden until mid-March 2021.

There was a time when I only fantasised of working outside Finland - or even just outside of Helsinki. I thought I’d never have the opportunity to be on a crew of any international productions and especially anything that’d be filming somewhere else than in Finland. 

Firstly this myth was broken when I joined Iron Sky team to work on the post production of extended cut of the film. Obviously I realised I’d jumped into a massive three counrty co-production, coordinating crews from Germany, Australia, Finland and even Slovenia. I was puzzled, over the moon. At 20 years old I found myself already accomplishing my dreams. 

Lesson #1 learned: dream cost-effectively, dream even of small things, like working on any international film, on any role. You may realise suddenly and very quickly you’ve already accomplished it. 

My first film markets as part of Iron Sky team, Berlinale & EFM 2013 and Cannes Film Festival & Marcé Du Film 2013.

After my work at Iron Sky I visited animation world quickly by being Director’s Assistant on Angry Birds Toon series. We had crew from dozens and dozens of countries on board - literally I’d hear a new accent every day when walking to the studio. I met top level animators, storyboard artists and directors of the world. Even though I wasn’t really doing exactly what I wanted I got lots and lots of practice on understanding leadership and different working cultures - not to mention animation workflow itself. 

Lesson #2: international productions aren’t that simple or easy. Actually they require two times more communication, to make sure everyone is on the same page though they’re not using their first language.

Farewell card and Rovio team card with office breakfast in 2014. Still miss these amazing, crazy and inspiring animators!

I would have maybe never understood my potential unless there’d been Production Value workshop that was recommended to me. It was truly jump to the deep end, I felt like I’d die of the scare I had, that I’d never be as good as all the rest in the workshop. Still to this day I have no idea how I got in as I didn’t have that much experience. But somehow someone saw something in me and this is the pure reason why no one should ever stop trying to chase their dreams. 

“It has become very clear to me it was a step to the right direction and has given me more confidence and skills than I (or anyone else) realised. Suddenly I do understand making films outside Finland will be possible for me and there is no limit when I just keep on going. I never really thought about this so far but now it feels making my first international co-production in the AD department could be just around the corner.”

This is what I wrote to my final report in the beginning of 2015 when completing my training. I’m deeply thankful for getting that sparkle in.

Soon after I’d finished my work at Rovio began an era I truly started my 1st AD work on professional films. On the first years I was the most frustrated of only landing in domestic productions, not getting to widen my ideas of ADing, sometimes being even arrogant on thinking these wouldn’t educate or challenge me enough. I made enough mistakes to get real and understand every single production teaches me. I am never ready. I always have things to learn. 

Fast forwarding to lesson #3: even domestic teaches you to be more ready for international stuff. Work.

I think the first time I ran a professional, large scale set outside Finland was in 2016 for some commercials in Estonia. I didn’t have much time to prepare and I knew no one in the crew. I was more or less horrified - and lucky, as it went well. I found solutions I could offer and met some people who later became my good friends (also tell a Finn who doesn’t love jumping into an Estonian set and meeting old schoolers who know how to speak Finnish with them, with the lovely, warm Estonian accent). But my real stepping stone was filming feature film Heavy Trip in Norway in 2017. 

Dear lord I had craved for a production like that. I was thrilled. I loved every second. And somehow besides the chaos it all just went very well in the end (at least for me as a 1st AD). We were exactly on time and figured out massive plan B’s and C’s when needed. Yes it was rough. It wasn’t a surprise these things mostly are. But I noticed my energy being many levels up compared to former productions. Somehow the multi-nationality crews and locations further away keep my heart beating stronger and lungs breathing clearer.

Last night feels before my first shooting day in Norway as 1st AD. 

Since that everything just moved rather quickly and now I’ve run sets in Sweden, Estonia, United States and Djibouti. After Heavy Trip I only did one domestic feature - all others have included filming abroad and at least two countries co-producing. More or less all other productions have somehow had an international aspect on them. I’ve also loved filming international projects in Finland. 

I think one of the key factors of me getting to do these projects I’ve so massively wanted to participate is that I really put a lot of energy, time and money into understanding filmmaking outside Finland. No one will come and get me from my home, right. So I’ve stepped out, humbly joined events and conversations, made a fool of myself, learned so much of networking and taken my English to a new level while working and working and working on it. (Still not perfect, unfortunately.)

