By Jennifer McGreevey

Fictionalized travel article for Kevin Kish Photography

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Approximately 4,129 miles from New York, 1,608 from London, 1,584 from Paris, 953 from Berlin, 644 from Moscow, and a mere 54 from its neighbor across the Baltic Sea, Helsinki, the coastal city of Tallinn exudes an elusive character not unrelated to its relatively obscure geographical position. Tallinn is the capital of Estonia, formerly occupied by the Soviet Union and currently home to just over 1.3 million people. Independence for Estonia came in 1991, and membership into the European Union in 2003. In spite of these formal attempts to normalize, Tallinn, Estonia is still something of a global misfit, a testament to the city’s paradoxical nature.

Tallinn, Estonia, on the edges of Eastern Europe, lying between revolutionary Scandinavia and nostalgic Russia, with a meticulously preserved medieval town center and a growing number of skyscrapers and tech startups, embodies an intersection of past and future. This transitional city is, appropriately, my new home—my first and last one being the iconic city mentioned first in the list above.

Tallinn’s major tourist attraction is its Old Town, which boasts ancient buildings and winding cobblestone streets. Opulent church spires and other medieval structures dot the sky, and on warm days actors in freaky masks re-enact the Middle Ages in front of the gothic Town Hall, built in 1402. The upper part of Old Town holds Toompea Castle, a 9th century building that now houses Estonia’s Parliament. Old Town is the heart of Tallinn; a reminder of its glory days, when its geographical placement wasn’t so troublesome and it was a major player in the Hanseatic League. Truthfully, Tallinn had suffered for many years since then; and Old Town’s lovely cobblestone streets had to be rebuilt after most were destroyed by bombings in World War II.

One afternoon a walk through Old Town brought me to the seaside, which quietly houses evidence of Tallinn’s more recent past, and perhaps gives a glimpse into its future. The remains of an old Soviet concert and sports venue now acts as a place for the more ambitious tourists, locals looking to have a drink or a smoke, and other people who probably shouldn’t be there, including a group of men huddled suspiciously around a vodka bottle at the bottom of the structure, right near the coastline. The main part of the old venue was several flights up broken concrete steps, through shards of glass, cigarette butts, and overgrown grass and moss. The friend I was with told me it was called “the Big Margarita,” though signs later made it clear that this was either an incorrect or an unofficial name. The Baltic Sea laid just beyond the vast, abandoned structure, which had several maze-like parts to it. The top level had likely been the structure’s essence, an open air arena almost completely covered in Estonian, Russian, and occasionally English graffiti; just underneath was a hidden, now defunct nightclub called “Poseidon,” and even lower down, there seemed to be some kind of warehouse still in use.

Across the sea, too far for the eye to see, was Scandinavia, the lands of which are revered by many as hallmarks of humanity and equality (or as close as we  can get). The Big Margarita was actually known as Linnahall. Linnahall opened in 1980 for the Moscow Olympic Games, and was originally called V. I. Lenin Palace of Culture and Sport. It was still in use for almost two decades following the end of the Soviet occupation. The late Lou Reed played there as recently as 2008, before Linnahall closed in 2009. Now it had fallen into disarray, a Soviet resting place, where ferries headed for Helsinki sadly shook their heads and carried onwards.

I looked behind me and saw the city’s small skyline looming on the left, including the shiny, trapezoid-shaped SEB Bank building and the glittering Raddisson Hotel. The largest buildings in Estonia, as an offering to the capitalist gods to finally share the prosperity, were the banks and the hotels. To my right, I could see the edges of Old Town and its magical medieval buildings poking out of the sky. Out in front of me were Scandinavia, hope, and the future—while the past, Soviet times, and the misery of occupation echoed within the abandoned walls. The present situation—for Tallinn, and for me—hadn’t sunk in completely yet. Sometimes we still questioned if we were free.

I let out a sigh of relief. Approximately 4, 129 miles from New York, my de facto home, and my first life, I stood at the docks of the Baltic Sea, at the intersection of the past and the future. I stood there and I watched the boats go by.