...I grew accustomed to not having a face

I remember long ago, when I was still living in Japan, I had a weird, yet enlightening, conversation with some Japanese girl I met at school. It started when she leaned pretty close to me and stared at my face for a long time. I was understandably weirded out and wanted to ask her what that was all about, when she asked me in a tone resembling abject horror:

'No make-up?!!!' 

Okay, rude. She was right, of course - I wasn't wearing any make-up - but she didn't have to sound this horrified. She herself was apparently also not wearing much make-up, but since half of her face was covered with a mask, it was difficult to tell. I still didn't understand where all of this judgement was coming from, so I tried to defend myself.

'Well, yeah... I rarely use make-up and it's so hot today that it would just run off...' 

That was also true. It was really hot that day, but it had nothing to do with me wearing or not wearing make-up. I've always felt I had poor make-up skills, so I don't see a reason to bother with it. Still, the fact that this girl pointed it out with such shock, was kind of annoying and I felt strangely insulted. Was she trying to insinuate I needed make-up? That I shouldn't have been out and about with my face so bare and... face-y? 

'No, that is surprising. You have good skin!' the girl tried to explain her previous horror (or surprise), 'Here it's common to always wear make-up. I put on make-up almost every day.'

'Every day? Doesn't that get annoying?' I asked, still sceptical of her explanation. 

'Not really, but some days when I don't feel like make-up or I have a bad skin day, I just put a mask on.'

Huh... well, that sounded... pretty smart. I had previously thought that masks were only for when you felt sick and wanted to keep everyone else safe, but using it to cover up a lack of make-up or blemishes or zits... man, that sounded great! Imagine waking up one morning and realizing that your face had decided to start growing a backup nose in the middle of the night. Sure, you could try to cover it up with concealer, but you can still see the outline of the hideous thing and you know it's there. It's gonna drive you crazy! But there is another way! You can just put a mask on and hide it from the world! None will be the wiser and you can act as if you're doing something noble by keeping others safe from your nasty germs. I liked that idea. 

So when the whole 'mask debate' made its way to Estonia, I was somewhat confused. Okay, I get that some people question whether masks are effective in slowing the spread of the disease and whether they keep us safe, but... why not just wear them? Oh, it's hard to breathe? Well, it's hard to walk in high heels, but we still do it. It's difficult to move in tight jeans, but we seem to manage. It's super awkward to hold small objects in your hand while wearing gloves, but if the weather is cold and we need to find our keys we somehow manage to do it without whining about it! Besides, masks have so many more positive aspects to them than just keeping us safe from the virus.

Sitting through a boring lecture or conversation and want to yawn? If you have a mask on you can do so discreetly. The nice old neighbour lady, who you've been helping out, turns out to be a raging homophobe who is lamenting the fact she can't go to any torch rallies to protest the gays? Well, now you can discreetly pull a face and look upon her with disgust without her even noticing! Just wear a mask! Bad skin day? Mask! No time to put on make-up in the morning? Mask! Nose hair getting too long? Mask! Roommate drew a dick on your face? Mask! 

So, so many options! So many positives to wearing a mask! Whenever I have to deal with a garlic loving patient, I thank the universe that I can wear a mask. Sure, I still know they stink of garlic, but I can barely smell it. Same with chainsmokers and people with... hygene issues. Even if I do smell them, they can't see the face I'm making so it's all very civil. And whenever a patient starts talking about how they went to see a chiropractor who 'pulled their legs into place' and 'pushed their spine straight', I can stare at them with all the disappointment and incredulity I can muster and they can't even see it. 

'But it's still difficult to breathe!'

Yeah, but you can still do it. A difficulty to breathe isn't the same as being breathless or suffocating. Yes, it feels uncomfortable, but we can handle a little bit of discomfort on a daily basis. My work pants threaten to rip every time I show my patient how to do squats and make me paranoid about the visibility of my underwear, but I still wear them. Because I have to! Because going pantsless in this weather isn't an option! At some point you have to realize that a small amount of discomfort is something that you can get used to in no time. Hell, I'm barely aware I'm even wearing a mask at work on most days. The joy of having half of my face covered and being able to yawn and grimace discreetly far makes up for the fact that I have a hard time breathing. Hey, breathing is for suckers anyway. 

Not to mention that there's something strangely comforting in the anonymity provided by wearing a mask. Maybe it's a me thing, but I somewhat enjoy the fact that a lot of my patients don't know what I really look like. That way, if I ever run into any of them on the street, they might think they recognize me, but they'll never know for sure. And thus they're less likely to strike up a conversation, which works just fine for me, because I turn into an antisocial hermit as soon as I leave work. Wait, that's redundant, isn't it? 'Antisocial hermit'? It's not like hermits are known for their wild social lives... But I digress... I also find that wearing a mask makes things more interesting for everyone. As long as we can't see each other's faces, we can let our fantasies go wild. Does my patient have a mustache? Don't know, but I can imagine she does. Is there something funky going on with that person's nose? Maybe, he certainly sounds like it. Is that person actually an alien with mandibles in stead of a mouth? Hey, anything is possible! I can certainly see that person with mandibles. 

'But I like seeing other people's faces! And I like my face!' I hear you protest.

Do you? Do you, really? Have you looked into the mirror recently? I'm not trying to insinuate anything, but can you really claim that people are missing out if they can't see your face? That sounds kinda narcissistic, doesn't it? Point is, nothing has really changed just because we've started wearing masks. It has been a norm in many countries for ages now and they're still thriving. Society won't collapse just because you need to cover your face. You can handle a little bit of discomfort. And as for me, I have begun to enjoy going faceless. In a way, it gives you more freedom than one might think - you're free to express yourself without fear of judgement and free to imagine whatever you want there to be under the mask. And hey, at least I won't have strange girls coming up to me going 'No make-up???????!!!!!' anymore. Still think it was rude...

...I realized 2020 was over

So, how was last year for you guys? I know, I know, you probably don't want to talk about it. Yeah, me neither... but I am going to. Why? Because I can. Don't question it. I don't have a cat to talk to so I have to bother random people on the internet. 

These past few weeks I've taken some time to myself and went over everything that happened in 2020 and it's been... weird. I know everyone says that 2020 screwed with their perception of time, but I didn't realize how much so until I started taking inventory of all the major events in my life. Some say that it felt like 2020 passed extremely quickly due to the fact that we had to quarantine for several months. Others say that it seemed to last for decades. I certainly belong into the latter group. 

Can you believe that this time last year (and I'm thinking of January 2020, for those reading this god knows when) I was still working in Viljandi? I had three different jobs in 2020. Three! In a year where a lot of people had 0 jobs! No, I'm not bragging here. If anything, it is a testament for my extreme aversion to commitment. Honestly, I didn't plan on switching jobs that often, it just sort of happened. 

I left Viljandi because the drive there and back again proved to be too much for my already sleep deprived brain and I needed to feel like a human being again. I know that for most people, an hour long commute doesn't sound particularly horrible, but I'm Estonian so anything that's further away than a 5 minute drive is far. Also, I'm old and tired and need my beauty sleep. Losing two hours of my life every day just to drive to work was too much. 

'But why didn't you just move to Viljandi?' I hear you ask.

Well, why don't you move to Viljandi if you like it so much?! Sorry, I don't mean to be... mean - it just tends to happen on its own. I even thought about moving to Viljandi a couple of times. I did! But I really, really love my apartment. And I like Tartu. And the thought of seeing my patients whenever I go to the store or for a walk or to the movies just seems kind of... creepy. I'm a private person (she says as she literally writes down her life experiences for everyone to see and read) and the thought of my patients knowing everything I'm up to is claustrophobic in a way.

So, with a heavy heart, I left Viljandi. It wasn't an easy decision, because I'd grown to like the people and environment there, but it had to be made. I got a new job in Tartu, doing basically the same work I did in Viljandi, only with 50% less children. I was content. Everything was fine. Life was... well, if not good then certainly okay. 

Now, before I go on to discuss the whole pandemic thing, there were also a few good things that happened in 2020. Remember my lamp issue? That whole saga that started with me tearing down my lamp and then trying to find someone to fix it (on Tinder)? Well, I did get it fixed. Did I hire someone to do it? Nope. I found a guy on Tinder! So if any of you think it was a stupid idea to look for a handyman on a dating app, joke's on you! I found a handyman, he did fix my lamp (took him like 10 minutes max) and all I had to do was listen to him talk about his depression for like an hour afterwards. Hey, at least I didn't have to pay him and it's not like I had anything better to do. That was like a week before the pandemic hit and we were all stuck at home. 

