Vaata kogu bukletti (.pdf) - Maris Lindoja Disain

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who talks, a shop who comes to the guest’s room, a car who drinks vodka, a dear friend towards whom you have no obligations. I tried to be all these things and at the same time to figure out, as quickly as possible, which of these versions my current guest hoped to find in me most. We drove from the station to the hotel. On the way I gestured left and right, attempting to explain where we were, where is the city and where the sea. I remarked that we were lucky with the weather. The Hindu yanked his cuffs as far out of the sleeve as he could, and nodded his head with rapid jerky movements. In the hotel, having quickly dispatched with the check-in formalities, I walked them to the lift door. We agreed a time to meet, I memorised the wishes of the Hindu, and we went our separate ways. The sun was high in the sky, the town was windy and suffocating, and I thanked destiny for this kind of weather, hoping it will continue in the coming days. I was fed up with the few autumnal weeks when I had to explain to the southerners (a Bulgarian, a Catalan) that we have winter every year, that it snows here in winter, and the snow stays. […] The programme was simple, the usual. We had to drive around in town, see the Song Festival Ground, Toompea Hill, Old Town from above, Old Town while inside it, churches inside and out. The guest had to attend an official reception. The guest had to be taken to the open-air museum. The guest had to hear information about culture, facts of history, legends and simply fabrications. The guest had to have what he wanted and what he had come here for. I sat in the car in front of the hotel and waited. They emerged from the door, Natasha a head taller and forty years younger. Mr. Diksit had changed into another suit, it was greenish, with golden threads, and he glinted occasionally like a smoked anchovy. “Wonderful hotel,” said Mr. Diksit, “clean. Best New York hotel standard,” he said. His speech was quick and his glance lively. I was suddenly afraid that my English sentences would emerge from my mouth with a Finnish slowness, and I replied in Russian. Natasha translated and then turned to me: 22 “You understand well? I will not translate him then.” I said I could understand. And if I didn’t, I would ask her. We had reached an agreement. On Toompea Hill I tried to explain to the guests the ancient principles of urban building and the reasons we still had the old town. “Is this the sea?” Mr Diksit peered left from the platform nearest to the city centre. “Is that Finland? Where is Finland?” “I will show you when we go to the other side”, I said. Mr. Diksit fell silent, gazed intently at the roofs and then cried out eagerly: “See, there’s the hotel! Oh!” I nodded. The viewing platform also had its official photographer standing by his tripod. Mr. Diksit noticed him and wished to have a picture of us three. I conveyed the message. The photographer was much upset and declared that he only took pictures of groups. “Oh, I see,” said the Hindu and asked me whether it was possible to meet our Hindologists. I explained that was possible although as we have (after all!) a short summer, everybody would be away on holiday, in the country, unavailable. “I will do my best,” I added. We walked to the other side to take a look at the sea. Mr. Diksit stepped carefully on the narrow cobbled pavement, afraid to lose his balance or stumble. His glance was fixed on the ground and I could not point out anything to him. I began telling him legends connected with Tallinn. He seemed quite keen. When we got behind the Tallinn Cathedral, he stopped and looked me in the mouth. I was half through the tale about the grey old man living in Lake Ülemiste who wants to drown the city but can’t do it because all the inhabitants know what to reply should the grey man appear and ask his question. “Oh, this is wonderful,” said the Hindu. “It is a very stylish legend.” And he named some analogues he knew. He classified the legend, pulled out a notebook