Giving a lecture of 1st Assistant Directing in Greenwich University January 2017. Would not have had the chance unless amazing former Intern Luisa would not have suggested me as a guest lecturer to her teachers.

Lesson #4: Networking matters. It might be someone surprising who gives you the next opportunity to show your skills and talent. 

My first shoot in the States as 1st AD - Iron Sky the Coming Race pick ups with Digital Sputnik in LA May 2018.  

Lesson #5: Jump in to every crazy, stupid, badly paid production if you feel like it’ll give you something more than others. 

Working Together workshop gang in the end of 2018. Never stepped this strongly out of my comfort zone. Not only changed me as a filmmaker - but also as a human. 

Lesson #6: European organisations offer fantastic professional trainings for filmmakers and many countries (like Finland) offer scholarships or funding for them to participate. Invest some time to look for these and apply!

On-set friends in Estonia and Djibouti in 2019. 

I must say - after four features in a row outside my home country - that working abroad can be quite exhausting. I’m missing home and I appreciate Helsinki lot more than I used to. I’ve always felt it as my home but now I really know it’s got a special place in my heart. I'm actually really looking forward getting back home and working in Finland for a change. I’m really enjoying speaking in English though - which my mom must find very amusing as I absolutely hated studying any languages in school - and am wishing I can keep evolving my language skills even when getting back to Finland. 

Ah - I’ve tried to learn other languages too. When leaving to Djibouti last fall 2019 I’d been studying French for 2 months. Let’s just say I only got to say hello, how are you, thank you and good night. And in Sweden it’s been a bunch of all three languages I can somehow speak - everyone else speaking Swedish together (I can follow up around 60-70% of discussions) and English to me and me trying to balance with my elementary Swedish that translates to Finnish in my brain but still mainly talking English. It's been lots of work for my brain.

Lesson #7: Working on other languages and within other cultures might be exhausting no matter how much you enjoy it. Try to rest more than usual. Tell your family and friends you might be more tired than normally and ask for additional support if needed.

I don’t think I’ll ever satisfy into not having the world open anymore. Covid-19 is truly testing my limits on all levels - work and personal ones. I don’t need to travel at all times or only work on big sets. I was very happy just at home with my dogs and spouse for two months last spring during lockdown. But there’s so much to see - so why not go when having a chance. 

I recommend you all: take that chance. Make a little effort to get the first one, and the next ones will follow. 

With love from eternal dreamer, 

Iiris 

[visariga-blog]

Neighborhood #12: Atgāzene

Name: Atgāzene Meaning: Named after an old German manor Area: 0.75 km2 (58th) 2014 Population: 1613 (42nd) 2008 Population density: 1647 people/km2 (28th) Distance from Riga Central Station by public transit: 8 minutes (train) Public transit lines: #10, #42, and #56 busses; #27  trolleybus; Rīga-Jelgava train line Places of interest: Atgāzenes iela Where to eat: Lulu Pizza at Vienības gatve 113 Date of Visit: March 26, 2017

Last month Līga and I, along with our friend Justine from America, journeyed out to the southern edge of the city to visit Atgāzene, Rīga’s tiniest neighborhood. And when I say tiny, I mean TINY; at just three-fourths of a square kilometer, it’s 25 times smaller than Kleisti (the city’s largest neighborhood), and makes up a puny 0.35% of the city’s area. The neighborhood is shaped like a nearly perfect quadrangle, resembling something like a shard of glass. Vienības gatve (Unity Avenue, the road to Jelgava), Kārļa Ulmaņa gatve (named after Latvia’s pre-WWII president), and the Rīga-Jelgava railroad make for logical boundaries, but the neighborhood is so small and has such few major points of interest that its often included as a part of Ziepniekkalns on websites like ss.lv for simplicity’s sake.

From above, its clear to see that there are two major sections divided from one another by Graudu iela. The slightly larger northern part is almost exclusively residential and made up of smaller houses, whereas the southern part consists mostly of Biznesa Augstskola Turība, a few shopping centers, and the territory of an old sanatorium which now makes up a mixed-use business park.

Justine, Līga and I decided to take advantage of the neighborhood's two train stops, so we boarded a train to Jelgava at Central Station and then got off just two stops later at the “Atgāzene” station less than nine minutes later. I was very excited to finally get off at this stop, as I had passed it by thousands of time on the way to and from work in Jelgava but had never had the opportunity to see this area up close. The original historic wooden station burned down in 2007, and it was replaced by this minimalist “box” station. Thankfully what they rebuilt isn't as gaudy as the shipping container of a station that was put up in Imanta, but it's still a shame that the history was lost. 

