Does anyone dine out anymore? I don't do it enough to write a restaurant review, but obviously someone does: the following was sent to me as a press release this morning. I'm pleased that people in Estonia are dining out and that they haven't lost their sense of humor. Given what the Social Minister said to the BBC yesterday (15% unemployment on the way--it's currently around seven), I hope we're all lucky enough to find something to laugh about.
The 2008 George Bernard Shaw Food for Thought Gastronomy Awards
“He was never more serious than when he was joking.”
–said of Mr. Shaw
After much deliberation, the George Bernard Shaw Society of Estonia proudly announces its Food for Thought Gastronomy Award winners for 2008.
Hermann Simm Best Kept Secret Award
There’s no such thing as a secret, though some information does take longer to become public. In the spirit of secrets that shouldn’t remain so, we’re proud to celebrate Riis, the secretive cellar restaurant run by three charming young women who refuse to use anything but fresh vegetables. Pärnu mnt. 62A.
“Qu’ils mangent de la brioche” Best Gourmet Restaurant Award
In the oblivious spirit of “Let them eat cake,” this award honors the places we’d all like to dine in more often, if only our pocket books would allow. This year’s honor goes to Horisont at Swissotel. Not only a spectacular view but, considering the economy, an altogether fine place for a last meal.
Luciano Pavarotti Six Chickens for Dinner Best Soul Food Award
When you want to stuff yourself in a comfortable restaurant surrounded by staff who seem to actually want you to be there, Contravento is the place to go. Contravento has held its own for years now as the Tallinn institution of Italian food. Vene 12.
Passepartout Best Ethnic Restaurant Award
Named for Phileas Fogg’s manservant, this award honors courageous purveyors of the spicy and exotic. Given the quick expiration of restaurants in the republic, Estonian food now classifies as exotic and ethnic, and so the award goes to Eesti Maja with its good food and service at a fair price. Lauteri 1.
Tree Huggers’ Haven Award
Where to go after a long day of spiking trees? Exhausted from ramming that whaling vessel? There’s no place better than Nop to relax with an organic pastry, big dill pickle, or beetroot and sauerkraut. Carnivores welcome, too. Nop is one of the jury’s absolute favorites. Köleri tn 1 in Kadriorg.
Sweaty Edgar Best Hole-in-the-Wall Restaurant Award
This is the place you creep off to when the wife is out of town. Its hygienic standards are questionable, but you don’t really care—the food is good, and it doesn’t matter how you dress, because you won’t see anybody you know. Torn between two fine grungy spaces, the jury chose to give the award to both. Ironically, both feature names of jury members’ ex-wives. Try Karmen at Paldiski mnt 72A and Diana at Tammsaare 87. Can’t go wrong.
Holly Golightly Best Café Award
Stylish and flighty, it’s the best place to get the food Tiffany’s never served. You may have avoided Museum, since its appearance from outside makes you think it might be filled with Russian thugs and plenty of blonde bimbos. But that’s its charm, my friend, and if you don’t see Holly there, you can be reasonably certain she’s arriving soon. Vana-Viru 14.
Rick Blaine Best Bar Award
No bar has ever measured up to Rick’s Café Americain, but there’s always hope. A sophisticated place where rogues, spies, les femmes fatales, and bon vivants gather to swap lies. If you’re after shady, then Lady Shadow on Suur-Karja won’t disappoint. With any luck you’ll find yourself seated next to Mata Hari while being eyed by George Smiley through the swaying belly dancer.
Bob Dylan Fat Black Pussycat Dive Bar Award
You might find Dylan seated in a dark corner composing “Blowing in the Wind,” but you sure as hell won’t meet any Eurovision candidates here. We’re happy to give the nod to Valli baar, which sadly seems to be losing a bit of its charm with all the hen parties paying it a visit. But we have faith that Valli baar will always have a seat for a drunk, as long as he’s able to maintain an upright posture. Müürivahe 16.
Oliver Twist Best Gruel (Worst Restaurant) Award
For the second year in a row this award goes to the restaurant Paat in Viimsi. It’s a Mecca for diners who love frozen vegetables. True, the view is hard to beat, but plenty a customer has gone in as a teenager and come out as a pensioner. It’s, in a word, slow. Address withheld as a merciful public service to diners.
Kalev Meedia Most Ridiculous Business Concept Award
Something like a 150 semi-formal seats in a beach restaurant in a location trafficked only three months a year isn’t the mostly likely formula for success. We wish Pärl all the luck, but don’t see it lasting without a lot of serious cash to prop it up. In the Pirita rannahoone.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Boring and the Beautiful
Brand Estonia strikes again. This time, Estonia’s marketing arm gives us: “Estonia. Positively Surprising.” It’s a slogan that’s, well--and forgive me here--surprisingly unsurprising.
