White-knuckler to Klaipedia

Ever since my automobile accident in graduate school I have had slightly-beneath-the-surface anxiety about riding in the front seat of fast-moving vehicles (unless, of course, I'm driving!). Certain things, like sudden braking or swerving or seeing a car crash in first-person perspective on television, can trigger a mild panic attack. It's weird what a tiny event - like a head-on collision with a UPS truck - can do to one's neuroprogramming.

As nice as Latvia had been, it was high time for me to sneak away come morning. Minsk was my next target, but I had no interest in going back to Riga AGAIN to catch the bus there. The plan: Take a bus into Lithuania, from Klaipedia to Vilnius (where I now type this report) and then onto Minsk. The minibus to Klaipedia from Liepaja, however, is not exactly built for comfort but at least it goes fast. Very fast.

Eleven of us needed to get to Klaipedia and there were only ten seats, so guess who got to ride up front next to Ivan the Terrible. Latvian drivers are notoriously bad and the country tops Europe in the number of accidents per year, one of those statistics I wish I could have selectively hit the delete button on before boarding. Flying down the highway at rocket speed, Ivan throttled the hellbus as if he was being paid by the number of g's he could hit. I do not know how it was possible but he passed a car that was passing another car - TWICE - on this two-lane highway.

On the outside I'm sure my face was quite expressionless but inside I was screaming like an Edvard Munch painting. As the Lithuanian countryside blew by my window in a forest-green blur, I could feel the blood clotting in my brain by the second, and I knew I would emerge from the minibus as white-haired as Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments. But now that the joyride is over, I recognize that edging ever close to death on four wheels in a foreign country was kind of fun.

Lithuania is an interesting country, at least from the window of the Nordeka bus, and I found myself passing through many historical cities I'd read about. Vilnius does feel a little bit dangerous, especially in the old town, but it is way cool that there is a statue of Frank Zappa here.








In two hours I leave on a bus for Minsk.

The Greatest Latvian Song of All Time

Most Americans are unaware of the stringent requirements we have for our visas for visitors from abroad. The paperwork is enormous and the visa itself peculiarly expensive. In response, many countries have in turn amped up their requirements -- out of spite -- and border guards seem to go out of their way to hassle Americans.

Julija, my Baltic princess and bureaucracy smasher, arranged my 30-day Belaruss visa starting July 16 - but my bus was due to cross into Belarus at 11:30 pm. Yes, that 30 minutes matters and the flatheaded border goons would have certainly flicked me off the bus and into some Latvian haystack. It only took one run-in with a massive group of testerone-charged laddies from England to tell me that I needed to get the hell out of Riga and get back to Liepaja.

Deciding that this 20-hour sunlight was wreaking havoc on the old circadian rhythm disorder, I opted to seek anesthetic in the form of Latvia's national drink, Balzams. Mixed with Blackberry juice, some lemon and a bit of vodka, it is exquisitely good. Liepaja has a giant club called Latvia's First Rock Cafe that is pretty cool and quite beautiful.

I soon befriended two lawyers from Riga, Toms and Patrics (all male names get an "s" tagged on the end for some reason). Toms was wearing a Detroit shirt but had no idea what it meant and I'm not sure he quite understood my explanation. Before long my American accent attracted more curious Latvians and at some point (my internal time gauge is now out of whack, especially in the haze of blackberry Balzams) we all end up downstairs at Pablo's, the danceteria downstairs. The music is entirely American and British and somewhat inappropriate for the glammy atmosphere. Latvian scenesters, dressed in some pretty outlandishly small outfits, dancing to "Achy Breaky Heart", followed soon thereafter by Metallica?! Then three seconds into what sounded like Latvian rap all the girls in the club ran to the center of the dancefloor, embraced in a circle, shook different body parts as the MC counted them down and, at the end, pulled up their tops and flashed all the men in the room.

Memo to myself: Find a copy of this song!!!

Alabaster Sands and Barely Visible Speedos

Although we think of Sweden in modern times as being an isolationist, icy, socialist-leaning country (and home of bad 70s disco), for several centuries it was the dominant power in the Baltics. That is, until the Great Northern War (1700-1721), when Denmark, Norway, Prussia, Poland and Russia all ganged up and kicked its ass, after which Russia became the dominant power in the region. And Sweden still cries itself to sleep after its nightly mead.

