Vana Tallinn, Estonia
September 30th, 2011
The street was winding and it was an uphill walk. The voices of the crowds drowned as I left the town square behind me. The cobblestones interrupted my steps as I trekked to the belvedere. The cool autumn breeze grazed my cheek and against the setting sun, the yellowing leaves of the elm trees lent the pathway a golden hue. I ran my hands over the stones of the old houses that lined the street. I walked on feeling the changing textures of the stones, the moss and the ivy that draped the walls of the houses in this quaint hanseatic town.
Through the crumbling gateways of the ancient fort wall, a new vista exposed itself; a serpentine stairway, precariously ascending towards the mound that would have once echoed with lively chatter. The leaves swayed, dancing to the harmony of the wind and gold fell to the earth. A gentle drizzle had laid a carpet of water on the ground. An old man sat under the eaves of his store with a guitar in his hands and a tune handed to him by his ancestors. I stopped. It dawned on me that I was surrounded by a profoundly haunting presence. It was the past. Death could not prevent the essence of life to prevail. The stones, the trees, the wind, the rain and the music had all been there through the ages as a witness to the ephemeral lives of the great kings and traders and the myriad peasants and paupers.
At a distance, I saw a small arched gate that opened into a large terrace. A couple of travellers were climbing down. They smiled gently at me and I reciprocated. I stepped into a puddle and they laughed. The man pointed towards his muck covered boots. We were all victims of nature’s bounty. It giveth and it taketh away. In this case, my intellectual excitement instantly vapourised as I yanked my sneakers and sock and wringed them out to dry. The chill grew every minute and I had no intentions was falling sick in this hauntingly romantic town. After about a minute of hopping on one leg, I sat myself on a dry stair trying to trace my walk from the distant town square to the hill. What lay before my eyes was a palimpsest. An eight century history which had built upon itself, sometimes crumbling down, sometimes accommodating and at other times reinventing itself.
The uniformly sloping roofs of the town seemed to spring up spires intermittently. There was certain verticality in the dynamics of the form of this settlement. The orange and red tiles on the slopes of the colourfully draped edifices lent a shade of uniformity to the otherwise chaotic yet heart stopping beauty. Like peering into the shelves of a French patisserie, the brightly painted buildings lent taste to the mind’s tongue and indulged the mind’s eye in a moment of profuse flavour. What makes one appreciate such beauty? Rather, a more appropriate question would be, what force lends such immense beauty to an otherwise ordinary settlement.
I walked past the small gate with a lowered head into a bower. A large tree stood at the centre and around it, smaller trees, shrubs and grasses covered the large open terrace. The old fort wall defined one edge of the space and hidden behind an old rotunda were the steep steps to a famed cafe. It had been a long walk. Though I had not walked long enough, I had seen the centuries unfold. I needed a sip of something hot. I climbed on to the rickety wooden cantilever that clung desperately to stone walls. With barely sufficient width to walk past the array of small tables, I entered a warmly lit cafeteria.
September 30th, 2011
The street was winding and it was an uphill walk. The voices of the crowds drowned as I left the town square behind me. The cobblestones interrupted my steps as I trekked to the belvedere. The cool autumn breeze grazed my cheek and against the setting sun, the yellowing leaves of the elm trees lent the pathway a golden hue. I ran my hands over the stones of the old houses that lined the street. I walked on feeling the changing textures of the stones, the moss and the ivy that draped the walls of the houses in this quaint hanseatic town.
Through the crumbling gateways of the ancient fort wall, a new vista exposed itself; a serpentine stairway, precariously ascending towards the mound that would have once echoed with lively chatter. The leaves swayed, dancing to the harmony of the wind and gold fell to the earth. A gentle drizzle had laid a carpet of water on the ground. An old man sat under the eaves of his store with a guitar in his hands and a tune handed to him by his ancestors. I stopped. It dawned on me that I was surrounded by a profoundly haunting presence. It was the past. Death could not prevent the essence of life to prevail. The stones, the trees, the wind, the rain and the music had all been there through the ages as a witness to the ephemeral lives of the great kings and traders and the myriad peasants and paupers.
At a distance, I saw a small arched gate that opened into a large terrace. A couple of travellers were climbing down. They smiled gently at me and I reciprocated. I stepped into a puddle and they laughed. The man pointed towards his muck covered boots. We were all victims of nature’s bounty. It giveth and it taketh away. In this case, my intellectual excitement instantly vapourised as I yanked my sneakers and sock and wringed them out to dry. The chill grew every minute and I had no intentions was falling sick in this hauntingly romantic town. After about a minute of hopping on one leg, I sat myself on a dry stair trying to trace my walk from the distant town square to the hill. What lay before my eyes was a palimpsest. An eight century history which had built upon itself, sometimes crumbling down, sometimes accommodating and at other times reinventing itself.
The uniformly sloping roofs of the town seemed to spring up spires intermittently. There was certain verticality in the dynamics of the form of this settlement. The orange and red tiles on the slopes of the colourfully draped edifices lent a shade of uniformity to the otherwise chaotic yet heart stopping beauty. Like peering into the shelves of a French patisserie, the brightly painted buildings lent taste to the mind’s tongue and indulged the mind’s eye in a moment of profuse flavour. What makes one appreciate such beauty? Rather, a more appropriate question would be, what force lends such immense beauty to an otherwise ordinary settlement.
I walked past the small gate with a lowered head into a bower. A large tree stood at the centre and around it, smaller trees, shrubs and grasses covered the large open terrace. The old fort wall defined one edge of the space and hidden behind an old rotunda were the steep steps to a famed cafe. It had been a long walk. Though I had not walked long enough, I had seen the centuries unfold. I needed a sip of something hot. I climbed on to the rickety wooden cantilever that clung desperately to stone walls. With barely sufficient width to walk past the array of small tables, I entered a warmly lit cafeteria.
With a glass of hot Hoogvien in my hands, I sat on an empty chair by the candlelit table. The sun was setting over this beautiful city and drowning into the Baltic. The sky changed from shades of gold to shades of purple. It was a scene I had seen many times and yet there was something new. I drew a breath and sipped a sip, looking at the trees of gold, the town of the past, its resilient zeitgeist and the old guitarist who was still partly visible through the now faraway gate. Things do come and go but some things remain the same. Tomorrow will be a new beginning. Today is a new end.