We started down the appropriately-named Dzelzceļa iela (Railroad street). Like many of the small roads in this neighborhood, it was unpaved and lined with wooden fences of various colors. The houses here were mostly all two story or shorter, with a few exceptions. The only non-residential building we could see in this part of the neighborhood was a gated kindergarten with a sign that politely asked drivers to close the gate after passing through.

After a short walk we were at Kārļa Ulmaņa gatve, the northern boundary of the neighborhood. Here the four-lane thoroughfare crossed the train tracks via a simple concrete beam bridge. The wide walls underneath had given some local graffiti artists (and simple vandals) the perfect canvas for some artwork, although what we found here wasn't as impressive as that we've seen elsewhere throughout the city.  The three of us walked up the stairs to the bridge and then went out to the middle to get a view of virtually the entire western part of the neighborhood along the train tracks. From here you could also see the towers of Panorama Plaza in nearby Pleskodāle, Rīga's fifth tallest structures.

We now started towards the neighborhood's easternmost edge along Vienības gatve, walking past a historically significant oak tree and a Harley Davidson dealership. All of these thousands of times I had passed by either on the train or bus to or from Jelgava, and I had never known there was a Harley dealership here. The building had some very cool graffiti art on the back, with a “Riders of the Storm” theme in shades of only orange and black. It took only about two minutes to get to Vienības gatve.

Next we took a right and continued down the street a bit until we got to Ģimnastikas iela, where we took a right and walked back towards the station. Before this, we passed an advertisement for Hesburger, Latvia's version of Wendy's, and the headquarters of Tilde, a Latvian translation software company. At the corner of Vienības and Ģimnastikas was one of the country's 126 Fenikss casinos. Although Latvia has very few destination casinos ala Vegas or Atlantic City in the US, there are countless small casinos operated by multi-national chains that can be found in shopping centers, the bottom floors of apartment buildings, and nearly anywhere else imaginable. Although in general I dislike seeing these due to the social problems that I know they aggravate, this one at least had a cool wild west vibe to it compared with the hundreds of soul-crushingly depressing and anonymous ones.

Walking back towards the train tracks down Ģimnastikas iela, we passed what claimed to be the city's best hotel. Knowing nobody who has stayed there I can't confirm nor deny that claim, so if you're looking for a place to stay a night in Rīga you'll have to decide for yourself whether or not to take their word for it. Along the streets were more brick and wooden houses built at various times over the past few hundred years. Although we didn't know until it was too late, we passed by (and unfortunately didn't take a picture of) a house that the legendary Latvian poet couple Rainis and Aspazija lived in for a few years during the 1920s at Dīķa iela 11. We did, however, get a pretty cool shot of one of the new red and silver trains passing by at the end of the street. As we've seen in a few other places, someone took the time to transform an electrical box into a green totem pole using spray paint.

And we were virtually back where we had started. We had now seen the northern third of the neighborhood and had followed roughly this path:

We continued south along the tracks before coming to a small stream that required crossing. It was a bit strange how the stream seemed to intentionally go through this part of Dzelzceļa iela completely uncovered, as I can imagine that after a lot of rain it would be a bit difficult to drive through. As we walked, we got a few more nice train pictures, first an electric passenger one and then a pair of diesel engines hauling freight. 

We now hung left onto Diķa iela, where we passed by Rīgas Igauņu Pamatskola, a primary school opened in 1989 which specializes in Estonian language and culture. At the intersection with Atgāzenes iela there was a traffic mirror to help make the narrow crossroad a bit less dangerous, as well as a small house with a guard dog. I liked his style — unlike a lot of small yippering yappering poodles, he simply just stared at us calmly and silently as if to say, “we both understand that I'm an intimidating rottweiler and that you aren't going to come over here, so let's skip the barking part and keep it at that.” 

We turned down the cobblestone Atgāzenes iela, walking by some more houses before briefly wandering onto the grounds of the Igauņu Pamatskola. We also passed by what seemed to be one of Rīgas Satiksme's (the city's public transit company) offices and another traffic mirror that provided the opportunity for a selfie of sorts. 