During this war, Liepaja, a major seaport for the Swedish empire, was decimated and its population was reduced by about half. Numerous touching and visceral statues speckled around town lovingly honor a time when the Swedes were not just blonde sissies. And none of the pictures I took are good enough to put up so too bad.

I spent a couple of hours on the pristine beaches of Liepaja on the Baltic Sea, making my skin a couple shades too dark for this part of the world, and the stinging of the ocean water on my open blisters was exquisite. The sights were simultaneously inspiring and horrific. I have come to the conclusion that, when Latvia was accepted to the European Union, there was such jubilation country-wide that fornication became rampant. That is the only explanation I can muster for the sheer number of baby carriages being shoved and maneuvered around town (although, honestly, I'm not sure there are actually babies in those carraiges. hmmm.)

Tomorrow I go back to Riga, pick up my visas from the goddess Julija and then don my battle armor as I head into Belarus by bus.

I am King, Liepaja be my Dominion

Sometimes I feel like Jerry Seinfeld in that episode where Kramer proclaims him to be "Even Steven", because everything pretty much works out for him, neither really gaining but not losing anything either. I've decided that that is me, but I think my lows are a little blacker and my peaks are a bit whiter, evening out to the nice greyscale you all recognize as Rod.

While filing my report this morning in the 90 degree Internets Kafejica, I found myself laughing out loud at some of the responses/emails I've been getting (thank you, and i mean that, no really). I guess my laughter was in English (don't ask me) because the Eastern Eurosecretariat sitting next to me needed something translated for her. Backstory: During the afternoon, internet cafes all across the FSU (former Soviet Union)are filled with women who try to use their beauty to electronikally hook Western gentleman into "sponsorship". It is interesting to watch them juggle ten to twelve men and they are not the least shy about it.

So after helping her out with some idiomatic phrases this dumbass Tennessean was using (like "down on the farm"), she asked me where I was staying. It was early in the morning still and I didn't really want to repeat my detention at the Hotel Brize (which turns out unshockingly to be directly opposite the historical Latvian equivalent of Guantanamo Bay), so I replied that I was probably staying across the street at Hotel Rive. She said "No, I have better place." Being an American and inherently knowing that such offers probably entail me dressing as Little Bo Peep at some point, I verbally hesitated. But she insisted and said "Nice apartment, 20 meters, 15 Lats. Come, I show you."

And it was, and is, literally 20 meters away, a couple of apartments above a DHL delivery/shoe store where she was the manager. She could see the skepticism on my face and said "You nice guy, nice smile, you help me, I help you." So she showed me this beautiful and enormous place, uncharted in any of the touristy documentation I've garnered, with two twiggy cleaning girls vacuuming and dusting, and it was/is magnificent! Air conditioning (hello!), showers that actually drain, a stove/fridge in case I find edible food, towels that actually wrap around, and so close to the internet cafe! Now, because of my above average teeth and propensity to smile like a dumbass when meeting new people, I shall live like royalty, ruling over Liepaja with a velvetty iron glove, for $15/night.

And, as I am now truly drunk with power, I plan to send my minions on a pillaging campaign on Droga's, the nearby drugstore. Anon! Thy king needeth Nutella and foot bandages!

Emaciation has Begun

When traveling through an unknown country, even the most commonplace social transactions can be burdensome if you aren't familiar with "the way"; in other words, how things are done in that culture, things we take for granted. In the US, going to a deli and taking a number could be a complicated transaction if one did not speak English or know "the way".

Take my trip to Liepaja, the self-proclaimed hippest city in Latvija, in which I type this report in an internet cafe where all the versions of Windows are inexplicably in French. I borded the bus from Riga with no incident and watched four hours of green greenery pass me by, evoking thoughts of road trips in northern Missouri or across Pennsylvania, although stamped here with unmistakable Soviet relics of industrialized farming. Some of my fellow teenage passengers have apparently not yet learned that annoying and obnoxious blasting popculture mobile ringtones are no longer cool, so any chance of this light sleeper catching any zZz's was out of the question.