Quarantine was... not super bad. I did manage to get sick at the beginning of it - a common cold that had nothing to do with the virus going around, but since things were quite tense, I decided to take a few weeks off. It was weird, sitting at home, unable to go outside, watching a bunch of geriatric hooligans hanging out in the park behind my apartment building, smoking and drinking and having fun. Okay, so maybe they weren't smoking and maybe they weren't exactly hooligans, but it was still strange to see really, really old people - people who looked like they'd probably seen the Titanic sink - spending time outdoors in a time where everyone else was stuck inside. It's like they didn't even care there was a pandemic going on! They probably didn't though. My grandparents are the same way. I guess once you reach a certain age, you're not going to let anything stop you from trying to enjoy the few years you have left in this world. 

During quarantine I managed to find a new job quite unexpectedly. A stroke-centered project needed a physio to do home visits and since I had experience with stoke (and am in constant danger of getting one due to the anger issues I so desperately try to ignore) and had a car, I was a good candidate. Before I knew, I had already promised to collaborate with them and thus switched jobs again (kind of). A part of me stayed behind in my previous job, but only the psych part. 

Summer came and went. I didn't do anything overly exciting or noteworthy, because the world was still in a weird place and I decided it best to refrain from traveling. A difficult decision, to be sure, because traveling is as much a part of my life as writing and cooking. Meaning I do it occasionally, when I feel like it, but not like... all the time... although I want to... but it's just not a good time right now and I'm not feeling it... but I totally should do it soon and I'm totally gonna, just... not right now? No, but I really feel the strain the lack of travel has put on me. I feel restless, uneasy and anxious... and stuck. There's nothing really 'wrong' in my life, but I just feel like I need a breather. Just a moment for myself, far from home, in a completely new environment. 

'But you can travel around Estonia! There's so much to see here!' I hear you say optimistically.

Yeah, well, I can also put on a bikini and climb into the bathtub, but it still won't be the same as spending a day at the beach. I'm not saying Estonia is somehow lacking or uninteresting. I love Estonia. There is so much to discover here. And I did do a lot of traveling around the country during Summer. I did find places that I'd never even heard of before and that were beautiful and interesting and simply magical... But the point of traveling is to get away, isn't it? Sure, I love discovering new and interesting places in Estonia, but at the end of the day there's this little voice in the back of my head that goes:

'This is neat! Isn't it great that there's a place like this so close to home... and work... you remember work, right? You have to go back on Monday... Just sayin...' 

The point I'm trying to make is: I miss traveling. I miss the feeling of getting away from the routine and obligations of my everyday life. I just went over my pictures the other day and came to the disturbing realization that I haven't been anywhere since December 2019! It's 2021!  What have I been doing with my life?! Oh, right, working... 

Oh yeah, and I also turned 30... 

What can I say about turning 30?

Did I have an existential crisis after reaching a new decade? I guess so. The entire year was just one crisis after another so I didn't have that much time to spend on my 'Oh no, I'm old!!!' crisis. Most days I don't feel old. Most days I still feel like I'm in my mid-twenties, drifting through life aimlessly, just trying to make the most of it... And then I get out of bed and there's this loud *CRACK* in my lower back that makes me hobble like the bellringer of Notre Dame for at least fifteen minutes while trying to get my morning caffeine fix. Sometimes I forget things. Like putting coffee into my coffee maker, resulting in a cup of hot water. 0/10, would not recommend. Sometimes I struggle to keep myself awake watching an award-winning historical drama that is widely praised, simply because I have the attention span of a cocaine hippo and the energy of a narcoleptic sloth. But hey, at least I have stopped caring about what people think about me, so that's good, I guess. I go to the store in sweatpants and my ugliest coat, looking like a complete hobo, and I couldn't care less. I am openly weird about most things, just because it's who I am and I am kind of sick of pretending I'm normal. The other day a handyman came over to fix some electrical outlet thingy in my bathroom ceiling (a real handyman this time), and I didn't even bother to make my apartment look presentable. I don't owe him anything! And honestly, it's not my problem if his socks get covered in glitter (don't ask why my floor is covered in glitter, it's not an interesting story). So yeah, 30 has it's charms. Yes, most things hurt and I feel like people expect me to start acting... well, my age... but the good news is that I seriously don't care anymore. 

It's none of my business what other people think of me. 

In conclusion: 2020 was... something... but I should consider myself lucky. Somehow I managed to avoid the worst of it, keep myself busy and be somewhat useful. Did I enjoy the year? Nope, not really. I spent most of it being either worried or angry or both. But I was fine. I was good. I stayed healthy and tried to be there for people who needed me. And hey, things can only get better, right? Right?! Please tell me they're going to get better... If I have to get through another year of not traveling and being stuck at home, I'm probably going to snap and adopt an otter or something... become the crazy otter lady of the neighborhood. And nobody wants to be around that. Although otters are kind of cute...

...insanity became a daily companion

 'But hasn't insanity been your daily companion for decades now?' I hear you ask sarcastically while giving me a judgemental look. 

Well, yes and no. I'm not talking about my own insanity here (I'm not crazy, just... eccentric? weird?), although that might factor into it. I'm more concerned about the fact that, in these past few months, I've become somewhat of a magnet for people who... might not be in the best place... mentally. 

'Aren't you working as a psychologist? Doesn't that come with the territory?' I see you point out, ignorantly.

No, no it doesn't. In fact, the people who come to me to get psychological help are among some of the sanest I know. Sure they have their issues, but they know they have issues and seek help and that's what any sane person would do. Nothing crazy about seeing a professional when you realize you're way over your head and need a little bit of support. 

The kind of crazy I'm talking about here is the kind that wanders the streets in the guise of a normal elderly person and you don't know you've been caught in the vortex of insanity until they start talking about how cows become carnivorous over time and kill at least 55 people per year but nobody talks about it because the milk-maffia gets rid of all witnesses. Oh, I am very aware of the fact that not only the elderly are weird and crazy (I've been on tinder - I've seen things...), but recently they seem to be the ones letting their crazy-flag fly like there's no tomorrow. I feel like most elderly people in Estonia used to hide their madness for fear of judgement and social isolation (we are a very judgy people, aren't we?), but after the pandemic started they just... stopped giving a damn. I guess it makes sense: if you're going to be isolated anyway then you might as well adopt a family of hedgehogs, befriend that stain on your wall and burn your neighbor's apple tree. Or whatever crazy people do. It used to be that old people with weird ideas would only talk about those ideas to their equally weird friends or long-suffering family members or to the staff at whatever care-home they currently presided in, but recently they've become more open to sharing their ideas with the general public and, specifically, me. And no, I'm not talking about politics here. 

I feel like in these past few weeks I've become somewhat of a beacon for eccentric people. They tend to find me in a crowd (not that I move in crowds - and maybe that's my problem) or on the street and they just start... talking to me. Which is pretty weird on its own. Estonians don't usually walk up to strangers and start talking to them - we barely even talk to our own family! Now, I am aware that these people probably just want to talk to anyone and I'm in no way special - they likely approach several people a day in this manner - but during these past ten days I've started to see a pattern that makes me question my reality. Here's a few examples, so you'd understand why I'm even bringing this up, and keep in mind that all of these incidents took place in a span of ten days. 

Scene 1

So one fine day I was... well, let's say I was at work. Anyhoo, I was by the stairs, preparing to head up, but there was an older lady coming down and I didn't want to push past her so I waited. She was almost down when suddenly she stopped, mid-step, looked up at me, sighed and said:

'Absolutely horrible...'

I... was confused. So confused, in fact, that I literally looked around to see if she was talking to me. She had to be, because I was the only other person in the stairwell. So... absolutely horrible? Was she talking about me? Sure, I'm not perfect, but I'm not that bad, right? And she didn't even know me! 

'Just horrible...' she sighed again, still standing on the stairs, blocking my way up. 

'Ummm... what's horrible, exactly?' I asked because... well, I'm just polite like that. I can't ignore a person when they want to talk to me (even when I probably should). 

'These stairs are so steep!' the old lady went on complaining, 'And I just injured my leg and the pain is unbearable and the railing is so cold. I have carpal tunnels you know. How can anyone handle moving up and down these stairs on a daily basis?'

Oh, just a cranky old lady in pain, I thought. This was fairly common. Lord knows I'd be cranky as well if I was constantly in pain and had to brave the stairs with a bust leg. So I smiled apologetically (because the obsessively Estonian part of me was convinced this was all somehow my fault) and tried to sympathise with her plight.

