Helsinki
Is it not always dawn in Helsinki in the wintertime? The pale, transparent sky and the slanting sunlight give it that luster of morning at most hours. The city responds in kind with its pale, white buildings that catch the stray beams of light at odd corners. The mighty cathedral floats above the city like the New Jerusalem about to descend from the frozen firmament, dazzling and all flush with the red light of the distant sun. But this is a description of noon in Helsinki. In the morning it is dark and cold. So cold that you can feel your bones creak and the air freezes the edges of your eyelids and the inside of your nostrils. The dark hours have their own ethereal luminescence. The snow - crunchy, dry - reflects the streetlamps in a million brilliant mirrors. Before dawn, I walked a long ways (a recurring theme in my travels) to the ferry. The city was cold, perhaps dead. Occasionally a car would slide past. Or one of the trams would snake through the white street with effortless silence. My feet meeting the crisp snow was the only sound in the whole harbor.
Tallinn
I reached Tallinn later in the morning. The ferry cut quickly and quietly through the foggy Gulf of Finland. For the duration of my hours on board, I could not see for more than a half a mile before the world was enveloped in gray monochrome - a sea of battered steel giving way to ghostly strands of orphaned clouds. But then the spiky, Teutonic citadel of the Estonian capital pierced through the mist like a knight slaying the monsters of gloom. Rosy light lingered on the frozen rooftops. Dawn, happy light, glinted off the snow. Smoke billowed from chimneys as the Sunday bells tolled calling the Lutherans and the Orthodox to their turreted temples on the rocky hill.
Riga
No rosy light of happy morning touched Riga. Riga was continuously and thoroughly gray. Even the people seemed gray. My lodgings were but a two-block walk from the grim bus station - itself situated on the ominously named Road to Moscow. My predawn walk to meet the bus out of town (I, inexplicably, traveled mostly by bus through the Baltics) was a panorama of grayness. Charcoal-colored puddles of salted slush clung to the edges of the tunnel that led under the main road and connected the station with the city. The station itself was more transparent gray. Dingy glass showcased people in large black overcoats aimlessly awaiting their ride. But perhaps it is all just a facade. Awaiting my bus, near a dirty pile of snow, I thought back to the deep, majestic blues and golds of the Orthodox Cathedral with its amber candles and rosy-cheeked old ladies crossing themselves. The inside of my nearly empty hostel was blue and lime green. The delicious beer and salmon were brown and pink and flavorful and rich. Perhaps in the morning, by contrast, everything feels a bit gray?
Vilnius
On my way out of Vilnius, I walked through the snow again. The snow was more brown than in Riga or Tallinn. It was not luminous like in Helsinki. It was a dull snow - wet, heavy. It was dark again, as always. The early bus tickets are the cheapest and most time-efficient. My backpack seemed heavier by the time I was leaving Vilnius. Perhaps it was because the wet snow weighing down my feet made the uphill walk to the station seem longer. I think words like "trudged" get bandied about a bit too nonchalantly. But, I must say, Vilnius was a place of trudgery. I trudged to the city gate. But then I stood up straight. Someone was watching me. Her eyes that have seen so many centuries (some would say eternity) caught mine. Through the many clear prisms of the old window I saw her, clothed with the sun, supported by the moon, crowned with the radiance of the stars. A young man near me saw her too. I imagine he sees her often. He bowed, made the sign of the cross, looked up at her, and walked through the gate. I followed him.
