Latvian Lunacy
The next stage of our Baltic Road Trip
I love crossing borders. It always feels like something to celebrate. To document. In my mind, it’s a magical boundary where everything immediately changes: languages, laws, food, names. Although, in reality borders are never as clear cut as a line in the road or a spot on the map.
I usually jump out of the car and take a picture next to border roadsigns. I’ve done this since my first major solo roadtrip at 22, as I explained to my son who was hiding in the backseat as I took pictures of the border between Estonia and Latvia. He crouched down out of sight, mortified someone would see us and laugh. No one was anywhere around.
I managed to talk him out of his hiding place long enough to take a photo of me and Tallie. But he only agreed because I promised that as soon as he did, we would jump in the car and drive away.
To my disappointment, but not surprise, nothing visibly changed as we crossed from Estonia into Latvia. There were still massive rocks sitting out in fields and giant storks with huge nests perched atop poles. (We would see them often throughout the Baltics and Poland).
Similarities are inevitable. The two countries have been combined into one at times, and were both occupied by Russia in the not-too-distant past.
But the languages are completely different. And, from what I read, Estonians are stereotyped as quieter, more blunt and more pragmatic than Latvians. The only Latvian I really spoke with was the front desk manager at our hotel in Riga, and he should have been a Broadway actor, so I’ll have to reserve my opinion on that matter.
When Tibor said his last year of high school would include a philosophy course, I downloaded the audio book for Sophie’s World. So for the next few days, we listened to the story of a 14-year-old Norwegian girl and her slightly stalkeresque philosophy teacher. It was the perfect soundtrack for what seemed at times to be an otherworldly journey.
Our first stop in Latvia was Cēsis, a well-preserved medieval castle. It was at the top of the list of must-see Latvian sites, and was just 2 1/4 hours from Sooma, Estonia, where we had spent the night after our bogwalk.
We parked the car, wandered around the gates until we found an entrance, and saw this:
Upon which my kids looked at each other and said, “Oh no. Not a castle.”
I realize this would sound completely insane coming from most kids. But mine grew up in the Loire Valley where not only are there a lot of castles, but castles are in fact the ONLY thing to do besides sitting around and getting drunk like the rest of the population. In our seven years there, we did all of the castles in the Loire. Some several times.
So whenever my kids see a castle, their eyes glaze over. To them it’s just a lot of stone, maybe some boring furniture, and Mom stopping and reading all the signs. Plus, without fake armor and weapons, what fun is it? So I didn’t even bother paying for tickets. Instead I got them ice creams in waffle cones and walked around the outside perimeter, taking in the massive walls and towers. I read to them about the 300 people in the castle who committed mass suicide by blowing themselves up with 4 barrels of gunpowder during Ivan the Terrible’s siege in 1577. As you can imagine, the castle fell into ruins and has been majorly renovated since.
On the way back to the car, we spotted this tiny domed church....
and this school…
which looked straight out of a fairy tale (but hopefully not one where the teachers are actually witches who lure children in to cook them).
After this cultural pit-stop, we drove another 1 1/2 hours to Riga, where we stayed in the historic district (which was amazing) in the Boutique Hotel Monte Kristo (which was not). It was a pirate-themed hotel, which I should have guessed from the name. Pirate-themed, in this case, was just an excuse for furnishing it with crappy old velvet furniture. The beds were as comfortable as I would imagine beds to be on a pirate ship, so bravo for historical accuracy on that point.
After stowing our luggage belowdeck, we ventured out to find dinner. I led my crew to a tavern billed as offering great local food, including a lemon sole that I was drooling over after seeing it on the menu. However, the rowdy bar-like ambiance sent Tibor into a panic attack.
“This is for adults…we shouldn’t be here!” he said, going into full tic-mode.
“I’m an adult, you can be here with me. Plus you’ll be eighteen soon.”
“WE SHOULDN’T BE HERE!!!” Sometimes I can talk him down, but he had started to hyperventilate, so I told the waitress we had to leave and we made a hasty exit. Two doors down was a pizzeria that ended up having very mediocre food that my kids thought was fabulous.
I couldn’t help being in a bad mood, thinking about that flaky, buttery sole while eating my “Mexican” pizza, seated on a plastic seat at a plastic table. Tibor was apologetic, and we both knew he couldn’t help it, but I didn’t feel like pretending to be fine, so let myself be pissed off and he ended up making a peace offering—a foot rub when we got back to the hotel. I accepted, and the anticipation made the pizza just a little more palatable.