'Yeah, these stairs are kind of steep and narrow. There is an elevator right here if you need to use it to get back up,' I offered helpfully, pointing at the elevator, thinking (naively) that she'd simply missed it. 

'Oh, I can't use the elevator with all these gypsies around,' the old lady said in a completely serious tone. 

Oh no! A wild racist appeared! The wild racist used confusion spores on you! It's super effective! (I'm not usually this much of a nerd - I'm just going through a phase). 

Now, all jokes aside, I really was confused. First of all, I didn't see any gypsies around so I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew there were probably a couple of ladies in the building willing to read your palm for some cash, but those ladies were super white. I hadn't even seen one gypsy around for the whole time I was working there. So yeah, I had no clue who she was referring to. And secondly, why would the presence of gypsies stop her from using the elevator? Thankfully the wild racist decided to answer that question without me even having to ask. 

'You can't trust these gypsies, you know! You do know what they do, don't you? They'll hit you on the head with a club and take your money!' she explained, sounding more animated than before. 

'And... they'll do it in the elevator...?' I asked, pretty sure someone had just clubbed me over the head without me noticing.

'I've seen them do it! It happened to my grandfather once when I was a kid. They hit you until you bleed and take all of your money!'

So, this old, old lady who looked like the ghost of Christmas future, saw gypsies club her grandfather in an elevator when she was a kid? Was it the first elevator ever? Was it a dream? Was the old lady just talking about a dream she saw? Was she high? Well, she was in the basement so technically not... 

Well, I had to get to work and I was not equipped to deal with this kind of crazy this early in the morning so I took the coward's way out. I just mumbled something along the lines of 'yeah, that sure is... something' and slipped past her, leaving the old lady to ramble on about those darn gypsies. So that was incident number one. 

Scene 2 

One fine weekend I decided I needed a new phone (didn't get one, but more on that later). So I headed to the closest store and started browsing, trying to find something affordable and nice looking (yes, I'm shallow, sue me). So there I was, standing in the middle of the store, staring at a phone way too expensive for my broke ass, when a random older lady showed up right beside me. She wasn't quite the ghost of Christmas future, but she was definitely someone's grandmother. How do I know? Well, she told me. It wasn't the first thing she said. It all started off rather innocently.

'Isn't it hard wearing a mask with glasses? They get foggy so quickly,' she pointed out, looking at my glasses.

'Oh yeah, it's annoying for sure, but what can you do...' I replied with a shrug.

It is annoying, of course. Winter is a pain in the ass for anyone who wears glasses and masks just make the fog last longer. It doesn't help that I breathe like a serial killer. But hey, it's better than getting sick or becoming the Typhoid Mary of Tartu (although that does sound kind of cool). 

'Oh, I wouldn't be wearing a mask at all if it wasn't for my granddaughter. She says I have to get a new phone so we can make tiktoks together...' the old lady started, changing the subject rather abruptly.

'Uh... okay...?' I tried to figure out how to respond to that, but I didn't really need to. She just wanted to talk. 

'She was making a tiktok with her friend the other day and they were dancing so I started dancing in the background and then her friend said that I was a cool grandmother and...'

You know that feeling when you realise you're trapped in a completely one-sided conversation with someone not intent on stopping any time soon? Yeah, I realised I was trapped. Granted, the old lady was probably just lonely and needed someone to listen to her, so she just latched on to the first person she saw. Nothing wrong about that. 

'And my granddaughter said her teacher was cool as well so I told her: 'I need to meet her!' because back in our days there were no good teachers...'

Our days? Our days?! Okay, I was wearing a mask, but... I don't look that old, do I? She was in her sixties, at least! OUR DAYS?! That was the first moment I realised I really wanted to be far away from this lady, whoever she was. And that was even before she started with:

'And then her dog started whining because it had a tummy ache so I took the dog because I know that the only thing that helps in these situations is reiki. I just needed to focus my energy on...'

So how did we get from masks to tiktok to practicing reiki on a dog? Who knows! I sure as hell didn't! By that time I knew I had one of two choices: I could either excuse myself politely and continue with my shopping or I could run away like a coward. I did both, kinda. Well, I slowly backed away while saying something about being in a hurry and then promptly walked away. I did not get a new phone. I probably never will now, having lived through the trauma of having a stranger talk to me in a store. 

Scene 3

Picture me sitting in a room, talking to an old lady. It doesn't matter why I'm there or even who she is. I am there and she's in the process of telling me her life's story. It's all pretty generic so far. Loving family, Soviet times, kids, career, health issues - the usual. 

'I'm sure you've noticed the religious icons around my house,' she says pointing to the altar in the corner, 'I am very spiritual, you see. I know God exists because I have seen the face of God.'

Creepy. Not the religious part but the part about seeing the face of God. That's a line you usually hear in horror movies before some shit goes down. But fair enough, she has faith. One can only admire that. In these trying times its good to have something to believe in. 

'God spoke to me one night and told me not to believe in false gods.'

Sounds like something God would say. Or something a false god would say. I feel like I've seen way too many exorcism-movies to believe any deity if they told me they were God. 

'But I still practice tai chi.'

Oh, chill! That's good! It's good for people her age to regularly work out and keep active. I've always heard that tai chi was a great way to...

'Sometimes when I do that I create a ball of energy between my palms and when I release it I end up scaring the crows away. It doesn't hurt them but they sense it and get frightened.'

That's... what? 

'I've always had too much energy. It collects in my throat and if I don't release it, it starts choking me. That's why I can't sing but I have the power to curse people with my words.'

Aaaand it got creepy again. And I thought it was going so well. Now I was pretty much convinced the old lady was either possessed or a demon herself. Seeing the face of God, throwing energy balls at crows, cursing people... yeah, pretty dark stuff. Guess I need to stay on her good side. 

Scene 4

Okay, this isn't really an example of an encounter with a weird person but... it was still weird. It was still a stranger coming up to talk to me. What's up with that? Do I really look like someone who likes to talk to people? I always try to adopt that patented 'Dead Inside' look whenever I go out so that people would avoid me but it doesn't seem to work. 

Anyway, I was out shopping, trying to find a birthday gift for my dad. He's a whisky-lover so I was looking for something fancy and different - something he hadn't tried yet. As I was browsing the shelves, I heard someone approaching me and when I looked to my left, there was an old lady looking up at me. Oh dear... See, all those past incidents had taken place during the course of one week so I was a little apprehensive about talking to sweet old ladies. 

'Excuse me, could you help me for a moment?' she asked politely and since she seemed to be normal and nice, I immediately agreed.

'Sure, if I can,' I told her and followed where she led.

'My boss' retirement party is coming up so I was planning on giving him a bottle of something special, but I know nothing about alcohol,' she explained while leading me to the vodka section of the store, 'You look like a person who knows their alcohol. Which of these do you recommend?'

I look like what now? I stared at the old lady, then at the bottles of vodka, then back at the lady. Did I really look like some sort of raging alcoholic? Okay, she was asking my opinion on fancy vodkas, but still... Did I look like someone who knows anything about vodka? All I know is that vodka tastes like pain and tears and wasted opportunities. 

'I was thinking about getting him this one,' she held up a fancy white and silver bottle, 'But it looks almost like this other one so I was wondering which one is better. What do you think? Which one is better?'

She looked at me expectantly, as if hoping I would give her a thorough review on the different brands. I had no clue how to help her and I was still a bit confused as to what about me told her I would know anything about vodka. So I just pointed to the prettier bottle and said:

'That one looks nicer.'

That's basically the extent of my vodka-knowledge. I know what looks pretty and that's it. 

'Yes, but what does it taste like?' she pressed on, still somehow convinced I had any clue as to what I was talking about.

Like death, probably. I didn't say that, but I was tempted to. Instead I spotted an employee innocently passing by and waved her down, determined to find another soul to replace me. It worked and the employee immediately went on to explain vodka to the old lady who had finally found a competent person to help her, while I slipped away into the night. 

Now, sure, not all of these people were insane - and one might argue that none of them was - and to be honest, I wouldn't have given these incidents much thought at all, had they not happened so closely together. I get it, the pandemic has been tough and we're all trying to survive. These old ladies probably didn't have many people to talk to during quarantine and they were just looking for someone to listen to their issues. And hey, I should be glad to know that I apparently look approachable enough for these old ladies to share their thought with me. But... it's kind of weird, isn't it?

