A Miniature of Vodka and a Mountain of Snow

December 2022

Paldiski, for all its flaws, has a noticeable sense of community that I never witnessed in Tallinn. Yes, there’s the occasional letter asking the residents’ opinion on complicated questions like how to dispose of the nuclear waste abandoned by the Russians in 1991. But on the other hand, after a heavy snowfall, half the town’s able-bodied menfolk seem to be outside shovelling snow, clearing the sidewalks and the town square, as if we might wish to sit on the benches and take in the view.

I thought that as a foreigner, and an English-speaking one at that, I would stick out like a sore thumb in a town said to have a population of 3,500. However, it was soon obvious that far more than 3,500 people were living here.

[Later, Riina explained to me that many people end up with jobs in Tallinn, commuting back and forth each day. Paldiski residents receive a small discount on the monthly train passes, which can help defray the cost; however, as a Tallinn resident, you get free public transport throughout the capital city. When I go to Tallinn, each visit costs me between three and six euros for the Tallinn buses and trams. If I had to commute to Tallinn on a daily basis, it would be well worth it to register as living there just for the free public transport. The local council has put up a poster asking people to please register in Paldiski, as the town funding depends on it. But understandably, most people would rather get free city transport, saving the equivalent cost of a kilo of pork every working day.]

I’ve been here two and a half months now. The Paldiski librarians know who I am and the women working the checkout at the supermarket now say hello. One of the pharmacists speaks English, so I made friends with her as quickly as possible. But the population as a whole didn’t particularly notice that I’d moved in. At least, not until the temperatures dropped to -10°C (14°F) and I started wearing my hot-pink ankle-length winter swimming coat in public. I had packed it away the previous winter, after Cliff went into hospital, when I realised that a small number of winter swimmers were also anti-vaxxers.

I had no intention of attempting to swim around the ports of Paldiski. But it was bloody cold and the hot-pink trenchcoat was warmer and snugglier than anything else I owned. When I realised I had walked out without gloves, I shoved my hands into the oversized pockets. Something lay at the bottom of the right pocket, forgotten for over a year. Hoping for a pair of gloves, I reached in and pulled out a miniature bottle of vodka, a bag of elk jerky and two disposable masks.

Apparently, the last time I wore it, I wanted to be sure I was ready for anything.

Stern-faced housewives turned in the street to stare, but I was warm and comfortable. When no one else was looking, one woman even told me, “ilus mantel”—my coat was pretty—without any trace of sarcasm that I could discern.

I walked through the snow corridor to the other side of the square, where I saw a small elderly woman standing ankle-deep in the snow, a few steps away from the cleared pavement.

I paused with a smile, unsure if she needed help to get back into the snow corridor. She smiled back at me, a surprise in itself, showing me a cheerful demeanour and a surprising lack of teeth. She said something in Russian. I shrugged, still smiling. She said something else, not sounding concerned or urgent, just making conversation. I gave her an apologetic look and carried on walking. A few steps later, I glanced back. She hadn’t moved, standing in the same spot. Was she trying to fight her way through the thick snow, maybe to get to the front door? But if that was her home, how could she have gotten out in the first place?

Ahead, two heavy-set middle-aged men stood smoking in front of an apartment block conversion of the old military barracks. They gave me suspicious looks as I approached.

“Hi,” I said. No response.

“Vabandage,” I said, excuse me, and then “Aidata?”, vaguely “to help” but abandoned in an impossible grammatical wasteland. I pointed back the way I’d come.

They looked at each other and then back at me. One took a drag of his cigarette. Neither even glanced in the direction I had pointed. Maybe I should get out my miniature of vodka to break the ice.

They probably didn’t speak Estonian. I switched to English, which they probably didn’t speak either, but at least I would know what the hell I was saying.

“The woman over there,” I said, pointing. “I think she needs help.” She stood there, a thin silhouette against the snow drifts, and did I mention it was significantly below freezing? No one was standing around outside if they didn’t need to. (Wanting a cigarette counts as needing to.)

But the men didn’t know how long she’d been there. I needed to make it clear that I thought she needed help. I made a motion with my hand of slipping and falling and then pointed at her.

They looked at the woman, clearly upright, and rather obviously not covered in snow. Then, as one, they turned back and looked at me, brows furrowed. Probably trying to work out if I was insane or just drunk. I was glad I hadn’t shown them the vodka.

“She fell,” I insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary. I pointed at her again. “I think she needs help.” I mimed shivering in the cold, which was met with blank stares.

The woman still stood there, motionless. The man closest to me looked like he might have understood. He motioned towards the woman and made a declarative statement in Russian, which I chose to understand as “We will look after her.” The other man still stared at the woman, waiting for her to do something interesting.

I didn’t think for a moment they’d understood a word of what I’d said, but they were now at least aware of her, stood there, stuck in some way that I didn’t understand.

I gave the men my best Southern California smile and walked on. When I glanced back, they were still watching the woman and talking, which seemed like a good sign. Even if it was just “What was that weird pink-wrapped woman jabbering about,” at least they were aware that the old woman was still standing there and not going anywhere.

The snow covering the parking lot was thigh-high, but I bravely climbed out of my snow corridor, planning to storm through to the other side. I froze, one foot raised high, at a sharp sound behind me, which sounded very much like a Russian swear word. Both men were watching me, and one of them called out something, shaking his head, and then just added “No” very clearly in English. He pointed angrily at the snow corridor going past him, leading away from where I wanted to go. The message was clear: do not go traipsing through the deep snow. Having effectively just asked them for a favour, I didn’t like to be difficult, so I smiled at him and resigned myself to staying within the shovelled trenches, at least while still in their sight. Soon, I came to a junction, with a path cleared to skirt the edge of the parking lot, directly to where I wanted to go. I glanced over my shoulder and waved at the men, who quickly turned away as if they hadn’t been watching.

I completed my errands and, feeling cozy in my coat, considered that, as the wind was calm and it wasn’t actively snowing, I could go for a stroll across the open land past North Harbour, maybe follow the cliff-side trail.

But as the buildings stopped, so did the interest of the snow plow. Usually, the paved road ended in a dirt track, much beloved of dog walkers and me, but today it was a mountain of snow towering above me. Even if I could get around it (or burrow through it?), the undulating snow beyond looked like perfect meringue, with no sign of any footprints or even paw prints. It seemed foolhardy to try to forge a way forward that even the local dog population wouldn’t consider.

Defeated, I turned back. At the far end of the paved road were the two men, who melted away into the distance once I started walking in their direction. Clearly, they had decided that I needed watching, much more at risk than the old woman, who at least didn’t keep trying to throw herself into deep snow.

I stuck to the snow corridor but as I turned the corner, there was no one there, not the two men and not the old woman. Everyone, I thought, was safe indoors except for me. I followed the trenches to the supermarket, past the post boxes and the wooden picnic tables. The shoveled path continued around the corner where, in better weather, the Jehovah’s Witnesses would put up their stand with Russian versions of Watchtower that no one wanted. The corridor ended at the snowplowed driveway which led to the steps of my building entrance.

So that was that, I thought. Until this melts, I can only go where the shovel-owners think I should go.

Considering that my survivalist skills consisted of a miniature bottle of vodka and three strips of elk jerky in my pocket, this was probably for the best.