Of all the streets in Atgāzene, this was probably the most scenic in terms of the cobblestones and colorful wooden houses. One of the houses had a rare Soviet-era sign with the street name in both Latvian and Russian. It's fitting that the street is named “Atgāzenes iela,” because it really sums up the feel of the entire neighborhood quite well. After a short walk we were back at Vienības gatve.

Back almost exactly where we had turned onto Ģimnastikas iela, we again continued south towards Rīga's city limits. We passed more old brick and wooden houses before coming to a large business park called 87 Vienības gatve, which consists of the old buildings from an 1890s sanatorium. Unfortunately, the gate to the business park was closed since it was a Sunday, otherwise we would have wanted to walk around the park and take some pictures since it looked quite nice. Before the intersection with Graudu iela, we also saw a cool wire frame sculpture of a hand holding a paintbrush outside of a home improvement shop as well as some very colorful bird houses.

On the right side of Graudu iela we passed a discount goods store, a music school, and a floral therapy firm. The left side of the street was dominated by the buildings of Biznesa augstskola Turība, known in English as “Turība University.” This private college is the largest business school in the country, and although it used to have an unfair reputation as a “pay for a degree” type of school, all of my friends who have gone there have told me that they were quite satisfied with their studies. The university even paid for its own infill train station, a great deal for both the school in terms of convenience for students to travel there and for Pasažieru vilciens since aside from the Jelgava, Riga and Olaine stops, its one of the ones the people most consistently use.

Since Ģimnastiskas iela, our route had looked like this:

At this point we were all quite cold and hungry, so we wandered down Bikstu iela to the shopping center anchored by Maxima XX where we found a “Pica Lulu,” one of the city's most popular pizza chains. Of all of the city's pizza options, Lulu is one of my favorites. They do pizza dough very well, but like most places in Latvia, the tomato sauce is far too sweet. In fact, I once got into an argument with my students over whether there was any difference between ketchup and tomato sauce. Sadly, for most of Latvia's tomato sauces there is very little difference (aside from Rundāle, which is the only one I ever buy). I absolutely loved the wallpaper where we were sitting. It's nothing special for pizza places to have stylized urban scenes on the wall, but what I love is that instead of showing Paris or New York or some other cliched global city they have a stylized Soviet block house similar to the ones found all throughout the city (and especially the adjacent neighborhood of Ziepniekkalns). Many people dismiss Soviet block housing as a simple eyesore best to be ignored, so I like how they not only acknowledged it but did something cool and creative with it. Lulu has 24 hour delivery all throughout the city, so if you have a pizza craving at two in the morning you know who to call.

After having eaten and warmed up, we continued down into the final stretch of Atgāzene. Walking back to Vienības gatve, we passed a fireworks shop and a McDonalds before coming to a Rīgas Satiksme client center which seems like also used to be the terminus and turn-around for a trolleybus line. Next to the loop was a large stone marker that used to demarcate the city's border. It was a bit further to Ābolu iela, the current southern border of both Atgāzene and Rīga itself (at least on this side of Vienības gatve).

We turned right onto Ābolu iela (Apple street), the southern boundary of Atgāzene, as well as one of Rīga's borders with the town of Mārupe. Although the left side of the road was technically Mārupe and the right side Rīga, it would be virtually impossible for a casual passer-by to guess that there was a boundary here as both sides look geographically and architecturally identical. At the end of the road, we took a right and started heading back towards the BA Turība train station where we waited just a few minutes before the yellow and blue electric engine rolled up to the platform to take us back home. In that time that we waited, Līga took pictures of some snowdrop flowers that had just barely started to bloom. Despite the grey and cold, there was hope that spring was just around the corner (or at least so we thought).

Our final route had gone like this:

Although it was so small, Atgāzene really did have a different feel to it compared to the surrounding areas with its small houses, dirt roads, and urban feel to it. While nearby Bieriņi and Mārupe also have similarly small houses, they feel much more suburban whereas Atgāzene has this certain sense to it where you really know that you're in the city. That's not to say that it's not a calm and peaceful place by any means, and I imagine that its 1600 or so full-time residents enjoy life there. If you're looking for a low-key and tranquil neighborhood to have a nice walk through, this might be an option: just make sure to take the train.

