TAARTSLIFE

We headed south to the “student city” of Taartu today. The idea of a “student city” did fill me with some skepticism; thankfully however , my fears were unfounded. I had expected the aroma of sweat and used prophylactics, mingled with the fainter – yet unmistakable - smell of stale beer and kebab-tinted vomit. The air was sweet, and I don’t mean it was doused with a fog of incense and ganje, it was as crisp and as clear as flat 7up. I had also expected the city streets to be cluttered with old leaflets for anarchy clubs and 5-cent-of-your-next-Big-Mac-or-cheeseburger tokens (oh wait, this was the continent, should I be saying “Royale-with-Cheese?) yet the streets were colourful, smooth and sterile; I could have been walking in Legoland. Honestly, what type of students were these? I thought at least one corner of the town square should be taken over by greasy gamers, the opposite corner having a stand selling tickets for the Fashion Show, the stand manned by some bulimic orange yoke with a horse-like overbite making her look like a throwback from The Simpsons.
The first person we saw, however, was not a student, but a tetchy woman who screamed at Butterfly as Butterfly was turning up her driveway trying to turn her car around. They exchanged some heated Estonian unpleasantries, while I stood on the sidelines ready to pour some hot oil on the situation. As the evening progressed… well, I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night, but to be honest, it would be fabricated stories revolving around a some isolated pockets of memory. My confusion was impounded by the fact that the club we went to was called “Club Tallinn” (hang on, didn’t I just come from Tallinn?). Imagine a place in Listowel called “Club Dublin” – it would either burned to the ground or renamed the Uppity-Jackeen-Bastard Inn. Come to think of it, imagine a “club” in Listowel. The last club they had was held by a Neanderthal. Which are still the indigenous peoples, I believe. I should know, they’re me kin.