Broken Bits and the Apocalypse

Day 6

Tallinn, Estonia

The ropes holding the boat to the dock were bigger around than my arms. If I were a rat, it would be my gangway. My thoroughfare. My free ticket.

Our guide excitedly explained that Estonia holds forests and swamps the ability to walk in them for up to two hours without seeing another person. And how strange that is!

Every two hours? – too crowded for me.

We walked uphill to a Russian Orthodox Church. Hoards of tourists milled about out front. This language and that. Everyone trying to get into The Spot where the Photo was Best. The Church stood strong and charming and welcoming. Red and tan and trimmed with white. Large black-scalloped Onion Domes crowning the top, with gold crosses way, way up there. I felt small and plain. Insignificant. A blip on the radar of time. I kind of took a picture from The Spot where the Photo was Best too but it didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped. I guess that angle lost its magic once nineteen thousand and fifty two people already took that photo this week.

An Estonian Church service was in full swing. Estonian sounds kind of like Finnish or Hungarian. So basically, it doesn’t sound remotely like anything familiar. Women wore long straight skirts with flats, and scarves covered their heads. A church guy wandered around with rich incense burning and the smell filled my body with warmth and serenity. Red, white, and blue barbershop-looking strips shot a dozen stories straight up the corners of the walls. Yellows and pinks and greens painted every remaining inch of wall real estate. Thin, long cream-colored candles burned brightly in circles of brass holders. Everyone was silent except the priest’s loud, captivating voice. Monotone and thick as pea soup.

The guide left us behind when we were in the church. We came out and could hear him through our headsets but couldn’t see him. He announced, “Most of us are back” and led the group off through the crowds. Mom and I darted up the street and found the Aunts, and they pointed us in the direction of the disappearing tour.

The volume of tourists was larger than anywhere we’d been. Wall to wall. Pocket to pocket. I could fart at any point, I thought, and no one would know it was me. We pushed through the mosh pit to get to our group who’d made it to a vantage point. I knelt down to take a picture and was photobombed by a seagull.

That’s Stephen, said our guide. He photobombs everyone. He has his own website. Stephen the Seagull in Tallinn, Estonia.

There I was, five inches from fame.

I looked out over hundreds of red roofs and church spires and refused to give way to other tourists. Pushing and shoving. I widened my stance. Stand Your Ground.

The guide raced around the next area too. I stayed behind to keep an older gentleman company who couldn’t walk as fast. I thought I’d be able to see where the guide went. I thought the guide would wait. My new friend and I pushed our way through cackling tourists waving around their selfie sticks. He breathed heavily and cussed heartily. I couldn’t find the group. I saw a few other stragglers and we guessed which way the guide had gone. The cobblestone streets wound around, and we guessed some more.

We reached the main square and he was there, but my family was not.

YOU lost my family, I said strongly as I walked up. Arm outstretched and my index finger pointing at the guide.

That’s okay, I’ll wait, he said.

That’s NOT okay. YOU lost my family. I repeated.

I turned around and waded back into the hoard. They closed the gap behind me like water in a stream. Like I’d never been there. I waded up one street and back down another. I walked back to the square and retraced my steps again. Frustration set in and my blood began a slow boil. Lucky for the guide, my family made their way to him right before I got back. I announced to my mother what I thought of Mr. Guide, making sure he’d hear me. In a Super-Passive-Aggresive-Way.

Then we went for lunch and decided to make our own way back to a shuttle later on in the day. Not one more minute wasted with that man.

We went into a little shop with handmade knitted goods from Estonia.

We ooo’d and ahhh’d and stood in front of a mirror. A guy walked up and asked Aunt Terrye to move over so he could look in the mirror. She smiled and took a step backward…

into nothing.

A concrete staircase 15 steps deep. She fell backwards and hit. And rolled. And hit again. and rolled. Again. Again. Again. The stairs wouldn’t end. Her glasses flew from her face. Her DSLR camera smashed into the stairs and flew up again in pieces.

She crumpled into a heap at the bottom and didn’t move. I flew down the stairs, Aunt Jan right on my heels. My mom yelling for an ambulance. The ladies in the shop horrified and ashen, then red-faced and welling with tears. I tucked Terrye’s hair behind her ear. Mom still yelling for an ambulance – getting them to move past shock and make the call. Terrye was talking by then but not moving.

It’s broken, she said. My arm. But I’m okay.

We got the shop keepers to put a blanket on Terrye while her body shivered from shock.

It took far too long for the medics to get there, but they splinted her arm and got her up and put her in an ambulance. We’re taking her to Central Hospital, they said. Aunt Jan rode in the ambulance with Terrye. And just like that, they were gone.

I need that blanket for her, I said to the lady as she folded it back into a bag.

Okay. $45, she said.

She should’ve just given it to Terrye, but we didn’t say a thing. Mom handed over her credit card.

Mom and I raced back to the ship and talked to an officer who promised us many things. None of which came true. The cruise ship never sent anyone to help navigate the healthcare system in Estonia. Or act as a translator. They never picked us up from the hospital. Or helped us with paperwork. Or called the insurance company. They missed the boat completely. They either lied or were incompetent. Maybe both.

But we all sorted it out together. A bunch of strong women in a foreign country, figuring out health care and taxi systems and money and a language that sounded like nothing familiar.

She was right. Her arm was broken. And she was right. She was okay.

She’ll be beat up for a while. And black and blue and sore all over. And we’re so sorry this happened to her. And we’re so thankful she’ll heal.

It’s good to know that my family is resourceful. And solid. And capable.

And we’ll be fine in the Zombie Apocalypse too.