I’m willing to pardon the bureaucrats for not knowing much about international marketing, but they could at least take a lesson from the movies. In Crazy People, Dudley Moore stars as an advertising executive who’s reached his breaking point and, when committed to an insane asylum, starts to produce the best ads of his career by telling simple and compelling truths. Ads like these:
“Jaguar. For men who want hand-jobs from beautiful women they hardly know.”
“Metamucil helps you go to the toilet. If you don’t use it, you’ll get cancer and die.”
Moore also dabbles in tourism: “Forget France. The French can be annoying. Come to Greece. We’re nicer.”
But we can’t blame Brand Estonia entirely. Give most of us tens of millions of euros and the responsibility to promote Estonia, and we too might buckle under pressure and choose the most cautious route. Positively Surprising.
But there is still hope for Estonia. Brand Estonia may not get it, but others do.
Janek Mäggi recently wrote in the daily Postimees that Estonians want to be “the beautiful and the boring” and so offered some better slogans himself: “Europe’s most beautiful women.” For Finland he suggested “Northern Europe’s Cheapest Beer.”
Sadly, Mäggi doesn’t happen to run Brand Estonia. Nor do I. But since my income is connected to the success of this small nation, I’m not above telling them how to do their job. So in the spirit of Dudley Moore and Janek Mäggi, I offer a handful of highly targeted slogans to carry Estonia abroad.
For Russia: “Estonia. The continent’s closest flush toilet.”
To the Italians: “Estonian women are too reserved to slap you.”
For India: “Feel right at home—our taxi drivers will cheat you, too.”
To the Swedes: “Europe’s cheapest breast implants.”
For Africa: “Come be stared at. But not necessarily in a bad way.”
To Americans: “Estonia is Europe’s low-calorie Russia: All the excitement with only half the danger.”
To the Dutch: “Come touch a real live tree.”
For Finland: “Vodka 9 euros per liter.”
For men under 25: “A place where it’s permitted to drive like in Hollywood action films.”
For the French: “After you leave, you’ll appreciate your own food more.”
And to zee Germans: “Welcome home to the land you used to rule.” Or for after the freedom monument is unveiled: “Europe’s Biggest Balkenkreuz.”
Of course you think I’m kidding. Actually, I’m exaggerating. But only slightly. My tasteless slogans may not be as suitable as Mäggi’s, but there’s a grain of truth in every one, a starting place from which a marketing message can be crafted.
In fairness to the marketing wizards at Brand Estonia, we shouldn’t be so naïve to think one sentence is going to cause tourists and investors to come flocking over the border to see what Estonia is all about. Even one sentence plus a lot of money. Seventeen years is a very short time for a country to have formed any sort of identity, to know who it is and what it wants. When I was seventeen I was beset with conflicting goals: I wanted to drink beer and chase girls and show the world what an adult I was. As I later realized, I was bad at drinking beer, worse at chasing girls, and no clever slogan could ever have improved things. It wasn’t that I was a bad guy. I just hadn’t yet understood why I was a good guy. So perhaps we can forgive the shortcomings of a seventeen-year-old Estonia.
Still, though, if we’re going to spend the money, why not get that one sentence right? There are plenty of good case studies. Recently, India greeted guests at the Davos World Economic Forum with a “Dream Team” (to quote Newsweek’s Fareed Zakaria) of India’s most intelligent and articulate government officials. There were Hindi tunes, Indian dancers, and free iPod shuffles loaded with Bollywood music. Somehow they even talked the forum’s chairman, Klaus Schwab, into wearing a turban and shawl. Their slogan? India Everywhere. “And it was,” wrote Zakaria.
Good advertising presents a product much like a self-confident person presents himself: as he is, not as he wishes to be. Age seventeen is about the right time for Estonia to look in the mirror and see who we are. To get comfortable in our skin and learn to be ourselves. And then advertise that. A big country with a big budget can get away with forgettable ads—put enough money behind even an inane slogan and it will eventually register. But Estonia doesn’t have that luxury. When your budget is only a drop in the bucket of international media, you actually have to say something memorable.
Every time that Standard & Poor’s or Moody’s Investors Service drops its ratings on Estonia, some government official appears on camera to whine, “But they don’t even know where Estonia is!” Of course they don’t know where Estonia is. And at the rate we’re going—“Welcome to Estonia” and “Positively Surprising”—they’re not likely to know anytime soon. To them, Estonia is no different than Latvia. But hey, there’s an idea in that: “Estonia. The Baltic State that Isn’t Fucked Up.” (Knock on wood, of course. Loudly.)