A few random observations:

Thanks to its minuscule size, I feel that this is the neighborhood that we were able to explore and document in the greatest detail. There were just a few streets that we didn't walk down in entirety, and those that we didn't we were able to see virtually end-to-end from where we were standing. Compared to this, our walk through Kleisti was quite incomplete. It feels a bit presumptuous to say that “I've seen all of Atgāzene” after just one visit, but in this case that might actually be possible. 

For all of the massive neighborhoods in Rīga lacking passenger train service (Purvciems, Bolderāja, Āgenskalns, ect), Atgāzene is almost comically overserved by rail transit. With 2.6 stations per square kilometer (yes, sadly I did the math), I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it's the neighborhood with by far the most train stations compared to its size. Better yet for rail commuters, the Rīga-Jelgava line is one of the busiest routes in the country, with trains in either direction at least once an hour and often more depending on the time of day.

The April that came just a few days after this walk was one of the strangest Latvia has ever seen. We had a lot of false starts to spring, followed by bursts of snow (!) at the end of the month. One one hand I feel bad that my Fulbright colleagues (including Justine) probably got a bad impression of Latvia weather-wise this year with a green Christmas and a white Easter, but on the more selfish other hand I've barely had any seasonal allergies this year.

Special thanks to Justine for exploring with us, who was a very good sport despite the cold and cloudy weather!

And that does it for Atgāzene. The next two neighborhoods that we just visited, Beberbeķi and Bieriņi, were done so on warm and sunny days, so the pictures for those will look far less gloomy than Āgenskalns and Atgāzene did. Till next time, let's hope that spring is finally here to stay, and make sure to wish Latvia good luck in the International Ice Hockey Federation World Championships in France and Germany over the next few weeks!

Nākamā Pietura: Beberbeķi!

[redqueenmusings]

We went to one of our favourite Indian restaurants Sher E Punjab with Christine and Andrew this week but before that, on Wednesday, Jim and I met Alan and Shirley Rigby the couple who donated all of the mastectomy bras to the Tenerife Carrera por la Vida Walk for Life charity.

They were grabbing an unscheduled week in the sun and we met them for lunch at Dedos in Las Americas. The food was exceptionally good, Alan and I had the pulled pork and even though we had only met for the first time I pinched his gherkins!. Shirley had the falafel and Jim went for the spicy chicken. It was huge (half a chicken) so he brought home about as much as he ate and our girls had it for breakfast the next day. Even Marti who is so fussy and has to be tempted with every bite wolfed it down.

The service was first class from our young Estonian waitress, the food was well made and we would certainly go back.

After we had eaten we jumped in the car and went to Adeje and the Pink Room Sadly Brigette was on holiday but she arranged for Karen to be on hand to translate and along with Hermi we had a lovely hour or so discussing how different cancer is treated in the UK to here on the island, or perhaps that is Spain in general.

In the UK ladies don’t have to pay €200 for a prosthesis – imagine the cost if you have had a double mastectomy. OK, you get 80% back from the government, eventually, but that can take weeks if not months to be repaid and in the meantime, most women have had to give up work so the cost, as well as the worry, is phenomenal. Which brings me to knitted knockers.

There are volunteers who knit or crochet various sized ‘knockers’ and donate them so that ladies who have had a mastectomy can go about their lives feeling ‘normal’ while saving hard for a prosthesis.  I’m sure there are lots of crafters on the island who would be able to do this and donate them to the Pink Room. Check out the video below and see what a great idea it is and so simple. You can download patterns, and all the information you need from the website as well as size charts which are easy to follow, even I could see what they meant and how they work. So if anyone has any free time on their hands, perhaps they would like to see if they can produce a knocker or two.

We discussed various other ideas that in my opinion would take little effort but could make such a huge difference to cancer sufferers on the island.  One of these was to recycle wigs. In the UK these are free to anyone who loses their hair through chemo but here although they are available only about 10 a year are free so if anyone has a wig they no longer need, perhaps they could get in touch and we can have it professionally cleaned and pay it forward.  Another idea was mastectomy bras if you have the wrong size or it doesn’t feel comfortable, why not pass it on rather than let it sit in the drawer gathering dust.

I have no doubt the fine people of Tenerife will do their bit by supporting all ‘Walk for Life’ events because no matter whether we are young or old, rich or poor we are all touched by the dreaded disease or know someone who is.

Come on folks lets try and make a difference……..