Now, in most of my travels through the world, a bus takes you from point A to point B, sometimes stopping at points C or D in between -- but you will definitely get to point B if you wait long enough. This is not "the way" in Latvija. As we get closer to Liepaja (and mind you, I have no idea what this place looks like at all)... Are these scary places that people are getting off at "run down" or is that term even applicable in the wilds of Latvija? So, people are getting off at corner after corner, as if this thing has turned into a local bus all of a sudden. No one speaks English and I ask a tiny college-aged femme, pa-russkie, "Where is the bus station". The chilling answer was that there was none.

Okay, now the question is, where do you jump off? I had made a reservation at the Hotel Brize electronically (thank you god/superman/jesus/santa claus for inventing the internet) but, of course, I had no map in hand. I didn't even know how to tell the grumpy bus driver, throttling and braking simultaneously through the "city" of Liepaja, how to get off. So, I waited until someone else debussed and ran off with them.

First goal/ordeal, find a map so I can get my bearings. After a mini-safari, I get one and the street I need is nowhere to be found on it. Now, I don't want to get all jingoistic, but what is the deal with the Latvian language? It is only spoken in Latvia (and parts of Tobaga, a former Latvian colony -- bet you didn't know that!) and the closest language is Lithuanian, which is similarly linguistically secluded. And these two langauges are unlike anything else on earth and knowledge of Latin or German or Spanish or Swahili or French or Arabic or Japanese or whatever you've got in your toolbox is going to be useless here. And only about half the populace speak Russian, and when they don't, they get bitter at you for trying.

Second goal/ordeal, just find a cab and show him the address and he'll take me to the hotel. But in the meantime I'll just walk north cause I at least remember that the sun sets in the west and hopefully I'll see a cab on my way. Suffice to say that I walk four miles, with the stupid rolling bag bouncing up and down on cobbled streets before I get to a hotel in which I can even ask someone directions. At this time of the year, the Baltic States experience extremely long days, which messes with your mind because you're thinking its 7:30 pm and it's actually 10:30 pm (with the sun setting at about 11:30 pm).

I finally get to the hotel and it looks like a bombed out shelter from the outside, but sorta nice on the inside, but after five miles afoot, three blisters and likely five pounds of body weight, I collapse on the bed and fall asleep. Breakfast will have to be my dinner.

The Spaniard and the Grifter

When the three Baltic States declared and obtained indepedence from the Soviet Union, each had the task of producing its own coinage. As the European Union started to take hold, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania each had eyes on joining. The result is that their $2 coins look shocking similar, especially the 2 LAT and the 2 LIT, but they have very different valuations: 2 LATs = $3.50 and 2 LITa = $0.70.

Now, of course I bring this up because I, the guy who has been to Latvia before and ought to know better, got grifted yesterday. A Latvian fellow approached me all distraught and asked me if I could change a 10LAT bill for 5 2 LAT coins, cause he needed it for change for the parking meter. Being the good citizen I obliged and, as you can undoubtedly predict, he gave me 5 2 LITa coins back. As he walked away, I looked down at the coins and they didn't look quite right and then realized that they said Lita on them. Grifted out of $15 dollars or so!

I bring this up because I saw the same twentysomething dude, named Paolo, pulling the same routine on two German teenagers this morning. Being the good samaritan, I walked up and called him out. He was apologetic and claimed innocence, but I told him I didn't want my money back, that I was stupid in the first place and what I really wanted to know was how much money he made at it. He just smiled and, like a master chess player, told me about his strategy. He looked for people who were obviously not Latvian, primarily by their dress, whether they carried a backpack or manbag and if they were significantly overweight (something not seen here in the Baltic States - yet!) I asked him how he pegged me and he replied with a laugh, "Spaniard, you not from Latvia!" And he kept calling me "Spaniard", much to my amusement.

Of course I should have called the cops on him but, unlike Russia, there aren't constables everywhere -- and the one officer I have seen looked like she should be in Cosmopolitan instead of patrolling the streets of Riga. Besides, I'm not always clear on that whole right/wrong thingy especially when fun can be had.

I watched Paolo in action for about twenty minutes, targeting mark after mark, and everyone fell victim to his con. In this time he had made something like 100 LATs ($175), in a country where the average monthly salary is $200! He offered to treat me to a night on the town this evening, with "girls he will provide", but I know better than to trust a grifter and, besides, I must be on my way to Liepaja.

I asked him to at least not target teenagers because money is more scarce for them and he replied, "For you Spaniard, since you no turn me in, I will not do".

Yeah, right.

