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You start to think your neighbors are operating bordellos. Which mine actually happen to be. 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? Something held me back. He was 70 years old, had been driving since Soviet time.
Why not ask? He would know. He named the address. 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? Whatever the reason, the ladies of the morning completed only two songs before disbanding to meet the challenges of the day. 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. He suggested that the Estonian police—not always sterling examples of law enforcement—would reveal my identity to the hot-blooded types who own the brothel.
Sure, the girls make too much noise, and maybe they do drive down the property value. But if the prostitutes were driven out, they might be replaced with worse.