Check Queenie’s Daily Snippets for Tenerife news & events 

Cancer and Knitted Knockers We went to one of our favourite Indian restaurants Sher E Punjab with Christine and Andrew this week but before that, on Wednesday, Jim and I met Alan and Shirley Rigby the couple who donated all of the 

[waqasblog2]

The curious case of Hungarian: Europe’s most complex language? | OxfordWords blog

The curious case of Hungarian: Europe’s most complex language?

Hungary might sit in Europe’s geographical heart, but its language bears little resemblance to its Indo-European neighbours. Originating from the Ugric subgroup from the Uralic group of languages, Hungarian, along with its far-flung distant cousins Finnish and Estonian, has little in common with other European languages. It’s an agglutinative language, in which complex words are made up of countless grammar prefixes and suffixes that serve very specific functions within each word, sometimes allowing a single word to translate into English (or related languages) as a relatively long sentence. Being such a lawless language for most Europeans, Hungarian is said to be one of the hardest languages to learn.

My history with Hungarian

Growing up with a Hungarian mother and an English father in the UK, people assume I grew up bilingual. But after about five minutes of conversation in Hungarian, the cracks begin to appear. A misused case or misplaced word will tarnish my deceptively well-pronounced Hungarian, prompting the surprised question: “Where are you from?”

I was a late talker, and a popular misconception held among child psychologists my parents took me to at the time caused them to blame my bilingual surroundings for the delay. Hence, before I even said my first words, we reverted to being a monolingual, English-speaking household. The concept of correlating bilingualism with language delay has since been widely disproven. But eventually, I finally said my first English words and I haven’t shut up since. Sadly, my Hungarian acquisition stopped until the age of eight.

My mother tried to communicate in Hungarian sometimes, only to be confronted with “Mummy, why do you speak to me funny and everyone else normally?” from a sassy toddler. I was stubborn, but my mother wouldn’t give up, so we moved to Budapest and she put me in a local school where no one spoke English.

I sat alone and listened to this strange, yet oddly familiar, language echoing around the classroom for three months without uttering a word. Hungarian, unlike French and even German, has virtually no words that someone with an English vocabulary can hook onto as a crutch.

Why is Hungarian so unusual?

Hungarian may use a Latin alphabet, adopted since the 13th century to replace the original runic script, but that’s where the similarity with other European languages ends. And even with its northern Finno-Ugric cousins Finnish and Estonian, the languages have little in common with each other. I can say that being a Hungarian speaker gave me little to no advantage when I travelled through rural Estonia earlier this year.

As Hungarian evolved away from what became the Baltic branch of the Finno-Ugric languages, it has infused itself with various linguistic influences that have left the language such a curiosity. Ugric languages can be found as far as Western Siberia, east of the Ural Mountains, where Mansi and Khanty are spoken and are perhaps Hungarian’s closest living relatives. But, with a geographical separation of 2000 miles, estimates place the linguistic distance of those Ob-Ugric languages from modern day Hungarian at about 2500-3000 years.

Making its way to Europe, Hungarian became a language moulded by its migration. Hungarian acquired many words with Iranian, Turkic, and Caucasian origin offering a linguistic breadcrumb trail towards its roots in the Urals. Later it also became influenced by its European neighbours, with words being picked up from languages from the Slavic, Latin, and Germanic families, and even its Turkish influences could be traced to the Ottoman occupation of the country which lasted for almost 200 years.

But while there may be the odd identifiable German or Slavic word, the language is still virtually indecipherable to its neighbours. Even though the language evolved over time, its grammar and phonology stays loyal to its Uralic origin. One of the greatest challenges for non-Hungarian speakers are its pronunciation, where you have three groups of vowels (totalling about 14 vowels) and groups of consonants clustered together, some of which make unique sounds, such as Ny (/ɲ/ – think the ñ in Spanish), Sz (/s/ – that’s a normal S to most of us), S (/ʃ/ – which sounds like Sh), Dzs (/dʒ/ – that takes on a J sound), or Gy (/ɟ/ – I have no idea how to explain this one to English speakers, but I can tell you the Hungarian surname Nagy is not pronounced “Naggy” as in your naggy relative).

This can prove to be a landmine when it comes to pronouncing certain words, where a carefully placed accent changes the meaning of the word, such as cheers, Egészségedre [ˈɛɡeːʃːeːɡɛdrɛ], which becomes a toast ‘to your whole posterior’, when missing an accent in the case of Egészsegedre [ˈɛɡeːʃːɛɡɛdrɛ].

