Estonia kicks the habit

  • 2007-06-13
  • By Joel Alas

Estonia's new smoking ban has driven bar-goers out onto the streets, much to the detriment of Old Town residents who like their beauty sleep.

TALLINN - Estonia is quitting cigarettes cold turkey, and on the first weekend she was as edgy as an addict in rehab. Bars normally choked with smoke haze are empty 's of both haze and humans. The outside sidewalk has become the most happening part of the club. I'm considering taking up the habit just so I can get in on the action. It's lonely in these smoke free bars on my own.

The new smoking regulations kicked in on June 5, a Tuesday, so it was a predictably slow start. But I was there on that Tuesday night when one chap defiantly attempted to light up in one of Tallinn's basement bars. He wasn't exactly flouting the laws 's he extinguished as soon as he was asked to 's but it did appear he'd brought along his own ashtray in expectation of a shortage.
Of course Estonia is by no means the first country to go through tobacco withdrawal. It began in New York in 2003, where puffers were forced out onto the sidewalks in the middle of winter to much international press attention.

Slowly the trend has spread across the globe. In New Zealand, one pub in the South Island attempted to fight the ban by re-branding itself as a pro-smoking bar. It copped weekly fines from the authorities, but wrote them off as marketing expenses. In the UK, which also recently brought in the ban, a bar in Camden got laughs by advertising an ashtray sale.
"It's the smell you notice first," John warned me. John's an Irish expat living in Tallinn and working at a backpacker hostel. Ireland kicked the habit a few years ago, so he's been through this before.
"The smell. And I don't mean the absence of tobacco smoke," he continued, "I mean, you start to smell everything else. And bars can be pretty smelly places when there's no smoke to cover everything up."
He's right. I ventured out on Saturday night, purposefully targeting Tallinn's smokiest dives. At least one girl I spoke to said she would prefer the choke of tobacco to the stench emanating from musty corners.

First stop: Levist Valjas, the famed late night bar in Old Town, where the odor has been an inseparable part of the atmosphere. "When you go to Levist Valjas, you smell like Levist Valjas," I used to warn visitors before dispatching them there.
At 2:30 a.m. on a normal weekend, this place would be packed and partying hard. It's often a fight to squeeze up to the bar, where it takes anywhere from five to 15 minutes to order a drink from the surly staff.
Something was amiss when I visited. There were about 10 student types crouched out on the sidewalk inhaling their popular legal drug. There were about half as many inside. The staff were mystified. "It's summer, so maybe everyone has gone to the countryside," one girl suggested. "It was like this last night too."

I journey on. Around the corner, the park opposite Hell Hunt seems to be the favored spot for smokers to congregate (and by the way, a bit of local trivia 's that triangle park between Pikk and Olevimagi streets is actually called Roheline Turg, or the Green Market. So now you know.). I see a few friends, and sidle up for a conversation. I feel stupid sitting there without a cigarette in my hands. Someone offers me a light.
"I don't smoke," I tell them.
"Then maybe you should start."

Next stop is the Valli Baar, a dingy hole-in-the-wall that was recently placed under heritage protection to preserve its stark, 1960s-era furnishings. As usual, there were a couple of old lads inside howling away on guitars and accordions. But something was lacking in the atmosphere. It's like a kid's birthday party with too many rules 's nobody has any fun.
Although smokers have been banished to a clutter of chairs outside, the bar still reeks of smoke. The walls have been absorbing the stuff for forty years. I guess it'll take another forty until they eek it out. Luckily they're heritage protected, I suppose.
So far the night had been as miserable as a Monday. If in doubt, you can always count on the Sauna street bars to be crowded. Clubs like Deja Vu and Angel always attract those who want to be seen, and as I turned the corner I saw them all.

I'd had a few drinks, but I don't think my eyes were playing tricks as I spied about 100 people milling about on the sidewalk, talking, shouting, some even dancing. Apologies to those fortunate few who live in the Old Town. If you got little sleep before, you're going to get even less now. With all this sidewalk smoking, I wonder if taking a nighttime stroll will become a health hazard.

Surprisingly there was still a decent size crowd inside Angel. But, as John the Irishman had warned me, the smell of smoke had been replaced by another curious odor. I'm not sure what it was, but it certainly seemed plumbing-related.
I sat chatting with a group of friends. The group dwindled from seven people to just two as the smokers drifted outside for a fag.
"I feel left out," the girl sitting next to me tells me. "It's like there's two groups of people, the smokers and us. We're the left-behinds."
I couldn't stand the ostracism. I went outside to squat on the sidewalk with all the cool kids.
"Doesn't it make you want to quit?" I asked one boy.
"I've been smoking for fifteen years," he told me. "You think I can just quit?"

I spoke to plenty of people who said the restrictions had helped them try to quit, or at least cut back. They're also being hit with an increase in tobacco tax. You've got to be dedicated to keep going in the face of such adversity.
They say the first phase of quitting is always the toughest. Last weekend Tallinn was grumpy. Maybe her mood will improve as she clears her lungs.