The rain grew heavier.
What had begun as a walk turned into a series of pauses—under eaves, under trees, under stone arches older than memory.
Eventually, I surrendered to shelter and stepped inside a wine and beer bar in the heart of Tallinn’s Old Town.
The place was warm, golden-lit, still humming from the dinner rush.
I asked if it was fine to just drink, not eat.
The Pad Thai from earlier was still traveling through me.
I ordered an Estonian vodka—original, sharp, with nothing added.
And a local beer, brewed in some Estonian panimo, I didn’t know how to pronounce.
The waiter came over—talkative, smiling, curious.
“You know,” he said, “when you drink vodka and beer together, we call it ‘yorsh’.”
Yorsh? I asked him to repeat it.
He nodded. “It’s a Russian thing. Dangerous drink.”
I laughed. I rarely touch hard liquor.
But here I was—vodka with dried raisin, then another with lime.
One mellowed the throat.
One punched the chest.
The lime softened the alcohol, yes—
but I could still taste the fire.
He came back later, checking in.
“How was the vodka? Good?”
He asked the bartender to make me the best.
I asked him the name. He said something—I couldn’t quite catch it.
We kept chatting.
He spoke of different vodkas, some so smooth they felt like water.
He liked cognac better.
Whiskey too—something about the way it lingered.
He mentioned Paris.
I asked if he had lived in France.
“No,” he said, “just traveling. If I could stay in France, why would I come to Estonia?”
I asked where he was from.
“Ukraine,” he said.
My breath paused a beat.
I asked gently why not Finland.
He shrugged.
“Finland’s closing its border. Russia’s nearby. If they want to attack the Baltics, it’ll take two weeks, that’s it.”
He said it with a strange calm.
I laughed—not at him, but at the absurdity of fear.
“I don’t think Russia will attack anyone,” I said.
“I didn’t even believe war would happen before. But it did.”
I didn’t say Russia was right.
I didn’t say it was wrong.
Just like with religion, I stand in the middle.
Open. Listening.
No flags in my hands.
That Ukrainian guy guessed my age—“Under 30, right?”
I laughed so loud the whole bar turned.
“Yes!” I grinned, “and now I just earned even more years under 30!”
It was the sweetest compliment I’d received in months.
I was happy the whole evening—and even now, remembering it, I still smile.
So I tipped him a beer.
Not for the service—
But for seeing me the way I wish the world always would.
The evening ended peacefully.
No drunken regret.
No beer-vodka disaster.
Just good talk, good spirits, and a night that felt… human.
Back at the hostel, it was as silent as always.
Only the old man still lingered in the common area—some people stay longer, some people leave.