A grammatical headache

Beyond that, Hungarian grammar offers learners an intellectual headache with its elaborate case system, where you have 18-35 cases depending on who you ask, that are used to express prepositional meaning. Tense, noun, adverb, adjective, person, number, and case are expressed through a complex directory of hundreds suffixes (along with prefixes), where an incorrectly used suffix will change the entire meaning of the word or sentence, for example the verb hív (call) changes to Jánossal hívathatnál egy taxit (you could have János call a taxi) in another sentence, where you have the stem, hív, followed by causative (+at), may (+hat), and conditional you (+nál).

Today, I feel lucky enough I still fell in the catchment period of learning the language. I was still young enough to learn a language like a sponge while being immersed in a Hungarian-speaking school, and after three months of silence, I spoke the language fluently. Returning to the UK for my studies put an end to my acquisition, and as a lazy teenager being bullied for having picked up a Bela-Lugosiesque accent, my Hungarian became a time capsule for the age I left, which was 11.

When I moved back to Budapest years later at 28, my Hungarian was rusty and stunted at the language abilities of a child in an adult’s body. Over the years, I grew up linguistically, but even so, I will still be far from a native speaker.

But when I look at the other English speakers living here, struggling to understand this difficult language, I can only be grateful that for me that I bypassed learning all the rules by picking up the language from my exposure to it as a child.

Hungarian is certainly a language that will offer an intellectual challenge to any daring language learner, so if you decide to learn this fascinating language as an adult then I wish you good luck on this linguistic Odyssey!

Source

https://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2016/10/21/hungarian/

[flapperfromthefuture]

I have been baking. Like, obsessively. After watching a beautiful tombstone-grey sunset at 3:30 in the afternoon, I had the urge to bake because “You can’t stick your head in the oven if there’s other stuff in there.”

I’ve even gotten fancy. I made a povitica, the Aaron Burr of breads, with raspberry and then apricot jam (very sticky, but tasty). Then I wanted to try a savory challah, so I experimented with adding different amounts of cardamom and THEN za’atar.

I tried making challah with harissa because I love harissa, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was super messy getting the harissa into the dough and then braiding it before the whole loaf could fall apart, but the end result was delicious and made my kitchen smell like a spice market in the midst of somewhere warm that is not Michigan.

I made two Bienenstich, or bee sting cakes, which I hadn’t attempted since my brioche class. I managed not to overdo the topping this time! No almond-induced structural collapses here.

Then I made this gigantic cinnamon roll, which the recipe claimed was an Estonian Kringla, and since the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had was in Estonia, I tried it out. And it was pretty good, but didn’t quite get me to pre-winter euphoria levels, aka enough energy to stay awake past mid-afternoon because it’s so dark outside.

My sister really wanted to make Halloween desserts together, which translated into me buying all the supplies and then baking everything myself while she lay on the floor.

She had just run a half-marathon . . . five days earlier.

I don’t really like making Rice Krispie treats as they are a tactile nightmare. Everything you touch sticks to you forever and then continues to stick to you even after you die. I also gravely miscalculated how many marshmallows to buy (because weight and volume are different, apparently? They never covered that at school) and my mom will not let me live it down—anyone who stops by the house is asked, “Do you want something to drink? Or maybe some marshmallows? Elizabeth bought a thousand.”

Stella likes to say, “God knew you’d be too powerful if you were good at math.”

I don’t enjoy cooking as much as baking, but I made my yearly stab at sides for Thanksgiving. These harissa sweet potatoes looked beautiful but were a little too spicy for my weak-ass family.

(I also may have put in too much harissa. But it’s expensive and I wanted to use it all!).

A and I are officially in the throes of cabin fever, and when our beloved Midnight Madness rolled around, she decided that we needed to mix things up and elected to check out a jazz club downtown that we had never visited or heard anything about. Our friend Julia was with us and her mom was in town from the East Coast, so A thought we’d show them a sophisticated time . . . after visiting the petting zoo, of course, and making a quick stop in the Himalayan Bazaar to see if the Yeti was around—he was not, because he never is, BUT I WILL SEE HIM NEXT YEAR SO HELP ME. 

Stella did not join us for Midnight Madness, electing instead to stay in and watch The Crown, which in hindsight, was too much of a gamble to take without supervision.