***
As an exercise in Estonia's image via the web, try googling "Welcome to Estonia." In a normal text search, the fourth entry generated (above the fold, as they say) was a photograph from a porno shoot in a building across from Stockmann. What this says about Estonia's image I'm not quite sure. Maybe it says more about search engines. Thoughts?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
A Pocket Guide to Expats
“Why are you here?” is the question every local wants to put to foreigners. We have our stock answers, and often they’re true. Sometimes, though, the foreigner leaves out part of the story. He doesn’t want to admit he was fired from his job in Canada, or that he was caught on videotape robbing a Buenos Aires bank.
In American cowboy movies, if you weren’t smart enough to know cattle rustlers were bad, the moviemakers put them in black hats. It happens to be the simplest way to categorize foreigners in Estonia:
The White Hats
1. Smart but lazy. He would have been a success story anywhere but likes the fact he can earn good money in the region working comparatively little. He puts in a half day of real work and still outdoes many locals.
2. Regional Corporate Babysitter. He’s a businessman dispatched to represent an international company. He is well educated, often smart, and will move on in three years. If he’s single, he hangs out at Nimeta in the old city. If he’s married, he spends his time trying to find activities for his wife.
3. The idle wife. Her husband is the regional corporate babysitter. He has a work permit, but she can’t get one. Hers is not an easy life, especially if she’s childless. She often does charity work or joins a book club to pass the time.
4. The female professional. These women are descendants of Sisyphus. (There used to be a good-news/bad-news joke about women’s liberation in Eastern Europe: The bad news is that women’s lib is coming; the good news is it won’t be here for 100 years.) There are few foreign female professionals here, and the reason is their lives are hard. In the workplace, the glass ceiling isn’t glass; and in terms of a social life, most foreign women aren’t interested in dating local men.
5. The Adventurer. He hates the 9-to-5 grind of his previous western existence. He thrives here on the difficulties of daily life and the fact that there is still a surprise around every corner. He enjoys the fact that his friends at home view him as something of an oddball.
6. Married a local. These fall into two subcategories : (a) He who came here with the express purpose to find a woman—often a pensioner-divorcee from the USA, and (b) He who accidentally fell in love. Members of both groups generally feel like they’ve won the lottery.
7. Our Man in Havana. Nice work if you can get it. Who among us never wanted to be James Bond?
8. Foreign Estonians.
i. Young exiles. Usually the 20-something son of a genuine exile. He owns seven black turtlenecks and smokes cigarillos. He hasn’t yet realized he’s not on the set of Casablanca. Some say this type of foreign exile was "screwed twice by the former USSR: once after WWII, when he was given an exile identity, and again in 1991, when that identity was taken away.”
ii. True believers. He’s a foreign Estonian who is truly committed to a better country. He’s worked for the government since independence. And loved every minute of it.
iii. Finally home. He’s an older foreign Estonian who never quite fit in in his adopted country. He spoke with an accent and was made fun of. He never fully accepted life as a Canadian, American, or Australian. Now, he’s finally returned home, where he again speaks with an accent and is made fun of.
The Black Hats
1. The criminal. He’s here doing what he’s not allowed in his home country. Perhaps he was banned from serving on boards of directors or banned from trading stock. He often moves in the highest circles of society or government.
2. Talented Mr. Ripley. So you always wanted to be a brain surgeon? Don’t let a little lack of education stop you. Fancy being the Duke of Edinburgh? Who’s to say you’re not? Estonia is the perfect place to live dreams the home country wouldn’t allow. Me, for example. Have you checked me out?
3. Unemployable back home. He is such an obvious idiot that no company back home will employ him longer than three months. In this region, he’ll last a year.
4. Mr. Dysfunctional. He is mostly harmless, usually likable, but has trouble getting out of bed in the morning. He tells people he’s a writer but hasn’t yet picked up the pen. He never pays for his own drinks, because he’s always broke. He’s held down jobs in the region, but never for very long.
5. The Mystery Man. No one is quite sure why he’s here. And he himself isn’t talking. At parties, he sits quietly in the background, sipping whisky and listening to others. You suspect Interpol might be interested in him, but he hasn’t been anything but nice to you.
In American cowboy movies, if you weren’t smart enough to know cattle rustlers were bad, the moviemakers put them in black hats. It happens to be the simplest way to categorize foreigners in Estonia:
The White Hats
1. Smart but lazy. He would have been a success story anywhere but likes the fact he can earn good money in the region working comparatively little. He puts in a half day of real work and still outdoes many locals.
2. Regional Corporate Babysitter. He’s a businessman dispatched to represent an international company. He is well educated, often smart, and will move on in three years. If he’s single, he hangs out at Nimeta in the old city. If he’s married, he spends his time trying to find activities for his wife.
3. The idle wife. Her husband is the regional corporate babysitter. He has a work permit, but she can’t get one. Hers is not an easy life, especially if she’s childless. She often does charity work or joins a book club to pass the time.