'You're kind of weird!' I hear you retort like an annoying toddler.

Well yeah, and maybe that's why these people are so willing to share their innermost thoughts with me. I'm not judging them, despite appearances. Sure, I might think most of these women were weird as hell, but that doesn't make them bad people. The racism and cursing people might though, but those are other issues. 

So, my point is... Oh wait, I barely had one in the first place. I guess what I'm trying to say is: live your best life people. Talk to your loved ones, find healthy ways of de-stressing, be kind to yourself and others. And, if you fail to find someone willing to listen to your troubles, you can always just start writing a sub-par blog like all the other dinosaurs in the world. 

...my unplanned hunger strike ended poorly

Back in October, 2019, I had the bright idea to go down to New Orleans. On Halloween. Because if you're going to New Orleans you might as well do it on one of the wildest times of the year. Allegedly, Halloween is bigger than New Years in New Orleans (but not quite as big as Mardi Gras) and I wanted to be part of it.

A lot of people asked me 'why New Orleans'. It seemed like an... uncommon choice. Not weird in any way but its just... not the first thing that comes to mind when you're planning a trip to the US. For me, though, it was a plan long in the making. When people asked me why I chose to go to New Orleans, I usually made up some story how I find the mixture of different cultures and religions fascinating (and I do!) but the truth is much nerdier than that. First of all, New Orleans is kind of like the Voodoo capital of the US and we all know how I'm into such dark and twisted stuff. I just can't help to be drawn to the macabre. And the second (and even nerdier) reason was 'Interview with the Vampire'.

See, I was a preteen when I first saw the movie and I fell in love with it. I taped it (back in the old days when VHS tapes were a thing) and watched it almost religiously for months. Like, I would come home from school, pop it into the VCR and not move until it was over. It had everything: a dark, romantic atmosphere, creepy swamps, sexy vampires (yeah, yeah, I know its starred Tom Cruise but back in those days he wasn't crazy and weird yet) and voodoo stuff. I ever read the book back to back several times. New Orleans just seemed so dark and mysterious and magical in the movie/book and even as I grew out of my obsession with vampires, there was still a part of my mind that thought it would be fun to go there one day. I forgot that part for a long time, got into other stuff (I got reeeeally into Asian shit) but when American Horror Story: Covenant came out, my interest was renewed. So, once I had enough money gathered and I had nothing else to do, I bought the tickets and got ready. 'Oh, so this is a story about your trip to New Orleans? That sounds like fun,' I hear you ask expectantly. 

Nope. This story has nothing to do with my trip. Well, not the actual trip itself, anyway. This story is about the process of getting to New Orleans. If this was an episode of Family Guy, it would be titled 'The Road to New Orleans' and it would be a hell of a lot more interesting than this hot mess of a monologue, but alass, you must make do with what I am able to provide you with. 

My journey began on... uh... a Tuesday? I guess? Who remembers anymore. What I do remember is having breakfast and then taking a two hour train to Tallinn to get to the airport. I arrived with just enough time to get through security and slowly wander to the correct gate before we started boarding. For once in my life I wasn't in the airport 12 hours early like usual but it didn't bother me much. I was still full from breakfast and didn't need any supplies anyway so I was okay (I thought). Spoilers: I did need supplies. 

I had my first layover in Oslo. The flight took about... four hours? Three? I don't really remember, but it wasn't super long. The layover itself was less than an hour - something that set me on edge but I figured I would make it, if everything went smoothly. So, as soon as we'd landed, I hurried off to find my gate. I have to take a moment to say that Gardermoen airport is one of the chillest airports I've ever had the pleasure of being in. Everything just went super smoothly. I had less than an hour to get from my arrival gate to a trans-Atlantic flight and everything just... worked. No long security check lines, no waiting forever to show my passport to some bored airport employee who couldn't care less, no endless corridors packed with slow-moving tourist groups. And this was like 6 pm on a Tuesday! 

Sadly, since I had so little time for my layover, I didn't have the opportunity to have a look around or even have a bite to eat, because my flight started boarding as soon as I got the the gate. 'Whatever,' I thought confidently, 'This is a trans-Atlantic flight. They'll serve us dinner soon enough.' 

BUT! It was... Norwegian Air!!!! *Cue the sound of thunder and the screaming voices of a thousand lost souls*

I knew I was going to have to fly Norwegian when I first booked the tickets and I knew them to be one of the cheaper airlines out there, but I thought it didn't matter that much. I hadn't heard too many horrible things about them and the tickets were cheap, so I just shrugged and thought 'How bad could it possibly be'. Oh, the folly of youth! I was too young and naive to understand what I was getting into. I would have to learn the hard way.

So, I got on and found my seat and the first thing I noticed was that there was no little pillow or blanket on my seat. Or any seat, for that matter. Weird. I had always gotten a blanket/pillow/vanity set combo on all my other long-haul flights but whatever. I guessed they were cheaping out on that front. Well, I had a warm jacket on and I've never used that pillow anyway so I thought it would be fine. The movie options were abysmal, but I was used to that. There were a few things I was willing to watch and it was only an eight hour flight anyway so I figured I didn't need that much entertainment. I got as comfortable as one possibly can get on a tightly packed airplane and chose my first movie. We took off, went though the usual security routine and all that jazz and then it was time for dinner.

'Passangers with pre-ordered meals will receive them shortly. All other passangers are welcome to purchase food and drink items from the food cart passing through the aisles in a few moments. You can pay by...'

Wait... waaaaait a moment... I have to pay? I have to pay for food and water on an eight-hour flight? I have to use my hard-earned money to buy a tiny cup of water... on a trans-Atlantic flight?! Now, I'm a frugal beast at the best of times and I can understand not offering earplugs for free or blankets or slippers or whatever but WATER? On an EIGHT HOUR flight?! What type of sadistic dystiopian logic was that?! I'd paid hundreds of euros for the ticket and literally the only thing I got for it was a seat and a seatbelt? Not even a sip of water?! It couldn't be true! No airline could be this cheap! But they were.

Now, most of you already know how cheap I am so I don't have to explain why I refused to buy anything. Was I hungry? Yes. Did I really need something to eat or drink? Also yes. But was I going to pay for airplane food? Hell no! I have not and will not pay for something so painfully mediocre! I would rather eat raisin bread (an abomination diguising itself as food) than pay for airplane food. I'm not an animal! And thus I went on a hunger strike... that nobody even noticed... until... 

So a few hours go by and I finish my movie and everything is still kind of okay. The seat is uncomfortable but they always are so I didn't make a big deal of it. I tried to sleep for a bit but sleeping on a plane is borderline impossible at the best of times (and this was not one of those times). I think I did manage to doze off for a few minutes but soon enough I woke up again. And then things got... weird.

Something was wrong. I couldn't exactly say what it was but something felt... off. I wasn't dizzy or anything but my body felt both hot and cold at the same time and I was just super uncomfortable. I tried taking deep breaths, shiftling in my seat and closing my eyes but nothing seemed to work. I just felt... off. 'Okay, I guess I'm just super tired,' I thought, trying to gather myself, 'I'm just gonna go to the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face and hope it'll make me feel better.' That sounded like a good plan. I wasn't feeling any better so something needed to be done. I undid my seatbelt and got up. And then somebody was softly shaking me.

'Miss? Can you get up? We need to get you out of the aisle. It's not safe.'

Bitch, what? Here I was, minding my own business, trying to get some sleep and some annoying flight attendant was shaking me awake. And what about the aisle? I was safely in my seat! Or... wait... Why was my face pressed against the carpet? And why did it feel like I was horisontal? Oh... oh damn... 

'Miss, we need to move you. Can you get up?' the flight attendant asked again, more pressingly this time.

Okay, so apparently I'd fainted. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Well, I could still salvage the situation. All I needed to do was to get up and move to a 'safer spot' like they told me to. I could do that. I totally could. I placed my hands on the ground and slowly lifted myself up. 

Except that I didn't. I passed out again. Next thing I know I was laying on my back in the galley, next to the food trolleys, and I was surrounded by people. One of them was a flight attendant, then there was a guy, who later turned out to be a paramedic, then a norwegian woman, who later turned out to be a doctor, and two nurses who were sent away as soon as it was clear I wasn't dying. The paramedic took my pulse while the doctor checked my pupils and asked the usual questions about me (like my name and age) and then went through the checklist without actually considering our specific circumstances: 

'Do you know where we are?' 

