When this tiny pebble with a glowing core, rushing through the ice‑cold cosmos, is home to about 8.3 billion fellow humans, and even in our cozy European Union live more than 450 million people, then the most pointless thing in our sparsely populated corner of the world is to count points over whether today's winner was an Estonian or a Latvian.

After the news that the head of the dairy plant producing Kārums will henceforth be an Estonian, cheering began in North Livonia as if at least three Olympic decathlon gold medals had been brought home. In Riga, an existential worry apparently arose about what will become of the iconic crow perched on its orange wrapper. The deal is not yet finalized, but already "The mouth sings, the heart worries, the eyes roll water" (Haljala).

Having just peeled the paper off a coconut‑flavored glazed curd snack, the future looks entirely optimistic. I read that this treat also contains milk from Järvamaa, from Estonia Farms, so Estonian‑Latvian cooperation has long been running like clockwork.

An Estonian's relationship with food made in Latvia has since ancient times been one of deep respect for the neighboring country's masters — and the urge to haul home large quantities of everything one cannot eat immediately.

I vividly recall a childhood summer trip with the family to Riga Zoo. I no longer remember whether they showed us an elephant or not, but the lasting highlight of the trip for Tallinn kids was one single word: saldējums. As soon as a stand with that sign appeared, my sister and I raced to shout: saldejumps! saldejumps!

It was simply so good, even if often quite simple — ice cream packed in a waffle cup.

On an adult's food radar, one after another appeared the abundant market pavilions next to Riga's main station, Lido, and the fantastic salamis from the Rēzekne Meat Factory (RGK). And who exactly owns all these delicious things or is the "actual beneficiary" — a consumer cannot be bothered to investigate with every purchase.

The deeply rooted desire to be better than the neighbor demands that if a Latvian has six toes on one foot, then an Estonian must have at least seven. But with that calculation you won't get far in the real world, because if you count up the symbolic victories, you must also enter the losses in the other column. For example, the owner of Kalev candy factory — a brand with legendary status in Estonia — has been a Norwegian company since 2010. The former Pärnu maantee factory has housed the police for years, but the candies haven't disappeared from the shops, and no one has renamed Anneke milk chocolate to Fridtjof.

Or the general despair in 2015 when Estonian Air had to pack up. It was a blow and a serious national catastrophe for us, while Latvia's airBaltic flew on without missing a beat. Now that the Latvians are in financial trouble, some say that Estonian travelers have for years been gliding along on the back of the Latvian taxpayer and flying cheaply. So who knows who ultimately lost or won. In any case, when Latvia hints that the Republic of Estonia could also lend a shoulder in the form of an investment, our answer echoes from Estonian classic literary character, Tõnisson in Paunvere: "I would've gone completely away from home if I had known you were coming."

Sometimes these Latvian matters remain a bit confusing for Estonians, like the state of Rail Baltica's construction, but no worries — there is always the shared treasure of both countries, ERR's Latvia correspondent Ragnar Kond, who comes on air and explains everything to the people. If nothing else works, then the final rails will end at Häädemeeste for now, and you can continue to Lithuania by bus. Elron has already trained Estonians well for bus rides with train tickets.

Overall, it is pointless to count these neighborly point‑wins. On the contrary, toes must be put together and the common work carried forward.

As does the Latvian man on Instagram, who introduces the customs of this corner of the world to a global audience. On his plate are fried potatoes and two slices of rye bread with a hefty pork chop stuck between them. A Latvian burger! A similar product was made famous in Estonia by the first capitalists — read Rohke Debelak. That back then the chop was replaced by boiled sausage is understandable, given the tight conditions at the end of the Soviet era.

And everything said above applies equally to the Finns. The best cure for poking fun at all our wonderful neighbors is to travel somewhere far away for a moment — say, across the ocean. At an investigative journalism conference in Miami, you discover that there are no other Estonians here, but a colleague from Finnish media is present. Joy overflows and spontaneous brotherhood happens. Fellow local guys meet! Terve! No mitäs nyt jätkä? Eppu Normaali!*

That neighbors lift each other up — that is a light form of local globalism. It absolutely does not prevent being a nationalist at a football match and cheering for your own men's or women's team. In any case, it's great when "we" stretches for Estonia at least from Lapland to Lithuania, if not already farther.

*In Finnish: "Hi there! So what's up, buddy? Eppu Normaali! (an iconic Finnish rockband)."

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