4. The female professional. These women are descendants of Sisyphus. (There used to be a good-news/bad-news joke about women’s liberation in Eastern Europe: The bad news is that women’s lib is coming; the good news is it won’t be here for 100 years.) There are few foreign female professionals here, and the reason is their lives are hard. In the workplace, the glass ceiling isn’t glass; and in terms of a social life, most foreign women aren’t interested in dating local men.
5. The Adventurer. He hates the 9-to-5 grind of his previous western existence. He thrives here on the difficulties of daily life and the fact that there is still a surprise around every corner. He enjoys the fact that his friends at home view him as something of an oddball.
6. Married a local. These fall into two subcategories : (a) He who came here with the express purpose to find a woman—often a pensioner-divorcee from the USA, and (b) He who accidentally fell in love. Members of both groups generally feel like they’ve won the lottery.
7. Our Man in Havana. Nice work if you can get it. Who among us never wanted to be James Bond?
8. Foreign Estonians.
i. Young exiles. Usually the 20-something son of a genuine exile. He owns seven black turtlenecks and smokes cigarillos. He hasn’t yet realized he’s not on the set of Casablanca. Some say this type of foreign exile was "screwed twice by the former USSR: once after WWII, when he was given an exile identity, and again in 1991, when that identity was taken away.”
ii. True believers. He’s a foreign Estonian who is truly committed to a better country. He’s worked for the government since independence. And loved every minute of it.
iii. Finally home. He’s an older foreign Estonian who never quite fit in in his adopted country. He spoke with an accent and was made fun of. He never fully accepted life as a Canadian, American, or Australian. Now, he’s finally returned home, where he again speaks with an accent and is made fun of.
The Black Hats
1. The criminal. He’s here doing what he’s not allowed in his home country. Perhaps he was banned from serving on boards of directors or banned from trading stock. He often moves in the highest circles of society or government.
2. Talented Mr. Ripley. So you always wanted to be a brain surgeon? Don’t let a little lack of education stop you. Fancy being the Duke of Edinburgh? Who’s to say you’re not? Estonia is the perfect place to live dreams the home country wouldn’t allow. Me, for example. Have you checked me out?
3. Unemployable back home. He is such an obvious idiot that no company back home will employ him longer than three months. In this region, he’ll last a year.
4. Mr. Dysfunctional. He is mostly harmless, usually likable, but has trouble getting out of bed in the morning. He tells people he’s a writer but hasn’t yet picked up the pen. He never pays for his own drinks, because he’s always broke. He’s held down jobs in the region, but never for very long.
5. The Mystery Man. No one is quite sure why he’s here. And he himself isn’t talking. At parties, he sits quietly in the background, sipping whisky and listening to others. You suspect Interpol might be interested in him, but he hasn’t been anything but nice to you.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Signs of the Times
An Estonian friend wrote recently from the states about all the "recession specials" advertised there. "But in Estonia," he noted, "we're too proud to use the word 'recession' in an ad."
The same day my friend wrote, I noticed the advertisement (at left) for the new Baltman collection. (For foreign readers, Baltman is Estonia's maker of conservative suits, something akin to Brooks Brothers in the West.)
To me, the ad sends signals of Sherman McCoy, Gordon Gekko, or, if you're really digging for the despicable, Patrick Bateman, the female-butchering protagonist from American Psycho. In other words, Baltman's antidote for the recession is to give us the 1980s.
The Estonian ad made me curious about what Brooks Brothers might be doing in the land where they boldly use the word "recession" and where, arguably, they've come more face to face with the ugly reality of this economy. And this is what I found:
Could it be a young Barack pulling out a chair for Michelle? In all cases, it's a kindler, gentler approach to selling a suit with some definite R-E-S-P-E-C-T, as Tina Turner likes to put it. But then again, Baltman isn't trying to sell suits in the West. Its main market is the East, a place where it's sometimes said that beating your wife is proof that you love her. But for Estonia? Aren't we more evolved than that?
Theories, anyone?
Friday, February 27, 2009
Selling Salla: Finland’s Dream for Russia
The Finns have done their part to develop the Salla border region as a Finnish-Russian tourist attraction. The Finnish side boasts ski resorts, visits with Santa Claus, wood sculpture competitions, ceramics, and reindeer petting zoos. But the Russians don’t seem ready. The Finnish Commerce Tourism’s aptly named publication, Salla Border, tries to help, attempting to romanticize what Russia does have—“the Russia side of the border has a petrol station and duty free shop”—but the Russians don’t seem eager to join the campaign. The truth be known, the petrol they sell contains water and the duty free shop’s selection is worse than the tiniest Helsinki-Tallinn ferry.
