Laying Out Latvia_world

Laying Out Latvia

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We\'re the Famous Tartan Army and we\'re going tae Latvia!

The bus stopped at the very quiet Latvian toll gate and we were joined by a skinny little border guard with a thick brown moustache and weird straw coloured hair which kind of perched on his head. He was wearing a dapper little green number. Passing through land borders is always exciting, but I felt a greater excitement at this one, since a mere nine years before, it did not exist. After about half an hour the passports came back with one of the best stamps I had ever received, it had a little car on it and everything! Aw, cute! There is not a great deal to say about the Latvian countryside other than it is flat and there are a LOT of trees (see above). The one enlivening fact was the sea, every so often the curtain of silver birch would part and a tantalising glimpse of the sea appeared. Lonely stretches of sand under the now leaden skies washed by a grey sea, corralled from civilisation by a natural pine tree stockade. Small settlements nestled deep in the woods, little wooden houses linked by narrow paths, leading to the woodcutter\'s hut or Grandma\'s cottage. Nothing seemed to be happening in these places. I could imagine the few inhabitants peering at us through their shutters saying things like "Look Grandma, it\'s the metal horse again!"

The first sight of Riga was a culture shock. If Tallinn had been on the Baltic periphery, Riga was at the heart of Eastern Europe. There were old tower blocks, crumbling apartments, dead-looking shops and drinking holes, old women at the side of the road selling piles of turnips. We seemed to travel miles through this type of thing, past derelict factories, kids sitting at the side of lifeless industrial ponds dangling crude sticks and twine into the greenish murk. Finally we approached central Riga along the river as it\'s one remaining Stalinist "wedding cake" building, so called because of it\'s huge tiers topped with miniature spires, loomed into view. It towered above the rest of Riga. A large suspension bridge over the river materialised, which made me think I was in Newcastle, and the bus pulled into the chaotic looking Riga bus station. This place was much different to Tallinn, much larger and full of circling Gypsies and tough looking blokes with crew cuts. There was a small, decidedly exposed exchange window, through which I handed over some pounds from my very sweaty palms, in exchange for what seemed like a rather paltry sum of money. The Lat is a peculiar currency. For a UK citizen used to having vast wedges of notes thrust at us in even the wealthiest capitalist bastions when we exchange money, the Lat comes as a severe jolt to our mindset. The problem is that there are more pounds to the Lat than vice versa, around ?.12 at last estimate. The key is to make sure that you start counting in Lats rather than Kroon or whatever. Otherwise that beer could be a tad on the expensive side.

Staggering desperately to the exit I felt I had no choice but to take a risk and get a taxi, though I was extremely loathe to do so. On a previous visit to Budapest, anxious to get away from the "Ha-llo" people swarming after me, I had taken a taxi for a five-minute ride to the travel office in town. The driver revealed that he had "problem" i.e. no change, so I ended up giving him about fifteen pounds worth of Forints. Never again I vowed, but when you are disorientated by your surroundings, tired and labouring under the weight of a pack, a taxi sounds like a marvellous idea. I picked the first on the rank, a fairly elderly gent driving a fairly elderly car. He had more gold teeth than enamel. I tried to ask in my schoolboy Russian how much it would cost to the Hotel TIA. Initially he thought I was asking him how much the hotel charged for a room. How we laughed when he realised my mistake. Anyway he confiscated my rucksack, put it in the boot and away we went to the hotel. I started to fasten my seatbelt, but he said "Not in taxi". Contrary to my worst fears he turned out to be very pleasant indeed, delighted that I could speak his native Russian (luckily he was Russian, a Latvian would probably have hit me). He explained that he was from Leningrad (not St. Petersburg, one notes) and what nationality were I? Dutch, Finnish, German? When I put him out of his misery and revealed my true identity, he almost wept with joy, explaining how he liked the English because we had offered to free the Kursk submariners, without accepting payment. "Money, money!" he said with vitriolic contempt "Always money! But not English. Good people". OK, can I have a free ride then? No such luck, he charged 5 Lats. I didn\'t mind really, since he had tried to give me a guided tour along the way, "this is Stadium" etc. He explained that the street on which the hotel lay, was named after a Latvian hero, King Valdemar. Somewhat more enigmatically he motioned to the left and right and said "Lenin, Stalin, history". Yes, thank goodness they were.

The hotel was clean but impersonal, my room being on the giddying heights of the sixth floor. Emerging into Riga was like entering a different cosmos to the folksy, close-knit nature of Tallinn. The buildings seemed to loom, the atmosphere was somewhat gloomy. I could scarcely imagine the gloom that must have beset this metropolis during the Soviet period. The streets were wide and straight and more run down than Tallinn. The people also looked different, darker, and more menacing. I walked down the road to the National Art Museum, a handsome building of terracotta coloured stone. Walking into the Old Town, I found Riga hard to love. The innocence of Tallinn had made a big impression on me. The Old Town of Riga is not particularly quaint, many of the shops and bars are of the type seen in any provincial city in the UK. The main meeting point is the cathedral square. The cathedral is unlike the type built in Western cities, instead of stone, red brick was the order of the day, making the cathedral look much more recent than it was actually was. The other major meeting point appeared to be a collection of restaurants and pavement cafes along Kalku. The crowd here was more well-to-do, the atmosphere more cosmopolitan. To get a flavour of the kitsch-Soviet eating experience I was recommended to try Nostalgija. This really is one of the most extraordinary restaurants I have ever visited. The sheer opulence and starchy formality is in sharp contrast to the eminently reasonable prices. The room was like a ballroom with a massive circular bar in the middle. The frescoed ceiling groaned under the strain of golden chandeliers. The staff stood to attention like alabaster statues, the managers stalked around, as though they expected trouble. I felt hideously underdressed. The menu was very long and positively weird. Things like "Eel in pineapple sauce", "Pork Surprise". It took me an age to read through it all. In the end I gave up and ordered Beef Stroganoff. Very good too.

Thank God It\'s Friday. Even on holiday that Friday feeling never really leaves you. The morning was gorgeously sunny and the people on the streets seemed to be smiling, strolling, it could have been Vienna or Paris. Maybe my initial impression of Riga was rather harsh. But there is no denying that this was a major city, even under the Soviets Riga was a substantial centre. Big cities and I do not get on. I tend to feel lost in them, shadows seem to be everywhere, I feel trapped under the sheer scale of it all. Ah guess ah\'m just a little ole country boy at heart. Marching along in this happier frame of mind I saw children with their mothers, all in little suits and dresses, many carrying flowers of all varieties. Curious, I thought, as another, then another passed. As I approached the old town large groups of smartly dressed teenagers were making their way to the city centre,

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