I came to Paris twice, and the greatest passion for Paris is probably the museums. Paris is also the world of fashion, where everywhere you look, you see the beauty of elegance.
But Paris doesn't leave in me much affection, it's like it's only meant for admiration.
Tallinn is different. And no city has left in me a warm affection like Tallinn.
The afternoon in Tallinn's old town passes slowly as if time has learned to walk gently. The cobblestones under my feet are not flat, each step is a touch to someone's memory who lived, left, and has been silent for many centuries before. The wind from the Baltic Sea weaves through the pointed roofs, carrying the damp smell of moss, old wood, and history that hasn't had time to dry. I stop in front of a gray city wall, my hand placed on the cold stone surface, and suddenly understand that this place doesn't tell stories with words, but with its persistent existence. Tallinn doesn't beckon, doesn't cling; the city just stands there, calm and discreet, like an old person who understands that those who are patient enough will hear what needs to be heard on their own. In that moment, amid the golden lights and overlapping shadows, I feel I'm no longer a traveler, but a small footnote, quietly added to the margin of a very thick book.
Tallinn is petite and beautifully fitting, as if it whispered to me melancholic words of love.
How many layers of people have passed through there, how much sadness and how many unfinished loves have been written into the wind.
The world is so sad. Beautiful. Melancholy. Me and Tallinn.
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Cre: Huỳnh Mai An Đông
