The city was still and grey when I stepped out of my flat in Kesklinn this morning, the air holding that particular dampness of a Baltic summer that hasn't quite decided to be warm yet. I had woken before the alarm, which felt like a small gift, and I decided to give myself over to the Vanalinn before the day's more practical errands began. There is a version of the Old Town that belongs to the daytime crowds, and there is another one that exists only in the early hours, when the cobblestones are slick with dew and the only sound is your own footsteps echoing off the guild halls.
I walked up through the Viru Gate, past the flower stalls that were just setting up, and into the maze of narrow streets. The medieval city wall, all one point nine kilometres of it with its twenty towers, felt more like a fortress at that hour, less like a postcard. I found myself at Town Hall Square, empty except for a few gulls, and I stood for a while looking at the Gothic Town Hall, the Raekoda, and the old pharmacy that has been in business there since 1422. The Raeapteek is apparently the oldest continuously operating pharmacy in Europe, which is a fact that seems impossible until you stand there and feel the weight of six centuries of people buying remedies for things we no longer have names for.
From the square I wound my way up towards Toompea, the hill that has always been the seat of power. The climb is short but steep, and I took it slowly, pausing to look back at the red-tiled roofs below. The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral with its onion domes sat there, as it has since the late 1800s, a reminder of a layer of history that is not always comfortable but is always present. Opposite it stands Toompea Castle, where the Riigikogu, the Estonian parliament, meets, and I watched the blue-black-white flag being raised on Pikk Hermann tower, a daily ritual that still seems to carry the weight of the Singing Revolution in it. It is a small thing, a flag going up, but here it feels like a quiet, daily reaffirmation of something hard-won.
I lingered on the viewing platform for a while, looking out over the city towards the sea. The overcast sky made the water look like pewter, and I could see the cranes of the harbour and, further out, the vague outline of one of the islands you can take a ferry to. Naissaar is on my list, and Aegna, but I think I will save them for a clearer day. Today is for the city itself, for letting the layers of Tallinn settle into some kind of order in my mind. There is the medieval Hanseatic town, the tsarist Russian layer, the Soviet grey, and then the bright, digital, independent Estonia that is building the future. They all sit on top of each other here, and you can feel it if you walk slowly enough.
I came down from Toompea and made my way towards the sea, crossing the busy boulevards of Kesklinn and heading for the harbour. My destination was the Seaplane Harbour, the Lennusadam, which I had wanted to see properly since I arrived. The building itself is remarkable — a vast, domed hangar built for tsarist seaplanes over a century ago, with no internal pillars to obstruct the aircraft. Now it holds the Estonian Maritime Museum, and the centrepiece is the submarine Lembit, a vessel from the 1930s that seems impossibly small and cramped for a crew to have lived in. I paid the entry fee, which was around eight to twelve euros, I believe, and worth every cent for the sheer scale of the space.
Walking through the hangar, I was struck by the tangible weight of maritime history here. Estonia has always been a sea nation, a crossroads for trade and conflict, and the museum tells that story through the objects left behind. But it was the submarine that held my attention. The guide explained that Lembit served in the Estonian Navy before the Soviet occupation, was then taken over, and eventually returned to Estonia. It is a strange fate for a machine, to outlive the political systems that built and claimed it. I stood for a long time looking at its riveted hull, thinking about the layers of history I had walked through this morning, and how they are not just in the buildings above ground but also in the wrecks and relics beneath the surface.
After the museum, I needed coffee, and I found it not far away, back towards the edge of the Old Town. I stopped at a place called Kofeman Cafe, a small, unassuming spot on a corner, and ordered a cappuccino. It cost about three euros, maybe three fifty, which feels remarkably reasonable for a city that is a European capital. I sat by the window and watched people go by, a mix of tourists consulting maps and locals moving with the easy confidence of people who know exactly where they are going. The coffee was good, strong and dark, and it warmed me against the damp that had followed me all morning.
There is a practical reason I am walking so much this week, beyond the simple pleasure of it. I have been trying to get a sense of the city's geography, of how the districts relate to one another, before I settle on a longer-term place to live. I am currently in a temporary flat in Kesklinn, which is convenient but not exactly home. The monthly rent for a modest one-bedroom flat outside the very centre would be around five hundred to seven hundred euros, I am told, which is considerably less than many Western European capitals. And there is the quirk that if you are a registered resident of Tallinn, the buses and trams are free. For a visitor, a single ride is about two euros, or you can get a Tallinn Card that bundles transit with museum entries. It changes the calculus of how you move around.
This afternoon, I walked the green path from Kalamaja through to Kadriorg, a route that takes you past the creative quarter of Telliskivi and along the edge of the city's business district. I passed the KUMU art museum again, its striking modern building set among the trees, and I thought about yesterday's rain and how that visit had slowed me down in a good way. Today, the sun was trying to break through the clouds, and the park was full of families and people walking dogs. Kadriorg Palace, the baroque summer residence built by Peter the Great, seemed to glow in the intermittent light. I did not go inside this time, but I sat on a bench for a while and watched a small child feed the ducks, the presidential palace just a short walk away.
From Kadriorg, I made my way to the Pirita Promenade, which runs along the coast. The sea air was bracing, and the long, straight path was busy with cyclists and rollerbladers. I walked out towards the beach at Pirita, where the sand is fine and the water, even in August, is bracingly cool. There is a yacht marina there, and the ruins of St. Bridget's Convent, which date back to the 15th century. The Tallinn TV Tower looms on the horizon, a relic of a different era that now feels like an accepted part of the skyline. I stood on the promenade for a while, just breathing in the salt air and feeling the city's pulse, which seems to slow down near the water.
I had dinner back in the Old Town, at a place called Restaurant Rataskaevu 16, which a friend had recommended before I left. It is tucked away on a quiet street, and the service was unhurried in a way that felt entirely welcome after a long day of walking. I had a plate of local fish and a glass of the local draught beer, which set me back something in the region of twenty-five to thirty euros for the meal, though a heartier appetite could easily spend more. The restaurant is a good example of how Tallinn's dining scene has evolved — traditional Estonian ingredients with a modern, European sensibility. It was not cheap, but it was worth it for the quality and the calm, candlelit atmosphere.
As I walked home through the now-familiar streets, the city felt different than it had on my first night. The Vanalinn had shifted from a place I was visiting to a place I was simply in. The cobblestones no longer felt like a challenge to be navigated but like a texture of the city itself. I stopped for a moment on a small bridge over a lane that was once part of the city moat, and I listened to the sounds of a summer night: the distant hum of traffic, the hush of leaves, a laughter from an open window. It is a city that rewards attention, I think, that gives back to you what you are willing to put into it in terms of observation and patience.
In a few days, the Day of Restoration of Independence will be here, and the city will be full of flags and quiet pride. I am glad I am here for it. It feels important to witness these small, significant rituals as they happen, not just to read about them later. For now, though, I am content to let the days unfold at their own pace. Tomorrow, I will take a tram to a part of the city I have not yet seen, and I will continue to let this place reveal itself to me, one slow step at a time.
The evening air is still warm, and my room is quiet. I can hear the faint sound of a sauna somewhere in the building, and it strikes me as such a thoroughly Estonian sound to end the day with. A slow drift of steam, a settling of the body's temperature, a preparation for rest. Tere, Tallinn. I think we are going to get along just fine.