But let’s not sell Russia short. The Salla Border writers have overlooked the real jewel of the region: the Kandalaksha supermarket. Forget Tallinn, Finnish shoppers, this is where you go for bargains.
Like most things in Russia, it’s not easy to find. If you stay alert on the road from Salla—the roads are so bad, there’s little chance of falling asleep—look for it right after you pass under the railroad bridge. There’s a sign on its concrete front with two thumbs up and text claiming “low prices” and “good quality.” If you can’t read Cyrillic text, look for the thumbs up.
Upon entry, a sober young man will closely scrutinize you. Large bags, cameras, anything big enough to hide a cucumber must be checked. This young man is firm but fair. Unlike in Soviet times, he won’t force you to take a basket, and no one is required to wait in line. (In Soviet times, stores used the number of shopping baskets to regulate store traffic, customers without baskets standing in line to wait for someone to leave.)
Inside the store are stenciled signs, blue block Cyrillic on a white field. If you still can’t find what you want, ask one of the many friendly clerks. They’re the ones in green smocks and tall black hats like horsemen from the Caucuses. They’ll personally escort you to the dairy section and provide advice concerning kefir. “This one’s locally made,” a clerk declared proudly. “That one, Aktiva, will keep you healthy.” She refused comment on a third one made by Danone. There was also a refrigerator full of treats made from curds. These are marketed for children, but I bought a variety for the trip home.
Some things haven’t changed since Soviet times, of course. Eggs still come straight from the chicken, shit-smeared and packed ten to a plastic bag. The meat looked suspicious, the Russians’ idea of a butcher being any man with an axe and a tree stump. And the fish looked like someone had driven over it with a tractor before freezing it rock solid.
In some sections, Russian tradition and western marketing meet head on. Vodka, for instance. There were forty different brands. There was one with a camouflage label, Spetsnaz vodka, named for the Russian Special Forces commandos. “For strong people,” the fine print read. There was every color of label and shape of bottle, the most expensive around four euros per bottle. A friend picked one with a slick black label and English text. He held it up for examination. “That one’s shit,” said a passerby. My friend put it back.
At the checkout, scanners have replaced abacuses. Gone are the surly clerks who could move wooden beads at light speed, point at the wire and wood, and expect you to know how to read it.
In the car, on the way back toward Salla, I opened a coffee-flavored curd treat and settled back to reflect on Russia’s consumer-friendly advances and prospects for the Salla region. But that didn’t last long. No more than halfway into my treat, I was greeted by a long, thick black hair. My vision of the new, hygienic Russia was immediately replaced by an image of a toothless, cursing factory worker who had forgotten her hair net. I rolled down my window and flung the offending curd into the forest.
I wondered if maybe the Salla Border writers weren’t right to confine their praise to the duty free shop and petrol station. People rarely complain about finding a hair in their gasoline.
***
By the way, a note about the new Google Ads. I'm trying them out to get a hands-on education in this internet thing and stinkin' rich at the same time. (Liina pointed out that neither one is likely to happen.) If you're reading from Estonia, you might have seen the ad offering quick loans ("1500 EEK for only 75 EEK")? I'd say that's pretty indicative of both our local internet advertising culture and the economy at large.
But let’s not sell Russia short. The Salla Border writers have overlooked the real jewel of the region: the Kandalaksha supermarket. Forget Tallinn, Finnish shoppers, this is where you go for bargains.
Like most things in Russia, it’s not easy to find. If you stay alert on the road from Salla—the roads are so bad, there’s little chance of falling asleep—look for it right after you pass under the railroad bridge. There’s a sign on its concrete front with two thumbs up and text claiming “low prices” and “good quality.” If you can’t read Cyrillic text, look for the thumbs up.
Upon entry, a sober young man will closely scrutinize you. Large bags, cameras, anything big enough to hide a cucumber must be checked. This young man is firm but fair. Unlike in Soviet times, he won’t force you to take a basket, and no one is required to wait in line. (In Soviet times, stores used the number of shopping baskets to regulate store traffic, customers without baskets standing in line to wait for someone to leave.)
Inside the store are stenciled signs, blue block Cyrillic on a white field. If you still can’t find what you want, ask one of the many friendly clerks. They’re the ones in green smocks and tall black hats like horsemen from the Caucuses. They’ll personally escort you to the dairy section and provide advice concerning kefir. “This one’s locally made,” a clerk declared proudly. “That one, Aktiva, will keep you healthy.” She refused comment on a third one made by Danone. There was also a refrigerator full of treats made from curds. These are marketed for children, but I bought a variety for the trip home.
Some things haven’t changed since Soviet times, of course. Eggs still come straight from the chicken, shit-smeared and packed ten to a plastic bag. The meat looked suspicious, the Russians’ idea of a butcher being any man with an axe and a tree stump. And the fish looked like someone had driven over it with a tractor before freezing it rock solid.