'Uh... in an airplane... somewhere over the Atlantic?'

'What day is it?'

'Umm... you do realise we're flying over several timezones and this is a red eye? We started on Tuesday. I have no idea what day it currently is.'

'Do you know where you are heading?'

'Do you mean to ask where I am headed or where this plane is headed cause those are two different things. I know the plane is headed to New York but I only have a layover there.'

'When was the last time you ate?'

'I don't even know what time it is. Don't ask me to do math!'

'Where are you from?' the paramedic then asked me, probably to make me feel more at ease, because the doctor lady was kind of pissing me off. 

'Estonia,' I answered, fully expecting them to change the subject to avoid the awkward 'where's that' conversation.

'Oh, Estonia?' the flight attendant piped in happily, 'Ты говори́шь по-ру́сски?' 

Really, girl? Really? I passed out twice and am laying on the probably disease-ridden floor of your cheap-ass airplane and you're throwing Russian at me? I let out a sigh. I just couldn't help myself. Of all the things I'd had to deal with on this flight, this was just the one that broke my resolve.

'No, I don't. I don't speak a word of Russian,' I told her as politely as I could muster.

'That's weird. Estonians usually do. I'm originally from Belarus so it's almost like we're neighbours,' she continued enthusiastically, oblivious of the glare I was giving her.

First of all, she was clearly from Boston but whatever. Second of all, geography was not her strong suit, apparently. To be fair, if you live in the US and you look at a map of Europe then Estonia and Belarus might seem close to each other but... no. Just no. Don't quit your day job, flight attendant girl. 

Hypoglycemia. That was the official verdict the doctor went with. It made sense. I hadn't eaten in... a long while, I was under a lot of stress with all the traveling and the lack of any liquids in my system just kind of made things come crashing down. The annoying flight attendant then suddenly found a large bottle of water, some orange juice and a bag of cookies that she was willing to part with, completely free of charge. I know: a whole two cookies! They really did spoil me. It took me like twenty minutes to get back on my feet and return to my seat, having gotten free food, drinks and even a blanket out of the whole ordeal. Sure, I spent the rest of the flight super paranoid because every time I started falling asleep I was uncertain whether I was actually dozing off or if I was about to pass out again. It was very confusing. But, moral of the story is: if you want free stuff on a cheap flight then all you need to do is pass out. Is it worth it? Nope. But is it fun? Also no. Just don't fly Norwegian, kids. Do yourself a favour and choose a better airline.

Oh, and the trip itself went great, thanks for asking. Perhaps one day I'll continue this story and talk about New Orleans itself but that is for Future-Grete to decide. Present-Grete needs to rest her hands now for she is old and tired and has important things to do.

...a lamp became the perfect metaphor to describe my life

Let me preface this by saying that I am not stupid. Just lazy and somewhat inept. Do try to keep that in mind while you read on. Also, I do have more interesting things going on in my life than a broken lamp, I swear, but this is the easiest thing to write about. 

So, this story actually starts years ago. I was still young and naive and working in Haapsalu. One fine weekend in October I decided to head to Tartu and spend the weekend there, just hanging out and doing my thing (which pretty much means I was planning on crawling into my cave and playing dead so that no-one would disturb me). I reached my apartment on a dark and stormy Friday night and headed straight to my bedroom to unwind from a very stressful drive, but as soon as I entered there was a flash of light and a sizzle as the lightbulb of my bedroom lamp died. I was left in darkness. That was a problem. Kind of. But tired as I was, I decided that it was a problem for future-Grete. Present-Grete did not have the energy to deal with a burnt out lightbulb. Present-Grete wanted to sleep. So I simply shrugged, turned on the bedside lamp and went on with my life, determined to replace the burnt out lightbulb sometime in the near future. 

Three years later...

I wish I was kidding here but I'm not. It took me three years to get to changing the lightbulb. To be fair, I lived in Haapsalu for one of those years so it really didn't bother me that the light in my bedroom in Tartu was out. Sure, it was a mild inconvenience every time I went back home but I wasn't going to spend my weekend fixing things around the apartment so that was that. 'But what about the next two years?' I hear you ask. Well, shut up! I was busy, okay! 

Okay, fine, I wasn't all that busy. I was just lazy. And there were several issues that prevented me from changing the lightbulb, first of which being the fact that I couldn't really reach the ceiling. Here's the thing: my bedroom lamp is positioned right above my annoyingly big king size bed. When I stand on the bed on tiptoes I can just barely reach the lamp but that wasn't enough to help me actually change the bulb. I can't really move the bed because that would require me to play furniture-tetris, where I would have to move the nightstand, the desk and lord knows what else to actually get the bed moving. Ain't nobody got time for that! 

So, for two years I lived in a semi-dark room. I did have a small, practically useless bedside lamp that gave out just enough light that I could find my way out of the room in the mornings. That worked well enough. The darkness didn't really bother me that much anyway. I'm like a fungus: I thrive in the dark. I get to sleep late and pretend to be a vampire and watch horror movies all day long. My bedroom became a cave within a cave - a dark, dank corner where light was just a distant memory of the past and I could get in touch with my true self: a subhuman dweller of the deep worshiping some long forgotten eldritch deity and feeding on the fears of the common folk. Finding matching socks proved to be a problem, though. An annoying problem. I know some people don't make a big deal out of it but I got seriously annoyed whenever I got to work and realised my socks were different shades of black. How mortifying! Things needed to change. I needed to become a functional human being and finally bring some light into my life. Or bedroom. Whichever was easiest. So I went out and bought a new lightbulb. 

Quick dad-joke for you guys: how many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but the lightbulb has to want to change.

There was my second mistake: my lightbulb didn't want to change but I didn't care. I tried to force the process and made matters worse. My first mistake was thinking I could do something as banal as changing the lightbulb on my own. See, I still hadn't addressed the issue of me not reaching the ceiling. I thought I would get to it once I had a new lightbulb in hand. Well, I did kind of get to it. My genius brain saw the lamp and the bed and went: 'but what if we just pile a bunch of pillows on top of it...?' It was a bad idea. I realised it was a bad idea even as I was gathering all the pillows I could find. It was a horrible idea, unlikely to work but it was the only one I had, so... To be fair, it almost worked, for a little while. I almost managed to completely unscrew the deceased lightbulb before I lost my footing. Well, what actually happened was that the top pillow kind of started sliding off the pile, causing it to collapse beneath my feet. Naturally I lost my balance and in my misguided attempt to stay upright I grabbed the first thing I could find to hold on to. That just so happened to be the lamp. 

I did managed to not fall off the bed and break my neck but only because the lamp broke my fall... kind of. Or I broke the lamp. Or both. Anyway, there was a loud crack when I grabbed hold of it and, once I'd regained my balance, I realised that the lamp that had previously been securely fastened to the ceiling was now hanging loosely from a long white wire. Well... that wasn't good. My bed was covered in dust and drywall and the lamp itself was hanging several centimetres lower than before. To be fair, that made changing the lightbulb a lot easier than before. I could finally reach the lamp without doing a discount version of Cirque de Soleil and in a few moments I had light in my room  for the first time after three years.