Nyet to Vilnius, Da to Liepaja

The last pagan state of Europe was Lithuania, who didn't convert to Christianity until well into the 14th century. At its height, the Lithuanian empire stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea (or to my fellow provincial Americans, one body of water to another body of water, kinda far away, both of which are on the side of the globe that no one cares about). Vilnius, its capital, is simultaneously beautiful and rugged, retaining somewhat of a wild west feel.

That said, I'm not going.

Julija, the red-haired tetralingual doyenne of quick visas, has waved her magic wand and will obtain my visas to Belarus and Russia in four days. That's longer than I wanted to be here in Latvia, but it's 24 days faster and $100 cheaper than if I had done it in the USA. For those of you who don't know, obtaining a visa to Russia is a royal pain in the ass, and getting it in one of the Baltic states is much easier. Since 9/11, visa requirements TO the United States have gotten more stringent, so places like Russia now make American citizens fill out long, ridiculous parallel documents, primarily out of spite.

So, it will cost me $200 for the two visas for pseudo-next-day service but, since they took my passport to do so, I'm stuck in Latvia for those days. I really love Riga but there are so many annoying Austrians and Germans here that I must take my leave, thank you. Tomorrow I will be headed to Liepaja, the third largest city in Latvia and home of more rock musicians per capita than any other city in Eastern Europe.

Bushwhacked by Morpheus

Those of you who know me know well know that I've had a sleeping problem for much of my life. Call it light sleeping, call it hyperactivity, call it snappage-in-slo-mo, but it is unusual for me to sleep more than five hours a night solo. After scoring a room in the Hotel Karavella on the outskirts of Riga (the longest 2 kilometers on the face of the earth), I laid down for a 2 hour nap and woke up 15 hours later, with MTV Russia blaring on the 9" sepiatone TV set. I knew that I did not pack very well this time, but who woulda thought I would have forgotten my drool bucket? The less said about how I looked pre-shower the better.

I waited around a couple of hours for the free breakfast at 7:30 am, ate some of the best watermelon I've ever had (and I've had some award-winning melon right out of my grandpappy's farm in Missouri) and slowly stirred my lifesaving Metrix extreme chocolate protein powder into my chilled water. This mix came from the very pouch that exploded in my bag, giving all my clothes a chalky, chocolatey residue. Good times. "What's that cologne you're wearing?" "Met-RX, made in the good ole U.S.A."

Trying to shake off my extremely disturbing dream about how one of my pchem students discovered the truth about my (accidental) killing of a middle school classmate, I ventured out to get my visa to Russia. Hopefully I'll have it in my shaky, vitamin-deprived hands by the end of the day tomorrow. Then its either to Lithuania or Belarus, all depending on what Julija, the latvian goddess of visas, can do for me.

Lovely Riga

During my research for last year's stumble through Eastern Europe, I came across an interesting website called www.sleepinginairports.com. Of course, that's something that I thought only smelly Dutch hippies would do, but I'm here to tell you that (a) I did that last night in Riga International and (b) it wasn't that bad, save for the metal bar jutting in my back half the night. That was fixed by my handy pocket-size Vocab Dictionary.

My flight got into RIX from Frankfurt (which I almost missed despite the 12 hour layover!) at 01:00 am, giving me a ready-to-depart time, after customs and baggage recoup, of about 02:00 am. Now, mind you, my phone doesn't work over here yet, not until I replace the SIM card with a Latvian one, and I certainly did not want to hoof it through the cobblestone roads of old Riga with my dumb little roller bag while the youth of Riga where wilding. Besides, I have always thought that hotels are just about the crappiest value for the dollar going as I generally spend very little time in them.

So, after almost exactly one year, I'm back in Riga, the unofficial capital of the Baltic states. I spent nearly a week here last year so I'm not exactly here for discovery purposes. Just get my visas to Belarus and Russia done and then I'm outty. I do find this to be a great city, quite comfortable for me this year since I know where everything is, although the prices have gone up considerably. I will hold off on my diatribe against the European Union and the spoilers from Great Britain for another time.

It is Sunday, I have no place to stay yet as everything appears booked up by the pillaging Britons, but I don't care because I can always pay the 20 cents to get back to the airport to sleep! If it all works, I may be heading to the coastal town of Jurmala or possibly Liepaja while the visa paperwork goes through.