In some sections, Russian tradition and western marketing meet head on. Vodka, for instance. There were forty different brands. There was one with a camouflage label, Spetsnaz vodka, named for the Russian Special Forces commandos. “For strong people,” the fine print read. There was every color of label and shape of bottle, the most expensive around four euros per bottle. A friend picked one with a slick black label and English text. He held it up for examination. “That one’s shit,” said a passerby. My friend put it back.
At the checkout, scanners have replaced abacuses. Gone are the surly clerks who could move wooden beads at light speed, point at the wire and wood, and expect you to know how to read it.
In the car, on the way back toward Salla, I opened a coffee-flavored curd treat and settled back to reflect on Russia’s consumer-friendly advances and prospects for the Salla region. But that didn’t last long. No more than halfway into my treat, I was greeted by a long, thick black hair. My vision of the new, hygienic Russia was immediately replaced by an image of a toothless, cursing factory worker who had forgotten her hair net. I rolled down my window and flung the offending curd into the forest.
I wondered if maybe the Salla Border writers weren’t right to confine their praise to the duty free shop and petrol station. People rarely complain about finding a hair in their gasoline.
***
By the way, a note about the new Google Ads. I'm trying them out to get a hands-on education in this internet thing and stinkin' rich at the same time. (Liina pointed out that neither one is likely to happen.) If you're reading from Estonia, you might have seen the ad offering quick loans ("1500 EEK for only 75 EEK")? I'd say that's pretty indicative of both our local internet advertising culture and the economy at large.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Pick Up the Glove
Not a week goes by when I don’t notice Mayor Edgar Savisaar sounding off on the incompetence of Prime Minister Andrus Ansip. If it’s not on television, it’s in the papers. If it’s not Mr. Savisaar himself casting aspersions, it’s another Centre Party member. Often his own wife.
It may be that Mr. Ansip gives as good as he gets, but my impression is he seems to more often play defense. He seems to bear the criticism in silence or shrug it off, perhaps feeling he shouldn’t dignify it with a response. But I’d like to see the man stand up for himself. As few as one hundred years ago, Savisaar’s words would have been cause for a duel.
So why not now? In this economy, in the frame of mind the citizenry is in, settling this matter of honour is the very least the government owes us.
Victory or defeat, depending on whose side you like, will lie in the methodus pugnandi, the terms of the duel. Since Savisaar is the one doing the goading, etiquette calls for Ansip to throw down the glove and demand satisfaction. But if Ansip challenges, Savisaar sets the terms. And if you were Savisaar facing Ansip, what’s it going to be? Swords or pistols?
If it’s swords, I favor Andrus. He is fit and nimble from bicycling and skiing and will not exhaust quickly from lunging, parrying, and ripostes. Edgar, who is no fool, will favor pistols. Although Andrus’ fitness will give him a steadier hand and lower heart rate, Edgar is required only to stand firm and make one shot count. Something he’s done often in his political career.
Of course, it’s not limited to swords or pistols. In 1843, two men fought a duel by throwing billiard balls at each other. Others have used sledgehammers or forks. Abraham Lincoln, once challenged to a duel, chose to fight with cow dung (his challenger then declined and issued a public apology).
It’s time to bring back dueling, that wonderful, nine-hundred-year-old tradition. It was popular in the Baltic in the studentenverbingdungen or fraternities. A schmiss or mensur scar on the face was a mark of distinction for a Baltic noble. And politicians took part, too. Four British Prime Ministers fought duels (William Petty, William Pitt, George Canning, and Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington). The American president, Andrew Jackson, fought thirteen duels, though all before he became president.
I propose this coming Saturday. Dawn is the traditional dueling hour, as it’s free of interruptions. The field of honour? The grounds beneath the freedom monument, of course. What could be more fitting than armed combat under Estonia’s ten-million-dollar Balkenkreuz?
I recommend swords. This will serve to show the world that Mr. Savisaar is, in fact, a sporting man, and in the event of his victory, will leave less bitterness in the ranks of Mr. Ansip’s peers.
As for seconds, Mr. Savisaar should bring his wife. A natural second for Mr. Ansip would be Mart Kadastik. These are merely dramatic suggestions, and the duelists themselves will fill out their rosters. By tradition, three is the number of seconds for each party.
Of course, dueling etiquette of the Code Duello clearly forbids interclass battles. If Ansip or Savisaar is of a higher social class than the other, the duel may not be permitted. If that is the case, however, it is permissible under the Code for he of the higher class to beat the other with a cane. Or, if he finds that distasteful, he may order his servants to perform the task.
In all cases, my proposal will temporarily restore honour in Estonian politics and end the trading of insults and petty carping. And satisfaction shall be had. At least by the public.