from his pocket and scribbled a few key words into it. Nothing else seemed to interest him. Not the views of Schnelli pond, railway station, the sea, horizon. He stood by the railing, deep in thought, and then wished to know whether Estonians had a national drink. I told him everything I knew about our intoxicating beverages and how they were made. Mr. Diksit’s attention was caught by the wines. Natasha and I took a long time describing to him red and black currants. “Where can I get some blackcurrant wine?” he enquired. I started once again, explaining that this was made at home. “Can’t we go to somebody’s home then?” “It is summer, the berries are not yet ripe, it takes several months, even more, before the juice has fermented enough to be called wine.“ This was the most diplomatic excuse I could find. Mr. Diksit did not pursue the topic, but a deep excitement had appeared in his eyes and I saw reflections there of the grey man and blackcurrant wine. Two great pieces of news had astounded him in this remote corner of the world in the very first half day and he was eager to make a gift of his own. “Namaste,” he thanked me, bowed, pressed his palms together, and touched the tip of his nose with his thumbs. Natasha smiled. Distant lands have come to me, I thought stupidly and sadly, they have come, but I am not an equal partner. All I have are a few more artistic legends and medieval wall corners. Who knows what comes next. […] I spent the next Monday, Mr. Diksit’s third and final day in Tallinn, with him and his interpreter Natasha. We visited places connected with the history of our literature and other objects. His gold ring with a diamond sparkled brightly against his swarthy skin. When we sat around an office table at the formal reception, coffee cups and water glasses in front of us, he issued forth long sentences of welcome. He droned on as if he were speaking from a rostrum, and occasionally adjusted his cuff-links. Natasha whispered to me that last night Mr. Diksit had visited all the bars in the hotel, every single counter and drinking place, and asked for blackcurrant wine. Natasha smiled. I immediately felt guilty. The days had fled by, and I had let them vanish with the illusion that there was still plenty of time, but Mr. Diksit was due to leave this evening, and I was to stay here. I had told him many things, was it then my fault that he got attached to only a few of them? Then Mr. Diksit said: “When I was a student at a Bombay university, my history professor said to me: “Maybe you will have a chance in the future to visit these small nations. You must then certainly do it!”” With these small nations, explained the guest, my professor meant Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians. And now finally he was here. He said, in a booming voice, that the days spent in Tallinn will stay with him forever. His face was anxiously alert, his glance sharp and firm. He was deep in contemplation and nothing could disturb him. After the meeting we left. Mr. Diksit, Natasha and an Estonian writer drove out to our openair museum. At six I waited for them in front of the hotel. At quarter past, they emerged, but not from the lift, but from a car. They had just returned and rushed upstairs for their suitcases. I waited outside, feeling uneasy that once again everything seemed out of control. Again a lot of worrying, confusion, no peaceful farewells or smoothly progressing events. I took it personally. But there they were. Twenty minutes to catch the train. We loaded the suitcases in the car when Mr. Diksit suddenly disappeared. Natasha climbed in. I stood by the car and looked around. Several minutes passed. Suddenly I saw him a hundred metres away at a souvenir kiosk. The small elderly man was half hidden behind the others. I waved and ran towards him. He ran too, breathless with rapture. He had bought a little box with a bottle of cologne and a cake of soap, all made in Tallinn. Satisfied, he took his seat beside Natasha and we were off. I looked at my watch and tried to work out what to do in case the road was closed down because of the maneuvering goods trains and we have to wait. Drive across the lawn? Fly? I heard Natasha admonishing Mr Diksit in mild tones. Then Mr. Diksit yelled out: “Rubbish! We have nothing to fear! The magnetic power of myself and Mr. J (he meant me) will stop the train!” He was a winner. He knew everything about me. We could stop all trains. He had added to his own wisdom the grey man, black currants and me. He had the cologne and the soap. He knew what to do with all those things. He had visited the small nations, and they existed. 23