Now I just needed to address the bigger issue: the hanging lamp. It took me about fifteen minutes to realise that I had no clue how to approach this new issue. I tried superglue (don't ask me how, I don't want to talk about it) but as soon as it failed me, I knew I was in trouble. Google wasn't much help either so, with utmost horror, I realised I would have to ask for help from... actual human beings. There was always the option to hire someone to fix the lamp for me but I am ridiculously cheap when it comes to home improvement so that was pretty much plan Z on my list. I was determined to fix the problem with as little material cost as possible and without having to explain a professional how I'd managed to wreak such havoc while changing a lightbulb.
Plan A was to call a friend. Preferably a tall friend. And someone who'd know how to deal with... lamp stuff. Apparently it's hard to find both traits in one person so I opted for someone tall rather than lamp-savvy. That was my third mistake. I should have known things weren't going to go well when my not-so-handy friend went: 'Sure, I can come and fix your lamp for you, but how do I do that?' Uhh... Yeah, that was a good question. I'd never had to re-attach a lamp to the ceiling so I had no clue where to start. I needed to do some research, which meant asking the elders for advice (and by 'elders' I really mean people in my social circle older than me). So, apparently - as I found out - I had managed to rip the wall plug out of the ceiling when I was hanging off the lamp. I also found out what a 'wall plug' was. Fun times. Something I realised during my inquiries was that I either had a very sheltered upbringing or I'm some kind of 'special' cause every other person who I asked about it seemed to be well-versed in matters of ceilings and lamps and I literally had to google pictures of wall plugs and compare them to the stuff coming out of my lamp to see if that was what they were talking about. Did I miss some kind of lamp meeting when I was a kid or something?
Anyway, after weeks and weeks of hearing Tall-friend give me the same answer of 'yeah, I think I'll have time to help you out this weekend' and then waiting in vain, he finally made time in his busy schedule to 'help me out'. I developed the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to be very helpful when I saw he hadn't brought any tools with him... although I'd told him that he'd need some serious hardware to fix my lamp issue. Cue half an hour of Tall-friend huffing and puffing as he stared at my lamp and whined about what an impossible job this was. In that half an hour I got to hear all the songs on his breakout album "How to make Grete feel like crap while being absolutely useless", which included hits like 'How can you be this helpless?', 'How do you even function in everyday life?', 'Who designed this stupid lamp?' and 'For the love of god, STOP TRYING TO HELP!'. Oh yeah, and the finisher: 'Yeah, I've got no clue what to do here. Get professional help.' Needless to say it was a very underwhelming afternoon that really put a strain on our 'friendship'. Thankfully I'm a kind and forgiving god. Person. I meant to say 'person'.
On to plan B then. B for spectacularly Bad. See, I kind of had an inkling that Tall-friend would prove to be useless, so I devised a plan B while I was waiting for him to get his shit together. Plan B was... a really dumb plan. I want to make it known that at no point during this whole ordeal did I think this was a good idea. Why did I do it then? Well, I'm cheap and I'm bored and it seemed to take minimal effort from my part. Plan B involved me diving into the depressing cesspool and comedy goldmine that is tinder.
'So, wait! You went on tinder to find a handyman?' I hear you ask incredulously, 'That sounds like a terrible idea!'
I know! I already told you guys: I knew it was a horrible idea. You know, a friend once told me the story of how she wanted to see a bear in the wild so, while in some national park, she slathered some honey on a tree stump and waited. I remember thinking 'Oh, honey, that sounds like an absolute disaster waiting to happen? Why would anyone do something so foolish?' Well, now I was pretty much doing the same thing... But I really didn't want to pay a professional to handle the problem and it took close to zero effort to create a profile and start looking. To be fair to myself, I made it clear in my bio that I was only looking for someone to fix my lamp, that it wasn't a metaphor or some kind of weird pick-up line - I only needed someone to FIX MY LAMP. Lo and behold, suddenly there was a bunch of guys willing to help me out. Most of them seemed to think that I couldn't figure out how to change a lightbulb (okay, I know I'm kind of dumb, but nobody's that dumb... right?) and were pretty much stumped when I described the actual problem and the logistics of it. Others were just... plain dense. I had way too many conversations go like:
Him: 'So, what's wrong with your lamp?'
Me: 'It's basically hanging by a wire after I pulled it out of the ceiling. I can't really fix it cause it's right over my bed and I can't reach it.'
Him: 'So it's in your bedroom. I see ;)'
Me: 'No. No, you don't. It's a literal lamp in a literal ceiling, that just so happens to be in my bedroom. Once again: this is not a pickup line!'
Him: 'A dark bedroom is not always a bad thing ;)'
Me: 'IT'S NOT DARK! The lightbulb works perfectly! I just need someone to FIX MY LAMP!'
Aaaaaand so on and so forth. It took me a while to find someone who seemed to know what he was talking about and was ready to give it a try. I was a bit apprehensive when he asked me if I had a screwdriver (like, sure I do, bro, but a screwdriver ain't gonna help you here) but I was way too lazy to look any further and, given my aversion to any sort of social contact, I knew that if I waited too long I would never get anyone over to fix the lamp. Maybe that would have been for the best because I was literally letting a complete stranger into my apartment... on a Friday night... a stranger I found on tinder... I know how this sounds. I can already feel the judgement coming from the other side of the screen, but I figure that if I'm going to do dumb shit, I might as well do all of it before I hit 30. After that I'll try to be a normal, functional adult.
So, on a dark and stormy Friday night (for real, the weather was pretty awful that evening), I let Tinder-guy into my home. Did I feel good about it? Hell no, but I was confident in my ability to drive away any man away if need be (it seems to have worked so far). Now, Tinder-guy seemed like a nice guy, at first. Polite and respectful enough to make me think that maybe, just maybe, my ill-conceived plan had worked and I could finally get my lamp fixed. He didn't bring any tools (although I'd told him several times that he would need more than a screwdriver to fix things) so that made me a bit skeptical, but the kicker came when he saw my lamp and went: 'Oh... there really is a broken lamp? I thought it was a pickup line.'
Bitch... what?
I've heard guys complain that women are 'never clear about what they want' and that it's 'so difficult to understand them'. First of all: once you start talking in hyperbole, you're the real problem because you're basing your opinions on unfounded generalisations. And secondly: I was ABUNDANTLY clear about what I wanted: someone to FIX MY GODDAMN LAMP! I couldn't have made myself any more clear! I told Tinder-guy several times that I only needed to re-attach my lamp to the ceiling, nothing more. So maybe women aren't the problem here? Maybe some guys just don't know how to listen (or read). 'But, Grete, you were on tinder. What did you expect?' I hear you ask. I dunno, I guess I was expecting some BASIC LITERACY! Yeah, yeah, I understand the whole 'but tinder!' argument but I made it clear, several times, that there wouldn't be anything other than some lamp-fixing going on. There is no way I could have made my intentions any more clear without staging an elaborate musical number accompanied by an interpretive dance. And I didn't have the energy to set that up.
Tinder-guy did give it his best shot though. Sadly, his 'best shot' was an abysmal failure. He unscrewed some screws, lost one of them (still haven't found it), and then went about undoing what he'd done. All the while whining. 'How did you manage to achieve this? Were you hanging off your lamp or what?' Yeah, well, I needed something to grab on to while I was falling. Sue me! 'Why were you standing on pillows anyway?!' We went over this: bad planning. I didn't realise at the moment that I had better options. Shit happens. 'Why didn't you tell me that a piece of your ceiling has basically fallen off?' I dunno, didn't seem important at the time and I had a lot on my plate anyway. 'How do you not know how to fix this? How are you this inept?' Okay, that one pissed me off. How do I not know how to re-attach a lamp to the ceiling? Because I've NEVER HAD TO DO IT BEFORE!!! And I missed the secret 'lamp-lecture' everyone else apparently had as a kid or whatever. I also don't know sign language! Guess why! Because I've never had to use it before! I can assemble furniture, I know how to paint the walls of my apartment (and demolish the walls of someone else's), I know how to use a sander and I can build a freaking raft if need be - all because I've done those things before. I've NEVER had to attach a lamp to the ceiling! That's why I don't know how! And it takes a special kind of oblivious asshole to shame you for failing at a task while he is literally in the process of failing at the same task.
After about half an hour of listening to Tinder-guy whine about how poorly constructed my whole apartment was and worry about his well-being after seeing a meat-tenderiser on top of my wardrobe (nothing creepy about that, I just forgot it there after a Halloween party... several years ago), I realised that this was hopeless. He declared fixing my lamp situation to be 'Mission Impossible' and gave up, leaving me no other option but to throw him out as politely as I could. Needless to say that Tinder-guy was thoroughly shocked at this turn of events: he failed at the ONE task I gave him and I DIDN'T want to spend the rest of the night with him?! Madness! Meanwhile, I was very successful in removing him from my presence, so at least I had that going for me. My lamp was in worse shape than before though, missing a screw and all that, so I guess I can safely say that plan B failed as well.
I haven't gotten to plan C yet. I'm not sure what it is yet. Considering that my lamp has the magical ability to turn grown men into whiny little girls, I think I'm going to have to fix the thing on my own. If I have to listen to another lecture on my inability to succeed in the most mundane tasks without breaking everything in sight, someone's going to get hurt. Probably me. Probably emotionally. But someone is sure to get hurt. So, plan C is going to entail me borrowing a ladder, getting up close and personal with the lamp and fixing that little bastard like there's no tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I can do it, if I finally manage to get close enough to the ceiling. At least I know I won't be whining like a little bitch the whole time I'm trying. And if I can't, there's always plan D: summoning a demon from the pits of Hell to possess my lamp so it would fix itself. At least there are wikiHow guides on summoning demons so I'll have something to go on. And yes, I do realise how crazy it sounds to conjuring a malevolent spirit before summoning a physical, human handyman but that's just how cheap I am. Summoning a demon only costs you your soul and I barely have one left anyway.
Until I exhaust all of my options, or one of my plans works, I'm left with the evidence of my shameful failure staring right at me every morning I wake up and every night as I fall asleep. In a way, that broken lamp has become an apt metaphor for my life: a barely functional hot mess that's horrible to look at but somehow still works, despite everything. It might be kind of broken and missing a few pieces but at least it's mine and it does its job. Does it need fixing? Sure, of course it does. And the only person who can truly fix it is me. Or, like, a professional electrician or something...? 

