I bet you've all been wondering what Estonia is like.

Only a ferry's ride away from Helsinki, Finland, broadsided by Russia, and the northernmost of the Baltic states, Estonia is a unique intersection, both culturally and geographically. It is often referred to as the bridge between the east and the west. Many wars have been fought on its grounds, and it has changed many hands since the 13th century. If you are interested in the history of Estonia, I highly recommend the documentary, "The Singing Revolution," describing the people's most recent journey through Soviet (& for a short time, Nazi) occupation up to singing their independence back in 1988-91. Despite its turbulent history and small population (only 1.3 million!), Estonia has an enduring, distinct ethos that is powerful in a different way than I am accustomed to. At the beginning of "The Singing Revolution," they describe the Estonian fairy tale hero in contrast with typical Western heroes. The latter tend to be bold, fearless young men who take on things much larger than themselves, slaying dragons with swords. The Estonian hero is a patient old man who waits calmly and quietly for the perfect moment to act; a reserved, cautious intellectual.

Based on my very short time here, I would characterize Estonia(ns) as subtle. I've heard several international students describe the landscape as flat, which is a fair approximation. In fact, it looks a lot like Indiana. But with the help of both local and other international perspectives, and a couple of trips throughout the small country, I am beginning to see its subtle diversity. Slight, wavy changes in topography, a dispersed population of scattered homes and small towns with local peculiarities, and the numerous shades of blue, silver, and gold that move across the sky produce a modest beauty. Pockets of depth sit quietly throughout the country, some of which I visited on a biosemiotics field trip. For example, we hiked through a healthy bog covered with bewildering red moss, strolled along the windy, northern coast underneath ancient limestone cliffs, and explored a chilly soviet mine that retold its painful history. At dusk, we took a detour to a tiny, quiet village called Kuremäe. On top of a dark hill, an old eastern orthodox cathedral burst with candles, detailed decor, and a tight, standing crowd. I stood and enjoyed the warmth, listening to the priests sing in Russian, before our sleepy bus ride home.

Estonians themselves are often described as inexpressive and reserved. They also seem thoughtful, relaxed, genuine, and comfortable with silence. As a fairly neurotic person myself, compulsivity doesn't seem to exist in this culture. They can leave loose-ends, maybe returning to them later, maybe not. Time seems to move a little slower here. There is a joke about why our classes start at a quarter after and not on the hour - to accommodate the pace of the Estonian professors. Their somewhat rough but rhythmic language seems to mirror a uniquely moderate way of life; one that is strong in a level-headed way, both centered and flexible, provocative and gentle.

Some Estonian skies, taken out my bedroom window. Cheers!