***
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It may be that Mr. Ansip gives as good as he gets, but my impression is he seems to more often play defense. He seems to bear the criticism in silence or shrug it off, perhaps feeling he shouldn’t dignify it with a response. But I’d like to see the man stand up for himself. As few as one hundred years ago, Savisaar’s words would have been cause for a duel.
So why not now? In this economy, in the frame of mind the citizenry is in, settling this matter of honour is the very least the government owes us.
Victory or defeat, depending on whose side you like, will lie in the methodus pugnandi, the terms of the duel. Since Savisaar is the one doing the goading, etiquette calls for Ansip to throw down the glove and demand satisfaction. But if Ansip challenges, Savisaar sets the terms. And if you were Savisaar facing Ansip, what’s it going to be? Swords or pistols?
If it’s swords, I favor Andrus. He is fit and nimble from bicycling and skiing and will not exhaust quickly from lunging, parrying, and ripostes. Edgar, who is no fool, will favor pistols. Although Andrus’ fitness will give him a steadier hand and lower heart rate, Edgar is required only to stand firm and make one shot count. Something he’s done often in his political career.
Of course, it’s not limited to swords or pistols. In 1843, two men fought a duel by throwing billiard balls at each other. Others have used sledgehammers or forks. Abraham Lincoln, once challenged to a duel, chose to fight with cow dung (his challenger then declined and issued a public apology).
It’s time to bring back dueling, that wonderful, nine-hundred-year-old tradition. It was popular in the Baltic in the studentenverbingdungen or fraternities. A schmiss or mensur scar on the face was a mark of distinction for a Baltic noble. And politicians took part, too. Four British Prime Ministers fought duels (William Petty, William Pitt, George Canning, and Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington). The American president, Andrew Jackson, fought thirteen duels, though all before he became president.
I propose this coming Saturday. Dawn is the traditional dueling hour, as it’s free of interruptions. The field of honour? The grounds beneath the freedom monument, of course. What could be more fitting than armed combat under Estonia’s ten-million-dollar Balkenkreuz?
I recommend swords. This will serve to show the world that Mr. Savisaar is, in fact, a sporting man, and in the event of his victory, will leave less bitterness in the ranks of Mr. Ansip’s peers.
As for seconds, Mr. Savisaar should bring his wife. A natural second for Mr. Ansip would be Mart Kadastik. These are merely dramatic suggestions, and the duelists themselves will fill out their rosters. By tradition, three is the number of seconds for each party.
Of course, dueling etiquette of the Code Duello clearly forbids interclass battles. If Ansip or Savisaar is of a higher social class than the other, the duel may not be permitted. If that is the case, however, it is permissible under the Code for he of the higher class to beat the other with a cane. Or, if he finds that distasteful, he may order his servants to perform the task.
In all cases, my proposal will temporarily restore honour in Estonian politics and end the trading of insults and petty carping. And satisfaction shall be had. At least by the public.
***
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Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Moving the Peanut
Sitting in an airport bar, my boss Ted shelled a peanut and put the kernel on the countertop between us. “I push it to you,” he said. “You push it back to me.” I nudged it back his way. “Now,” he said, pushing it my way again, “we’re moving the peanut. If we wear neckties and do this ad infinitum, this is called a career.”
And that was how Ted, fifty-eight years old and owner of one of America’s most successful advertising agencies, viewed the office grind. His theory was that ninety percent of the work we do is meaningless and that many of the people he employed were there for largely ceremonial purposes.
Working freelance in a crisis economy has stripped away the fat from my work life and shown me which jobs were simply peanut moving. Editing and writing for local English-language magazines? Gone. Despite my best efforts to create quality, advertisers seemed to only want something cheap. The Moscow jobs where I was paid good sums to stay awake through hours of market research presentations? Gone, too. You don’t need market research to sell soap to Russians: paint the package gold and say it’s “lux.”
I’ve been reading lately in the Estonian press about saneerimine, which I understand is the equivalent in laymen’s terms of getting protection from creditors while you fire a truckload of people and make the survivors work harder.
Like the receptionist. She gets fired and they put the youngest, least valuable employee closest to the door. He’s too inexperienced to see the writing on the wall and so he’ll still smile at guests. The company drivers are the next to go. These are glorified deliverymen, and all the company bigshots drive their own cars, anyway. Next go the boss’ mistress and his various friends, relatives, and pinginaabrid still on the company payroll. Then goes the blonde bombshell marketing manager, the Estonian CEO’s ultimate fashion accessory. After the staff is reduced, the socialist trappings are cut. The company starts charging employees for coffee. The order for corporate-logoed ski jackets is canceled and the company ski event in Otepää is rescheduled—for July. Employees are made to pay for personal calls. Finally go the company cars. After much hand wringing, the board of directors decides that an employee doesn’t need a BMW 7-series to drive from his apartment in Kesklinn to the office in Kesklinn. And then so much for underground parking…
Ah, the crisis. It can turn a job into work.
