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Two years ago, a women's rights organization claimed there were 60 to brothels operating in Tallinn, the capital of the former Soviet Republic of Estonia. The police cracked down, and now it's believed there are fewer than half that number. You can't deny the progress, but if you look at the numbers for very long old or new, take your pick , you start to see brothels everywhere.
You start to think your neighbors are operating bordellos. Which mine actually happen to be. I live in what is supposedly one of the more upscale residential suburbs. It's a small enough neighborhood that I know most foreign residents. At the beginning of last summer I heard English spoken on my neighbor's deck. They were just over the fence, through the hedge. The accents and voices changed daily, and it struck me as a very social family.
I wondered if I should I stick my head over the fence and introduce myself? Strange we haven't met before. Something held me back. They're all over. A week later, I ordered a taxi and got a driver who liked to talk. He was 70 years old, had been driving since Soviet time.
Later on in the summer, when the apple trees were in full bloom, the brothel workers held a sing-along. Though the girls themselves were masked by the foliage, their voices carried throughout the neighborhood. It was like living next to a Girl Scout camp. And, I have to admit, they were pretty good. Was this a practice to ready them for the workday? A friend suggested this was "the famous Estonian Whores' Choir," rumored to be competing with the Estonian Men's Choir for a shot at a Grammy.
Whatever the reason, the ladies of the morning completed only two songs before disbanding to meet the challenges of the day. Usually, though, the music isn't so pleasant. Most days are comprised of a mini Russian rock concert. The girls blast music as they hang red and black underwear out to dry on the balcony. My wife refers to the ritual as "raising the pirate flag. He was enjoying a drink in my garden with a group of friends, all of us listening to the cackle of a bleach-blonde and her john through the firs.