We swept into the jazz club with our heavy coats and dorky beanies and I immediately felt too uncool to chill with the jazz cats. Everyone had sleek scarves and trendy eyewear and even the gorgeous modern light fixtures seemed to judge us as we sat at our table.

There was a lady wearing sunglasses inside. At night. In winter.

It was below freezing out. I thought, “Is this an awards show?”

I had only eaten roasted almonds and hot chocolate for dinner so I needed something revitalizing . . . or barring that, mozzarella sticks.

This jazz club did not have mozzarella sticks. They had charcuterie plates, pate, foie gras PB&J (why?), and charred baby octopus (WHY?), and everything was super expensive, but there was a jazz quintet onstage that seemed really legit, so I was excited to get some culture, even at the expense of mozzarella sticks.

A stared down at the menu like she could intimidate it into submission. She will eat anything, but draws the line at baby animals that have been set on fire.

“I don’t know what to get,” she said. “This never happens to me.”

“What are you guys ordering?” I asked Julia and her mom.

And then, out of nowhere, SLAM, a hand smacked our table loud enough to make me jump. An older man glared at me and said, “I’m not paying to hear you talk.”

He looked a lot like Santa, which made it even more distressing. I don’t want to get in trouble with Santa!

A is from Chicago and doesn’t take anyone’s shit (which is good for me because to quote John Mulaney, “You could pour soup into my lap and I’d apologize to you“), so she looked Santa right in the eye and said, very calmly, “You don’t need to take that tone. We’ve never been here before and we’re trying to figure out what to order.”

Santa scowled and said, “Just be quiet.” Like we were children, which we are not. We patronize jazz clubs!

A was taken aback. She was the most well-behaved child who ever childed and practically showed up to preschool with a briefcase. No one has ever told her, “Just be quiet.” And I was so hyperfocused on craft kits and Legos that no one ever told me that either. In fact, adults scolded me to be less quiet because “You’re like a little ninja.”

“That wasn’t very Midwestern,” said Julia. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Mom. People in Ann Arbor are usually very chill.”

“He’s probably a boomer,” said Julia’s mom, who is a boomer herself, and incredibly cool.

We ordered our drinks and tried to enjoy the jazz.

Here’s the thing about jazz. People think they enjoy it, because music, right? Who doesn’t like music? Everyone loved La La Land, and there was jazz in that, right?

But what you don’t know about jazz, until you’re trapped in a jazz club with incinerated child octopi and furious boomers, is that the average jazz song is about fifteen minutes long. There’s the normal part, that sounds like a song and tells a story you can follow and enjoy, and then the improv starts. Every musician starts playing scales or hitting the drums in a way that should be exciting but really isn’t, and should build to something musically but really doesn’t, and then when they’re done the audience claps and the next person does the same thing, but it’s like listening to several minutes of set-up lines with no punchline. Over and over, until they just stop and then the next song starts.

“Are they going to do this for every song?” I thought about saying, but then did not, because I didn’t want to anger the man.

Instead, I checked my phone for a quick primer on jazz appreciation.

Just kidding.

I still hadn’t eaten anything and A had declared that we wouldn’t be ordering any food so we could leave sooner . . . but not soon enough.

Other people were chatting and eating and enjoying the music, but I wasn’t doing any of those things.

Julia and her mom weren’t super into it either, to the point that Julia claimed that if she rushed the stage and pretended to be the next act by riffing on a triangle, no one would question it. Her mom was supportive of this, so it was time to go.

We said good-bye outside, relieved at finally being allowed to speak freely.

“That drum solo went on FOREVER,” said Julia.

“I thought the cymbal crash meant it was over but it just kept going!” said A.

“I really liked La La Land an hour ago and now I hate it,” I said.

So, when it comes to beating the winter blues (or full-blown seasonal affective disorder), there are a lot of options—baking with such frenzy that you start buying the 18 egg containers and the person at the register says, “Big weekend plans?” every. single. time, or expanding your horizons with such gusto that you get dropkicked by a jazz enthusiast.   

Or keep it simple and just get some mozzarella sticks.

          Baking vs. Jazz: Holiday Showdown I have been baking. Like, obsessively. After watching a beautiful tombstone-grey sunset at 3:30 in the afternoon, I had the urge to bake because "You can't stick your head in the oven if there's other stuff in there."