PLAN IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD — 3
A Zonie Lands In Estonia
I’ll have more to say about that phone plan business, but the point of this blog is more than just an infomercial about calling and keeping in touch with folks you left behind for something new and different.
Every summer, thousands of Phoenix residents pack up the car, squeeze the kids into the back seat, and roll across the Sonoran desert westward for 350 searing miles to spend a week eating ice cream, frolicking in the Pacific and marveling at a summer sun that doesn’t drain every ounce of fluid from their bodies in minutes. These invaders are known by the locals as a massive source of tourism revenue, cigarette butts and discarded Bud Light cans: Zonies.
The Frankfurt airport is not the biggest airport in the world, not even in the top ten. It’s about 15th in the world by number of passengers, not that high in square footage (the biggest is in Saudi Arabia), but you can easily get your 10,000 steps in if your layover is a couple of hours. I walked to break up the blood clots in my legs and to stay awake. Tiny cups of coffee that pack enough caffeine to defibrillate a victim of sudden death helped too. When it came time to board for the trip, the group sign flashed 1. Various VIPs and those who plan well enough to travel with points lined up and passed through without a whimper. That’s when the head lady, an imposing specimen of pulchritude, efficiency and multilinguicity, decided to wander off-script.
“Those of you in Group 5 will not be permitted to carry on anything beside your personal item, which must fit beneath the seat in front of you. Proceed immediately to see my colleague (a young lady who is standing not twelve inches away with a suddenly-startled look on her face). You will have to pay a fee to check your luggage.” Now, I’ve learned that when you have a carry-on item and the plane runs out of overhead space, the gate folks will put a tag on your suitcase via that stretchy elastic band that resists anything short of Goldfinger’s red-hot laser beam, and the bag goes somewhere far away, only to show up when you get off the plane. And it’s supposed to be free. At least, that’s what everyone in the industry thinks, except for Frau Blucher’s most severe granddaughter. This incites a near-riot among us Group 5ers, who swarm the gate desk, blocking every other group from boarding. Eventually, with the help of cattle prods and stern gazes, all is settled without any of us doling out dinero. I am once again swept up in an anguished reverie, longing for the simple system now abandoned by Southwest: A, B, C. My tears continue unabated until I am in my seat and offered words of comfort and a bag of salty snacks by Heidi, the good cop in the crew.
As we descend through miles of cloud banks into Tallinn airport (TLL), the wind is whipping and the raindrops slam the windows like machine gun bullets. I’ve already decided to walk the 2+ miles from the airport to my hotel. It’s about 4 klicks as they say in the war movies; you convert kilometers to miles by multiplying by 0.6. I need to move my body parts through the open air, and it’s not often you can walk from a major airport to the city center without the aid of wings. This is Europe, though, not the States. Given the rain, I’m wishing I’d packed my little umbrella, but the Lufthansa website said 8 kilos in the overhead, 8 under the seat, und there will be NO EXCEPTIONS. Once inside the terminal, I realize I’m not dealing with a major airport. Bigger than Santa Barbara, but much smaller and cuter than most American counterparts.
The first thing I notice are all the cars. I’m not used to seeing cars nestled between potted plants, plopped right in front of the KFC counter. Yes, they’re sales models, but I could see someone coming off an 18-hour flying death march, spotting a white Nissan Rogue, and doing his best to bypass the rental waiting line, hot-wiring and making a series of sharp turns before blasting through the big picture windows onto the tarmac. We’ve all been whipped into line, though, so it’s on to Baggage Claim. I’m not going to try using Estonian words. After a week on the official Estonian language app, which is well-organized, user-friendly and sponsored by the government, I gave up and decided to spend a week in Tallinn rather than a month, traveler rather than potential resident. Travelers aren’t expected to learn the language, but they must gawk less than tourists.
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The luggage arrived within 15 minutes. The first ten items were these enormous black plastic things, say 6 feet long and 4 feet high, rounded on one end but squared-off on the other. I’ve been through my share of airports, but this was a new one. They seemed a tad too flat to store small children. The people who picked them off the belt looked remarkably fit; it took a while before I realized they contained bicycles, each one probably worth more than my pickup truck, which I had not shipped. Everyone was very excited to get theirs; how they could tell them apart was not apparent.
As soon as I stepped outside, the rain ceased and I began my walk on a blustery afternoon, cool gentle breezes and random beams of sunlight caressing my travel-worn brain and body. I assumed the modern traveler’s MO : walking for a few hundred meters, then glancing down at my phone for the next set of instructions from Google Maps.
In Tallinn, the sidewalks are everywhere and they are wide. In every case, the sidewalk is paralleled by an equally wide lane reserved solely for bikes and other wheeled devices. Sounds nice. Never walk in the bike lane. A gendarme will stand over your prostrate form, belittle you with harsh authoritative Viking words, and issue you a citation for trespassing. Every intersection has a signal for pedestrians — it’s a light with the imprint of a bike on it, leaving no doubt who’s in charge — and every pedestrian waits until it turns green. Your pals on bikes, scooters, skateboards and roller blades wait too. Very civilized. Once it turns green, there is zero chance of a car entering that crosswalk. So different from Phoenix, where you in a crosswalk is nothing more than a moving target for vehicles turning at 35 mph.
The walk was delightful. It took less than an hour, my neck getting a good workout in all directions. Once away from the airport, I noticed far ahead of me a white sign with red markings on it. That looks familiar, but it can’t be. It was. A giant red K with a red circle around it. How is it that after traveling 5,500 miles from the birthplace of Circle K, I’ve arrived in a town littered with them? Early on, Karl Eller predicted that one day he’d have a store on every intersection in Phoenix. Someone down the line bragged that there would be one on every corner of every intersection. When I started roaming three years ago, I was surprised at how many states were populated with them. During my 2.5 mile walk, I passed three. Does Wawa know about this? When the original ownership group sold all the stores in the early 2000s, the new owners decided they’d close some of the stores from 2:00 A.M. until sunrise. “Boss, we can’t close.” Why not? “There aren’t any locks on the doors.” Mr. Eller wanted them open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
I arrived at my lodging and checked in with Katarina, a classic Nordic beauty with dimples, better English than my Estonian, and an efficient manner that left me well-informed and ready to explore the area. The place is called City Yard Inn, because it’s situated in the city yard (back parking lot) of a much bigger hotel. Unassuming and tidy, just like me.
More phone info (crap).
Inquiring readers have asked about the other side of the phone coin: receiving calls from the U.S. At least in my particular situation, with my U.S. phone line SIM card turned off, I can’t receive any calls, voicemails or SMS texts (the green bubbles). To get those, you must turn on your U.S. SIM line. OR you can iMessage your contacts with your e-SIM phone number (from Saily in my case). Incidentally, that number is a U.S. number, not an EU-based one. Your friends, family and business contacts can call that number and you can talk with them. They can also contact you via SMS and you will receive them in real time. It’s free for you, but they may have to pay international rates. You cannot receive voicemails, but when was the last time a voicemail represented anything other than a pain in the ass and a search for the little trashcan in the corner of your screen?
When you are over here and using your eSIM, you will receive all iMessages (the blue bubble), however they will not include the contact’s name, just the number. Fortunately, even on the eSIM, you can access your contact information, your calendar, and many of the other features you rely on, so you can figure out who sent what. These are all available because you have access to the iCloud, etc. There is a method for changing the header from the contact number to their name; it has something to do with Apple or Tim Cook or Siri deciding to throw you a frickin’ bone.
More to come on this fascinating topic. There’s always more.