After a pirate-quality sleep, and a surprisingly good breakfast (no rum in sight and enough fruit to ward off scurvy), we decided to take a quick tour around Old Town Riga.
One of our favorite buildings was Cat House. We read that, like in Tallinn, guilds and their guild halls were a foundation of Riga’s society. One rich man who was rejected from guild membership decided to get his vengeance by building a luxurious mansion directly across the street from the Great Guild Hall. Atop its turrets he placed two copper cat roof ornaments, positioning them so they raised their tails in the direction of the guild hall. Predictably, this caused a furor. He was taken to court and forced to redirect the cats’ butts.
In the adjoining Livu Square we found a copy of the Stone Head of Salaspils, an ancient carving that was dug up from a farmer’s field in 1851. It was brought to the museum at Riga Cathedral, then buried by superstitious parishioners in the churchyard until 2000. The original is now exhibited beside the church. All that’s known is that it was carved with an iron tool and is most probably a pagan idol in the style of The Old Prussian Hags of Northern Pomerania. Which, coincidentally, is my future band name.
We then drove outside Riga to the kids’ next pick on our itinerary: Tarzans Adventure Park. From their advertisements, I thought it was an all-in-one water park and amusement park. But we ended up at just one of several locations, this being the aerial adventure park. “Are you going to do it with us?” Tallie asked, looking doubtfully at my ancient decrepitude.
“Of course,” I replied. “I did this at Alex’s bachelorette party.”
“When was that?” Tibor asked raising an eyebrow.
“What would it be now, ten…fifteen years? I’m sure I’ll remember.” I looked around to see little kids swinging from trees. I could handle it.
After being strapped into our harnesses by Latvian teenagers on their summer jobs, Tibor and Tallie led me directly to the “red” course, saying the green and blue would be too easy. It was a bit challenging, but overall lots of fun.
Then we got to the “black” course and I almost died.
I used all of my strength to climb the first obstacle: a 20 foot-high rope net. It looked easy when Tibor scrambled up it like a monkey. But being almost twice his weight and possessing practically zero upper body strength, it took me a good 15 minutes to get to the top. I stopped a couple of times along the way and just hung there, clinging to the ropes like an inebriated barnacle, weighing whether I should swallow my pride and climb back down or try to be cool and keep going. (I wasn’t thinking clearly, of course, since inebriated barnacles are the opposite of cool.) I had bruises on my arms for days afterwards.
Once I was up, I lay there panting on the platform, pouring with sweat and trying to summon enough strength to stand. I felt a shadow cast over my face and opened an eye. It was a little German girl, leaning over me worriedly, then asking if I minded if she passed me.
As I progressed through the course, several obstacles were too hard for me. But I managed to find alternate ways of getting across them that, trust me, looked anything but dignified. I looked down once while doing the splits between two pieces of wood, and noticed an old lady taking a picture of me.
There were hunky underwear-model-looking guys working as “lifeguards,” strutting around and rescuing crying children from the hard bits. I almost got one of them to come save me from the last obstacle, but he instructed me to swing my legs up and catch the edge of the platform with my tennis shoes. I was then able to crab-pull myself over, scramble inelegantly onto my butt, and roll over onto the platform. It worked. But my kids didn’t look me in the eyes for another hour.
Let’s just say I took a long time to recover over ice cream, while the kids excitedly reviewed each of the obstacles and how awesome they had been. My arms were still shaking as I climbed behind the wheel and began driving in the direction of Lithuania. We had made it through two Baltic states. And if I could avoid any future gladiator-style fitness ordeals, I felt capable of making it through a third.
I always look forward to your stories and LOVE the band name!
The fairy tale church and school house somehow reminded me of Nabokov's account of his fairy tale childhood as a Russian prince. That Slavic world of Baba Yaga/blowing yourself up to avoid Ivan the Terrible. One of Nabokov's earliest memories was of sitting at the dining table on the second floor of their country house, and seeing his father rise up supine into view from the windows. The serfs had come to consult with the prince, he'd adjudicated the problem to their satisfaction, and they were throwing him into the air to show their appreciation.
Dang.