I was stopped on the street the other day by ETV and asked if I was suffering because of the crisis. Was I cutting back on my cultural caloric intake and attending fewer plays and shows? Damn right, I said. I explained how I now see everything in its fully-taxed splendor. That coffee in Old Town might be priced at 25 kroons, but as both employer and employee, it will cost me enough in taxes to make it a 40-kroon cup. And I told the interviewer I also didn’t have the several thousand kroons anymore to take the family to a Saku Suur Hall “Broadway” production of Phantom of the Opera, which would turn out to star the understudies of the understudies of the understudies. I’ve become so suspicious of any heavily advertised show, that if Kivirähk, Tüür, or Pärt hasn’t written it, my wife Liina has to both pay for my ticket and promise to buy me a half dozen Byeli Aist brandies at intermission. For my money, I’d rather see Chalice’s Phantom. Though I still don’t understand why a grown man would go by the name “goblet.”
See what happens when you take away my peanut? Fog enshrouds the soul. A foul mood sets in.
But I have faith. I read somewhere that the Estonian state employs nearly 160,000 people, an astronomical percentage of Estonia’s work force. The state is currently thinking, reflecting, coming up with a plan. One hundred and sixty thousand is a lot of peanut movers. And that movement requires the tax money of those who really do churn the wheels of industry. Hopefully, that’s you and me, my friend. So cross your fingers. And keep your peanut ready.
***
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And that was how Ted, fifty-eight years old and owner of one of America’s most successful advertising agencies, viewed the office grind. His theory was that ninety percent of the work we do is meaningless and that many of the people he employed were there for largely ceremonial purposes.
Working freelance in a crisis economy has stripped away the fat from my work life and shown me which jobs were simply peanut moving. Editing and writing for local English-language magazines? Gone. Despite my best efforts to create quality, advertisers seemed to only want something cheap. The Moscow jobs where I was paid good sums to stay awake through hours of market research presentations? Gone, too. You don’t need market research to sell soap to Russians: paint the package gold and say it’s “lux.”
I’ve been reading lately in the Estonian press about saneerimine, which I understand is the equivalent in laymen’s terms of getting protection from creditors while you fire a truckload of people and make the survivors work harder.
Like the receptionist. She gets fired and they put the youngest, least valuable employee closest to the door. He’s too inexperienced to see the writing on the wall and so he’ll still smile at guests. The company drivers are the next to go. These are glorified deliverymen, and all the company bigshots drive their own cars, anyway. Next go the boss’ mistress and his various friends, relatives, and pinginaabrid still on the company payroll. Then goes the blonde bombshell marketing manager, the Estonian CEO’s ultimate fashion accessory. After the staff is reduced, the socialist trappings are cut. The company starts charging employees for coffee. The order for corporate-logoed ski jackets is canceled and the company ski event in Otepää is rescheduled—for July. Employees are made to pay for personal calls. Finally go the company cars. After much hand wringing, the board of directors decides that an employee doesn’t need a BMW 7-series to drive from his apartment in Kesklinn to the office in Kesklinn. And then so much for underground parking…
Ah, the crisis. It can turn a job into work.
I was stopped on the street the other day by ETV and asked if I was suffering because of the crisis. Was I cutting back on my cultural caloric intake and attending fewer plays and shows? Damn right, I said. I explained how I now see everything in its fully-taxed splendor. That coffee in Old Town might be priced at 25 kroons, but as both employer and employee, it will cost me enough in taxes to make it a 40-kroon cup. And I told the interviewer I also didn’t have the several thousand kroons anymore to take the family to a Saku Suur Hall “Broadway” production of Phantom of the Opera, which would turn out to star the understudies of the understudies of the understudies. I’ve become so suspicious of any heavily advertised show, that if Kivirähk, Tüür, or Pärt hasn’t written it, my wife Liina has to both pay for my ticket and promise to buy me a half dozen Byeli Aist brandies at intermission. For my money, I’d rather see Chalice’s Phantom. Though I still don’t understand why a grown man would go by the name “goblet.”
See what happens when you take away my peanut? Fog enshrouds the soul. A foul mood sets in.
But I have faith. I read somewhere that the Estonian state employs nearly 160,000 people, an astronomical percentage of Estonia’s work force. The state is currently thinking, reflecting, coming up with a plan. One hundred and sixty thousand is a lot of peanut movers. And that movement requires the tax money of those who really do churn the wheels of industry. Hopefully, that’s you and me, my friend. So cross your fingers. And keep your peanut ready.
***
Shameless sponsorship: Please visit Vello's Book Club.
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