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[Continuing from last week: An Unpromising Date. Click here to read.]
It is 20 years ago since I met Kristin in Tallinn, the Estonian capital, and the story of Wild Bear Lodge began.
I had been asked by my newspaper to write a story about British ‘lager louts’ who were travelling to the Baltics to hold stag parties, get drunk and try and pick up local girls.
In my early days as a correspondent for what still counted as a heavyweight newspaper, I had striven to cover meaningful issues. But now, in an era of falling circulation, the race was on to catch our middle-brow competitors.
It was part of the job of any foreign correspondent to leaven the mix of serious news coverage with the light and fluffy. But still…
"Why don’t you send someone from London?" I whined when my editor told me the story he wanted written. "It's a silly story. I'm a foreign correspondent. I don't want to do it."
"But we want you to do it. You'll bring a different perspective."
I thought for a moment about arguing but finally gave up and accepted the unpromising assignment.
The essence of the story was that British stag-nighters had zeroed in on the three Baltic countries - Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania - as destinations of choice.
My editor clearly anticipated a ribald tale of the British underclass behaving badly abroad, a theme guaranteed to engage, titillate and outrage its conservative readership.
The tiny countries, apparently, had it all: the women were winsome, the liquor was cheap, and no-frills airlines offered a return from the UK for the price of a decent round of drinks in a British pub.
I did some cursory research. A few local operators, sensing a business opportunity, had sought to appeal to British male ardour offering bonking-good activities, 10-Beer Pub Crawls, Tottie Tours and a Medieval Lesbian Stripper Show.
One unscrupulous entrepreneur had even opened a brothel called Infant, although the horrified authorities soon closed him down.
Predictably, a certain type of high-octane British bloke, pockets flush from the frothy economy of the time, was finding the Baltic draw difficult to resist.
My job would be to track down and interview some of these beered-up geezers and emerge unscathed to tell of their sordid antics. All, of course, to be served up with dollops of disapproval.
"Golly, have you heard what the hooligans are up to now?" was the reaction my editor was probably hunting for, somewhere in the Home Counties, over morning coffee and marmalade.
So I made my preparations. But which of the three Baltic countries to choose?
And then I remembered the glacial Ms Marmei who had been so singularly unimpressed with me during our last encounter. With barely a second thought, I fired off a quick email.
"Dinner in Tallinn? My tab, of course…"
If she said no, I would go to one of the other Baltic capitals.
I knew an answer wouldn't be long in coming. Estonians are nothing if not connected and assiduously monitor their laptops, tablets and smart phones.
In a nation where shyness is pandemic, communicating electronically with somebody in the same room is seen as a courteous option, even normal behaviour.
I was right. The answer came back swiftly. Ms Marmei had assented, but without any evident enthusiasm.
Providing, of course, that she was free, which she still didn't know. And as long as she didn't have to work, which she might. And if she didn't get a better offer, she might have added, but was polite enough not too.
*
The first thing I noticed about the woman who approached me outside Tallinn's Town Hall that evening was that she was not blonde.
The cut was almost the same, as were the schoolmarmish glasses, but yellow had been replaced by jet black.
I tried to smother my confusion.
"You look shocked. You were expecting something else?" She was enjoying my surprise. "Or maybe somebody else?"
The last time I had met Ms Marmei she had been dressed for business: tight and expensive brown corduroy jacket, smart red leather shoes. Now she was clothed casually, a khaki hoodie, blue jeans and open sandals showing off unusually long toes.
"So, shall we get a drink?" she said, matter-of-factly.
We sat in a mostly-empty pub on two long wooden benches and chatted about our jobs and the work we had been doing. I skipped over Baghdad - there was nothing charming about blast walls and jihadis - and talked instead about life in Moscow.
Then I explained to Ms. Marmei the assignment I was on. She looked at me in surprise. And then laughed scornfully.
"Brits. Coming to Estonia and behaving badly? Getting drunk and trying to pick up local girls? I don't suppose they have much luck."
No, probably not, I thought.
Next week: Ms Marmei - Kristin by now - lets me take her for dinner and I go in pursuit of rowdy Brits.
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NEWS & LINKS
+ This is adapted from the manuscript of a memoir I am writing. It tells the story of how I met Kristin and we set up Wild Bear Lodge (then Grizzly Bear Ranch). The manuscript has been available under the title Bearly Surviving for friends and guests for some years. This winter it is my intention to finally knock it into shape and publish it properly. If you would like to get a copy once it is released please drop me a line on julius@wildbearlodge.ca and I will make a note to contact you when the time comes.
+ Our 2024 grizzly bear-viewing season is pretty much full - though I do have a spot or two available right at the end of October. We have now opened booking for May-June and Oct 2025. If you think you might be interested you can check out our website or drop me a line.
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The story of a British war correspondent who moved to the Canadian wilderness and set up a bear-viewing lodge. And what happened next. By Julius Strauss. Since 2006.
Likewise! It made me smile. Lovely to remember Kristin xx
Even though I know the story, I just wanted to keep reading..!