Free Write: When In Riga...

Warning: The following blog is saturated with ethnic stereotypes concerning the Baltic state of Latvia; some are true, some are true most of the time, and some are about Russians, which are both true and false and drunk.
Viewer discretion is advised.

The first Latvian person I ever saw was on the flight from Stockholm to Riga. He was hunched over asleep, his hat askew, and was seemingly incoherent of anything going on around him at the time. He was also the pilot.

Latvians don't belong in cities like Riga. They belong far out in the country with their quaint little summer homes and quainter little gardens, digging up potatoes, gathering lingonberries in the forest, and jumping over fires during the pagan Summer solstice festivities, wearing oak leaf crowns, drinking beer and singing songs about drinking beer. That is their natural habitat, their zen place. Unfortunately, the neighbors of the Baltics decided that no one should leave such a docile and happy life, so they invaded. Sweden, Germany, Russia; they all wanted a piece, or sometimes the whole pie. Hence, we have Riga; a city split in two by the lumbering Daugava river. If a grand Europeanesque vacation with days of site seeing, picture taking and cultral exchange is what you had in mind, spend it somewhere else. But if, off the beaten path, is your personal eccentric cup of tea, then maybe there will be something of interest for you here.

A stroll down the cobblestone streets of old town and already you've identified five diverse subgroups. First and foremost are the loud and obnoxious Americans coming back from their group dinner at TGI Friday's, where a waiter will be more than happy to offer you water "with gas, or without gas" in his best english. The Germans are close by gawking up at one of the many church spires, trying to decipher the oversized map of the historical sites to see, systematically marking them off one by one. The tourists of the Oriental variety are draped in amber trinkets and taking pictures of one another by the most obscure and insignificant "memorial" sites, which can sometimes be as dynamic as a street clock or a local colony of hoody cladding adolescent goths (usually over by TGI Friday's under the Liepa trees). And then of course, there are the natives to consider. The Latvian business man with his square toe ankle high boots and striped pants, anxiously making his way through other pedestrians on his way to some very important occasion and the fragile old Russian woman, viscously guarding her carts of knick knacks and paddy wacks and amber trinkets. This is Old Town, and it's what mostly everyone comes to see.

However, if you will bypass all of that rubbish, and beeline straight to the train station, you will find the beating heart of the city - the Tirgus.

This open-air market is home to some of the most prized junk in all the world. The little man under the bridge has his "rolecks" watches, the gypsy woman has her CCCP memorabilia, and then every Vova, Nicoli, and Katya have their rows and rows of leather jackets, soccer jerseys, pirated DVDs, fur hats, orthodox candles, and a million other items that seem to be in every cubicle on every acre of available space. No outsider (foreigner) goes into the Tirgus and actually finds what they were looking for and when they actually DO find something of interest and value it's nowhere to be found the next day when you come back to pick it up. The only thing that stands in the way of it being officially declared a certifiable labyrinth is a christening ritual performed by David Bowie (What babe? The babe with the power). That's why a successful purchase at the market has such a satisfying appeal, because it's basically like an Easter egg hunt, except in this story the easter egg rips or breaks in two weeks and you have to either go back and find a new one or just decide that you don't like eggs anymore and would prefer to go without. And thus we see, that by small and simple means do great and pointless tales come to pass.