25 July 2026 – Narva, Ida-Virumaa
25 July 2026 – Narva, Ida-Virumaa Day 1
I departed Haapsalu early in the morning with the sounds of Handel still ringing in my head. A partly cloudy sky overhead as I walked from my charming nook of a rental home to the Haapsalu bus station, nearly a mile from the centre of town. A long trek was ahead of me, as I headed back to Tallinn for a mere 90 minutes before I’d board the next bus to Narva, on the far eastern side of Estonia’s Gulf of Finland coastline, directly bordering the Russian Federation. My brief interaction with the Lux Express bus driver, who would take us three and a half hours nonstop, was a preview of what was to come – our communication was mostly through hand gestures, as he spoke no English. I picked up from others’ salutations that the driver appeared to speak Russian. I quickly learned how to say thank you (Спасибо) and offered my appreciation in a poorly executed attempt in his native tongue, which was met with a cool yet uninterested nod. I was dropped off in the center of the city, not far from the hotel I would stay in for three nights, appropriately named “Narva Hotell.” The room’s massive picture window exposed a startling view of broken-down cars and the backsides of utilitarian Soviet housing complexes, which were artlessly masked by somewhat updated facades. It also brought very long days of sunlight; the sun set around 10:00 PM that night. The unairconditioned third-floor room and my burning curiosity to see the Narva River, which serves as a natural barrier between the two nations, were enough to get me out and explore for the remaining hours of the day.
The Narva River Promenade was recently renovated through the efforts of local and state governments, with preservation grants from the European Union’s “United By Borders” cooperative. Overlooking the promenade is Hermann Castle, also known as Narva Castle, a medieval fortress first established by the Kingdom of Denmark in the 13th century during its rule over the land, though most of its existing state dates to the Livonian Order from the 14th-16th centuries, excluding post-World War II reconstruction. Once a citadel that protected townsfolk from foreign invaders, it is now a museum and event venue. Approaching the structure is intimidating, as it is immense. But what I was about to see on the castle's riverside shook me to my core.
On the east bank of the majestic Narva River, in Ivangorod, Leningrad Oblast, stands another castle on the Russian side, a mirror image. Ivangorod Fortress was built in 1492 by Tsar Ivan III and served as a strategic military complex for the early Russian empires; it was a POW camp for prisoners during Nazi Germany’s conquest of the region in World War II, and now back under Russian rule, it serves a similar role to Hermann Castle as a museum and tourist attraction. In the current regional conflicts, one cannot disassociate the imagery of these two behemoth monuments of strength staring at each other across slow-moving waters. Nor can one ignore the displays of nationalism on either side; one of the walls of Hermann Castle on the west bank of the river is draped with an enormous Ukrainian flag, flanked by a multitude of Estonian flags that all fly in the face of the sea of Pan-Russian colours on the other side. Between the two castles is a road connecting the two nations, which is to be expected, empty except for the armed guards who protect their respective sides. On this day, traffic between the two cities is extremely limited and heavily monitored, with border crossings allowed for family visits and some tightly regulated business purposes only on weekdays, if my understanding is correct. The quiet heaviness of the current moment is palpable but not unprecedented. For an American tourist, it is hard to put these feelings into words. Despite the inflammatory rhetoric around our own country’s ‘borders,’ we as Americans living in the 21st century, for the most part, have little context for the eerie, edgy anticipation of national invasion or conquest staring right at you. That kind of privilege is unique and does not come without a small twinge of guilt while standing at the precipice of the threat of war’s expansion. I’ll also never fully understand the nuances and depth of history of this or any other region I visit. I can only know what I learn, see, and hear from the people living in it right now. Independence is an inalienable right, but it is also a precious gift.
Yet there’s no shortage of normalcy. Before I stepped onto the Narva River boardwalk, I was greeted by a little white Maltese-looking puppy, about the size of an overfed guinea pig, on a leash, being walked by a young couple teaching it how to be a dog. I showed them a photo of my own dog that looked exactly like theirs as a puppy. They continued their walk, and I couldn’t help but keep my gaze on the puppy as it clumsily stumbled away. When I finally looked up, however, more dogs! On both sides of the river! For a moment, despite the burden of understanding what was happening in the wider world, at least on this border, it wasn’t conflict. It was just Estonian dogs, and Russian dogs. This scene, juxtaposed with the brutal and harsh realities of war, hot and cold, was gutting. If there was any comfort to take away from this experience, it was that dogs can truly make the world a better place if we let them. I also knew deep down that this border was unique, and other such borders in the region may not likely share the same pretense of normalcy; façade.
After a beer on the boardwalk and another passive-aggressive, uncomfortable ‘conversation’ in broken Russian, English, and gesticulations (summary: it’s all beautiful, all around us, isn’t it, American?”), I walked away from the riverbank, heavy-hearted and deep in contemplation. A bowl of Külm borš and an hour’s worth of AI-generated bossa nova at a local café was enough to take my mind off what I had just witnessed. I am also glad I brought that wallet photo of my dogs to share with the locals. Apparently, “aww” is understood and felt in all languages.
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