Turist on nende meelevallas, keda ta oma puhkusereisi ajal kohtab. Turismindus (hotellid, lennukompaniid, restoranid, baarid, poed, diskod, klubid jne) on jälle turisti meelevallas. Niisugune varustaja-turisti nõudmiste vahekord on elementaarne tõsiasi, mis isegi seda teadlikult adumata toidab ühiskondlikke suhteid selle vahel, kuidas turist käitub võõrustaja suhtes ja mida ta eeldab külastatavalt paigalt ja inimestelt, kellega seal kokku puutub. Ometi mõtlevad turistid harva iseendast kui mingisse sotsiaalsesse struktuuri kuuluvast inimesest, sest puhkusereisi kogemus on väga tihedalt seotud normaalse igapäevase tegelikkusega. Turistiruum kuulub fantaasiavalda. Mõne minuti hilineva lennu puhul võtavad mõned reisijad seda kui isiklikku solvangut. Sündmusest marruaetud turistile tähendab see põgus “viivitus” täket tema ettekujutuses täiuslikust puhkereisist. Niisuguses kujutluses on turist kuningas ja kuninganna (mõnikord saadetuna nende kuninglikest lastest) ja eeldab vastavat kohtlemist. Vähemalt selline on briti turistide üldine mentaliteet; teiste kohta ei söanda arvamust avaldada, ehkki nende juhtumisi pealtkuuldud jutud tunduvad üsna sarnased. Mõistagi on alati eksisteerinud erinevat tüüpi kroonitud päid; mõned pobisevad oma pahameele endale nina alla, teised teevad kõva kisa. Minu eesmärk pole aga siinkohal turistide sümptomite üle otsustada, vaid näidata, kuidas kuningakoja analoog kehtib üsna hästi <strong>kogu</strong> turisminduse struktuuri kohta. Sellal kui agaramad õukondlased kuninga ja kuninganna ees koogutavad ja lömitavad, kaotavad vähema sarmiga isikud kuningapere poolehoiu. Need on turismitööstuse põhireeglid. Samas, kui kõik nurisevad 24 David Bate turistide ja nende käitumise üle, on praktiliselt igaüks ise mingil ajal turist olnud. Selle paradoksi taga peitub tõsiasi, et teiste turistide põlastamine kuulub turistiksolemise juurde, isegi kui mõned eelistavad ennast teistest eristada näiteks “rändaja” sildi all. 1 Ehk teisisõnu – mitte tahta olla nagu “turist” on ise üks turismitööstuse iseloomulikke jooni. Mõned reisikorraldajad tõotavad külastatava paiga autentset, ja mitte tavalist turistlikku kogemist. Sestap küsimus – mis oleks autentne kogemus külastades Tallinna? Tallinna turismivõlu näib jagunevat kaheks “autentseks” sooviks – ajalooline ja modernne. Esimene ja kõige ilmsem kujutlus käib keskaegse linna kohta. Autentsuse tuvastamine minevikus on modernsuse tunnusmärk. Tallinn on tõeline vana linn ning turisti fantaasia vohab just seoses mineviku, kõige ajaloolisega. Siin on soov “fantaasia”, sest päris autentset kogemust turist ei saa; tuleb leppida autentsuse märkidega. Ses osas on turistid nagu semiootikud, konnates mööda tänavaid autentsuse märkide otsinguil. Turistilinnal peavad olema, nagu seda kirjeldas Dean MacCannell, “tähised”. Turist vajab ajaloolise koha autentsuse märke, millest kokku panna kogemus autentsest paigast. Tüüpline näide on siinkohal keskaja restoranid. Keskaja temaatikaga restoran jääb mõnede jaoks alati mitteautentseks, ometi on tema semiootiline funktsioon sisendada Tallinna keskaegsust. Munkade ja piigade (mitte-ajalooline kokkusobitamine) poolt serveeritud keskaegse söömaaja kogemus annab veidral kombel turistile kinnitust keskaegse linna ehtsusest. Pariis on ainult siis “Pariis”, kui olete näinud Eiffeli torni; ainult siis, kui olete näinud paiga märki, saab paik sümboolselt “ehtsaks”. Turist leiab end püütuna semiootika lõksu, mis vahendab talle mingit kohta läbi märkide. Asjade niisugune seis ei pruugi olla täiesti rahuldustpakkuv, eriti