...it was cold outside

Okay, to be honest, I was actually planning to write about my trip to Singapore (and I probably will at some point) but then Winter came and I realised I needed to address something more pressing first. Namely, my deep hatred for snow. And the season in general. I think I just need to get it off my chest before I have an aneurysm out of sheer anger: I hate Winter (especially in Estonia)! 'But Grete, you hate everything!' I hear some of you point out. Not true! I hate most things! Not everything! I love puppies and horses and most animals (except monkeys, they can just suck it) and pizza. I'm not a monster, you guys. But out of all the seasons, I think Estonian Winter is the worst! And I'll explain why that is in a short while.
When I was a kid I didn't mind Winter that much. I guess I just didn't understand how bad it was. Used to be that the Fall was my least favourite season - until I realised that I actually like dark, rainy, chilly days. They're great for watching horror movies and I am a huge horror fan (see, I like some things!). So yeah, I changed my mind about the Fall and even started to anticipate it a bit... And that's when I came to the conclusion that while Fall made for great horror movie weather, Winter was a horror movie... and not a good one either. Winter is the kind of apocalyptic horror movie where everything is dark and bleak, someone has to eat their own leg to survive and in the end everyone in the world dies... because of global warming or a nuclear war or something. There is no hope. No chance of escape. It's just nonstop torture from start to finish.
I don't get people who love winter. 'Oh, everything looks so beautiful and clean when it's covered in snow and the air is so cool and crisp and we can build snowmen and go skiing and sledding and...' Are you people insane?! It's like saying 'oh, I love having the stomach flu because I lose so much weight and feel so light afterwards'. Yeah, that's because you've spent a week throwing up until your eyes popped out of your head! No, but really, Winter is terrible! Everything looks bright and clean? Are you blind?! The roads are a mess of brown sludge, as are the sidewalks. Drive a white car and you'll be washing that bitch every freaking week! Oh, except you can't because it's completely pointless and it's too cold outside anyway! So you'll be driving in your mud-caked trash wagon for the whole Winter! Oh, and what about your boots? Take a stroll outside and you'll be dealing with salt lines on leather and puddles of melted sludge in your hallway. Have fun cleaning that up EVERY SINGLE TIME ANYONE COMES IN! Yeah, that is loads of fun.
Speaking of walking, you know how many people fall in Winter and break something? A LOT! Every single day some old lady steps outside to get groceries and shatters her pelvis. Because of snow! Or ice! Or both! People get hurt in the Winter! They break stuff! Does that sound like a lovely time? You know what's really fun? When the sidewalks are covered in ice and then it snows just enough to cover the ice with a soft thin layer so you think you're walking on snow but when you actually take a step forward there's this whoosh!-sound and you wind up on your ass, the air knocked out of you. Or when it's really cold and really windy and the wind kinda polishes the ice so that you could pretty much skate on the sidewalk. Yeah, that's loads of fun! Oh, and let's not forget the fun game of 'Where do I step to avoid breaking my face?' - the guessing game for the whole family where you try to traverse an ice-covered sidewalk without faceplanting and breaking your nose. Sometimes you have to step into the road to pass a particularly difficult spot, sometime you'll have to walk in the wall of snow by the side of the road and sometimes you pretty much just have to hold on to a random streetlight to turn the corner. And everybody walks like a penguin. Don't get me wrong, penguins are cute and all, but it gets really tedious when you're in a hurry and you can only hobble along like a limp panda.
Don't even get me started on going out in general! Just going to the store is a freaking expedition! Want to pop out for a moment? Make sure you put on at least five layers of clothes just to avoid freezing! Going to work is even worse: first I put on my normal underwear, then my winter leggings, then pants, a shirt, a sweater, two pairs of socks, boots, winter coat, scarf and two pairs of gloves. Then I get to work and I have to take off the jacket, scarf, gloves, boots, socks, pants, leggings, sweater and shirt so that I can change into my work clothes. And when I leave I have to do all of that again. Over and over again. Every. Single. Day. So much fun, especially when I'm already late for work in the morning because the bus takes longer than usual to get there.
Which brings me to my main issue: driving. Who doesn't love excavating their car in the morning after it's snowed for the whole night? Oh, and scraping off the ice from the windshield - fun for you and your neighbors who are trying to get some sleep at 6 in the morning! Isn't it just lovely spending half an hour in the freezing snow, trying to make your car even remotely safe to drive? No? But I thought you guys loved winter! Even when your car doors are frozen shut and the battery dies and no matter how much time you spend scraping the ice off the windows, there is still that one spot that annoyingly obstructs your view as soon as you get in and start driving.
Aaaaaaaaaand the driving... A few weeks ago I had to drive to work on my own. Now, I don't work in the same town I live in so I have to drive to work for about an hour on the highway. Usually I take the bus but that morning I had other plans after work so it made more sense to take the car. Unfortunately it had snowed the whole night and the day before, meaning there was a thick layer of snow on the road. It was super early when I started moving, meaning the plows hadn't cleared the highway yet. And that meant that I spent more than an hour driving about 70-80 km/h (in a 90 km/h area) on a dark, winding road, fearing for my life. There were moments I realized I had little to no control over my car and that one wrong move could send me into the ditch. Oh yeah, and I was also driving a coworker to work so I had to try to keep a straight face while my mind was going 'We're gonna diiiiiiie! Jesus, take the wheel!' every time I had to go through a curve. There was one moment I did lose control over the car and for a little bit it slid around like a buttered seal in a bowling alley. I was almost sure I was going to end up on the side of the road, stuck in a ditch. Honestly, it was a miracle I managed to stay on the road because it definitely wasn't skill. I take the bus now but even that is terrifying at times. I try to get some sleep every time I take it, not because I'm particularly tired but because every time I open my eyes and see what's going on outside, a part of me dies and I almost feel my hair turning prematurely gray.
Let's face it: driving in the Winter is dangerous as fuck! People wreck their cars, people get hurt and people die! 'But that happens any time!' you might say, but let's face it: it's worse in the Winter. One small mistake and you're gone (not like dead gone but gone off road for sure). Drive too fast? You're in a ditch. Try to pass someone? Ditch. Break too suddenly? Yup, ditch. And let's not forget about blizzards. Those happen, remember? It is way too easy to crash, simply because you have much less control over your vehicle. You can do everything right but if the weather turns and you can't see where you're going, it will result in something exceedingly horrible.
So, to sum up why I hate Winter: it's difficult to take a walk, horrible to drive, impossible to go jogging, it's cold, muddy, dark, it takes way too long to get dressed, way too long to get anywhere and it lasts for waaaaaaay too long. I'm sure some of you disagree. 'But it's so beautiful when the sun comes out!' Yeah, and how often does that happen? No, really? How many days in a month? Because I can't remember a single sunny day in December last year. Also, when the sun is out, it's also cold. Super cold. 'But what about winter sports? Skiing, skating, snowboarding! And don't you want to build a snowman?' No! I do not want to build a freaking snowman! And how often do you people do any of those things? Once a week, every week? Do you really? And for how long? A few hours before you get too cold and have to go inside again. And there are skating rinks. Just saying. 'But what about Christmas?' Yeah, I like Christmas too but you don't have to have snow to enjoy it! A 'White Christmas' sounds good on paper but if that's the only way you can get into the mood then apparently you're doing Christmas wrong. Get some friends or spend some time with your family, you snowfreaks! 'But do you really want a cold, rainy Winter?' Yes. Honestly, I would be okay with that. Yeah, it wouldn't look good but at least I wouldn't lose 10% of my lifespan every time I drive. So, moral of the story is... Actually there is no moral. I just wanted to vent. Winter sucks, clear and simple. If you think otherwise, you either haven't experienced Estonian Hellwinter or you're unbelievably optimistic to the point it's almost ridiculous.