kui – kapitalistliku kultuuri puhul tavaline nähtus – nende märkide ja tähiste tarbimine muutub valdavaks eesmärgiks. Põlisrahvad on saanud ekspertideks, ning pakuvad oma kultuuri rahvusvahelise turismitööstuse raames kui mingi paiga märkide ja tähiste seeriaid. Tallinna ajaloolisus on üks turistlik tõmbenumber, kuid on olemas ka teine aspekt, mis on täiesti kaasaegne ning millel pole ajalooga eriti midagi tegemist. Tolles teises turistiruumis keerlevad kujutlused ka ümber autentsuse, ümber festivali heterotoopia ruumi. Siin ei näi turist olevat huvitatud asja märkidest, vaid pigem märgi taga peituva autentsema asja kogemusest. See on paraku turismitööstuse kõige problemaatilisem külg, tähendades paratamatult seda, et turist kipub tegema asju, millesse tema kodukohamaa ühiskond kuigi sallivalt ei suhtu. Võtame näiteks joomiskultuuri ja seksi, “kehakogemuse” turismi. Tallinn on nüüdseks sattunud Suurbritannia reisifirmade nimekirja kui poissmeeste ja ka naiste pulmaeelsete prassingute sihtpunkt. 2 See tähendab, et suurel hulgal mehi ja naisi saabub linna oma riitusi või riivatut karnevalielamust nautima, enne kui algab normaalne elu. Seksiturism on muutunud tähtsaks tööstusharuks; hotellid varustavad külastajaid telepornoga, ning baarid ja taksod muretsevad juurdepääsu prostituutidele ja bordellidele. Ent needki tegevused on vallatud autentsusesoovist: tegeliku seksi, erootika ja liialduste kogemus. Autentset kogemust valitsevad siingi märgid, millegi keelatu semiootika. Need, kes tahavad lihtsalt klaasi kergitada, seisavad ikkagi semiootilise valiku ees: kas minna omaenda kultuurile sarnasesse kohta (McDonalds ja Coca-Cola tekitavad ameeriklastes õdusat kodutunnet üle terve maailma) või riskida mõne eksootilise ja teistsugusega. Turist ei pääse märgisüsteemist ka siin; kokteilibaar, hotellivestibüül ja pubi pakuvad erinevat tüüpi semiootilisi kujutelmi elukogemusest, tagasihoitusest või õdususest. Samas pole ükski neist autentsem kui teine. Öised tantsuklubid pakuvad samuti erinevaid kogemusi, muusikat, eagruppe või tantsuesteetikat, isegi kui nad on suuresti sarnased ses mõttes, et pakuvad väga keskendunud paika vastassugupoolega kohtumiseks. Niisugused semiootilised erinevused ilmnevad näiteks ööklubides. Viru hotelli küljes asuv klubi on laupäevaõhtuti täis napsitavaid ja vanade lemmikmeloodiate saatel tantsivaid eestlasi; Parlamendis tantsivad nooremad eestlased moodsama muusika järgi, aga Club Privé pakub tantsuks minimaalsemat ja peenekoelisemat muusikat, lisaks võimalust kohata turiste, kellele kõrgem sissepääs on taskukohane. Lisaks on striptiisiklubid ja erootilise tantsu paigad ka semiootilise uuringu objektiks; vaadakem internetti riputatud ülevaadet Tallinna prostituutidest: Fotod David Bate Cocktail Bar Hotel Pub 25
Page 2 and 3: Tallinna praktikad Practices of Tal
Page 4 and 5: Vana Tallinn tundub nii mõneski m
Page 6 and 7: Ajakirjast “Estonian Art” 2/200
Page 8 and 9: From the Estonian Art magazine, 2/2
Page 10 and 11: + - + + - SPA keskused / SPA centre
Page 14 and 15: 26 ...käskige taksojuhil ennast bo
Page 16 and 17: 30 Mats Eriksson Linn ei ole meistr
Page 18 and 19: I visited the buildings used by the
Page 20 and 21: 38 Ebba Moi Lasnamäe, Tallinn, Ees
Page 22 and 23: 42 Anu Pennanen Fotod Anu Pennanen
Page 24 and 25: Kaarel Kurismaa objektid Tallinna l
Page 26 and 27: SÕPRADELE IDAS... Sel ajal kirjuta
Page 28 and 29: Toomas Paaver Küllap on ka paljude
Page 30 and 31: Tartu mnt Toomas Paaver Tallinna ta
Page 32 and 33: HÄRJAPEA JÕGI, MAA-ALUNE Keskajal
Page 34 and 35: Toomas Paaver 1912. planeeris soome
Page 36 and 37: Veronika Valk You wish to go from t
Page 38 and 39: Kopli Kopli poolsaarel asus tellise
Page 40 and 41: Uus-Svobodaa New-Svobodaa around J
Page 42 and 43: kino jaoks. Buss nr 32, Männiku-Ko
Page 44 and 45: Foto photo Mark Raidpere TEINE TULE
Page 46 and 47: 90 KIRIKUD CHURCHES Toomkirik, 13.-
Page 48 and 49: II maailmasõjas hukkunute ja 9. m
Page 50: Aitäh sponsoritele, toetajatele ja

Vaata kogu bukletti (.pdf) - Maris Lindoja Disain

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