...it was hot in Verona (and hell in Frankfurt)

Oh wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? I was debating whether to update this blog or not, considering I have no idea if anyone even reads it anymore, but apparently, at least one person does. So, a lot of time has passed and my life has been... pretty boring, I guess. Just working as a physio (and now as a part-time psychologist but that's a story for another time), living in Tartu and being antisocial, as per usual, but I'm not here to talk about that. No, I'm gonna tell you the story of how I went to Verona.
Now, Verona in itself is not a super exciting travel destination since it's quite small (compared to most well-known Italian cities) and despite of what our Eurovision-contestants think, it's quite difficult to get lost there because it's just not that big. Honestly, if you get lost in Verona, you're doing something wrong. Get a map! But, I digress. The reason I went there is because, every year there's this huge opera festival in Verona, where they perform famous operas in the old Roman amphitheater. My mom once told me that she'd always wanted to go and see an opera there so, once I realized I had no plans for my vacation, I asked if she wanted to head there this summer. She did and so we got the tickets, the hotel and got on our way.
We were in Verona for about four days. That was all we needed. Don't get me wrong - Verona is absolutely lovely and I enjoyed my time there but there's not that much to do there. We spent the first day checking out some Roman ruins, an old fort, a bunch of churches and stuff and there was still time to spare. At lunch we usually returned to the hotel to have a nap because it was simply too hot outside. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that this was the beginning of August during the hottest Summer in ages (at least in Estonia). It was 33-34 degrees outside and always sunny. Great, right? Well, to be honest, it wasn't that bad. Somehow, the heat in Italy was less excruciating than in Estonia and even though we went everywhere on foot, it was still somehow bearable... until it wasn't.
My mom and I decided to go see Aida during the festival (because it was one of the few performances still being held in August). The show itself started pretty late, around 21ish, due to the fact that it was hot as hell during the day and it's impossible to air-condition an amphitheater. So, we get to our seats just as it was getting dark outside and the stage looks amazing, the props are impressive, the costumes flashy and... It. Is. Just.SO. HOT!!! I'm not kidding. Even before the show started, I could tell it was going to be bad, because I'm sitting in what is basically a huge bowl with a few hundred people surrounding me and the air is just completely still. Not even a light breeze. Not even a breath of air! Just hot, still, heavy air slowly suffocating me.
The show starts. The singers are exceptional. The costumes beautiful. The mass-scenes and dancers are breathtaking... and all I can think about is the heat. There is sweat running down my back. I feel like I'm stuck under a blanket, breathing in second-hand air. It is still 33-degrees outside. 33! And it's dark! And it's still hell! Now, those who know me well, know that I hate the heat. I can't stand it! Nothing makes me want to kill myself quite like the heavy, humid Summer heat. And now I'm at the opera, trying to enjoy a genuinely good performance, but it's impossible because even my cold, dead heart is beginning to decay in this heat. I am not religious but during those three hours, I got the distinct feeling that the gates of Hell had opened under the amphitheater and that's why it felt like death there. The whole time I kept praying for the opera to be over soon, not because it was bad, but because I felt like stroking out in that heat. So, long story short: I had some difficulty enjoying the performance... even though it was good.
Now, despite the excruciating heat, I did enjoy my trip to Verona. It's a lovely little city, clean, less crowded than most tourist spots, the food was mind-blowing and the people pretty polite and friendly. It was a great trip... up until the last day(s). Then it all went to shit. And it was all because of the Germans! A few posts ago I talked about my trip to New York in January and how it ended in a snowy shitstorm that left our flights cancelled and our minds broken. Guess what happened this time! My flight got cancelled! AGAIN!
The last day started out great. We went to the airport nice and early, had breakfast and coffee, got on our plane and next thing we knew, we were in Frankfurt, where we were supposed to have a connecting flight to Tallinn. We had a few hours to kill before our next flight so my mom and I decided to sit down in a little bar, have some beer and maybe a snack. We'd been sitting there for maybe half an hour when a server told everyone in the bar to leave because, apparently, the terminal was being evacuated. Yep. The whole terminal. And since it was Frankfurt, it was a pretty damn big terminal. So, we got our things and joined the crowd heading out of the terminal, making short stops on the way because we still had no idea what was going on. The server hadn't told us anything other than they were closing and we needed to leave the area. The biggest crowds were heading toward the exits but some were coming back. We had no idea what was going on because there were no announcements, no employees directing us out - nothing! After about half an hour of slowly inching our way toward the exits while utterly confused, some airport employees did appear and started directing us out. The evacuation was real. After getting out of the terminal, we stood in the main area and tried to figure out what was going on. There were cops going into the terminal, airport employees talking to each other but still no real information. I started having flashback to New York but tried to stay positive. After all, we still had three hours to our flight. We could make it, right?
Two hours later...
Yes, for two hours we just stood there, not knowing anything, staring longingly at the terminal gates that were still closed and getting more tired and nervous by the minute. Finally, after two hours, something started happening. Employees started gathering around the security gates. 'Great!' I thought, 'Things are moving along!' But they weren't. We were still standing there. They were still denying us information and people were getting more anxious about missing their flights. Another half an hour passed before we got a little bit of information: the 'threat' had been 'dealt with' and we could re-enter the terminal... after passing the security check, again. If you've ever been in the airport in Frankfurt, you know how many people pass through there, daily. It's a freaking armada of people! Imagine all the people whose flights were supposed to leave in those two and a half hours plus all the people who'd come to the airport early, not knowing what was going on, and you have several hundred people - angry, tired, dehydrated, confused and hungry - queuing for the slowest security check in the history of the world. The employees tried to calm us by saying that there was no need to rush because 'your flight will either wait or you will be rebooked on another flight'. Right. Just a friendly tip: that doesn't happen. Nobody waits for you, nobody rebooks you just like that. You need to do everything on your own...
So, of course the line for the security check was basically static. Only half of the security gates were operational and - to add insult to injury - after about half an hour of working, the employees had their lunch break. That meant that they locked the gates again, leaving us to wait. Again. Of course they did, though: they were Germans. If protocol says employees get a break every few hours, then common sense and human decency be damned! By that time we hadn't had anything to eat or drink in about four hours, which wouldn't be an issue otherwise, but add some stress and anxiety and you get a bunch of angry people. Our flight should have left by that time but we'd received no notification of whether it had been delayed or cancelled or what... So we stood in line and waited for our security check. It took us about an hour to get through it and when we did, we were faced with another line. A line of hundreds of people, queueing for the Lufthansa information desk to rebook their flights that they missed. Because, like I said, nobody rebooks you automatically. You need to deal with it on your own. Our flight had been cancelled, of course, so we queued up and started losing our minds because there was nothing better to do.
We stood in line for maybe forty minutes before our tired and angry brains started working again and we remembered something important: in New York we didn't have to go to a desk or wait in line. We called. So, we decided to try that again. We called Lufthansa customer service while standing in line for Lufthansa customer service... It worked. In five minutes we were booked on the next flight to Estonia, which was going to leave next morning. Good enough. I still had some vacation days to spend so I wasn't too worried. Mom had a harder time but she managed somehow. After getting the tickets we booked a room and headed to the airport hotel for some much needed rest. And wine. Lots of wine...
I have never been to Frankfurt. Never seen the city. There was the opportunity to explore it that day, seeing as we had almost a day until our new flight. We decided against it. I know it's not Frankfurt's fault that our flight got cancelled. The city didn't do anything wrong. But as god is my witness, I will never willingly go to Frankfurt again! Ever! It is a cancer on the face of the planet! Oh, and as to what happened to cause such chaos in the airport? Apparently, some German security check douche fucked up. As far as I understand, someone tested positive for explosives and the security guy just didn't notice and let that person pass. Once someone noticed, they needed an evacuation. Oh, and before you freak out, it was a false positive. Nobody in that terminal had any explosives on them or around them. And for that, they messed up the plans of several hundred people. Just because Günther didn't have his morning bratwurst and felt faint or something.
I apologise to any Germans I've offended but I think it's pretty clear I'm still salty about this whole ordeal. It wasn't just what happened that got to me. It was the fact that it happened twice in a row. It's like falling from a horse, getting back in the saddle and then getting punched in the face by the horse's brother (yes, I am aware horses don't 'punch'). Two traumatic travel experiences in a row. I swear, at one point while standing in that line, I swore to myself I would never fly again. Never travel again. Never leave my apartment again!
But, all is well that ends well, I guess... except that it isn't. I still hate Frankfurt with a vengeance and a vacation that was 90% amazing still left a bad taste in my mouth. Moral of the story: never go to Frankfurt.