need more craft, fewer artifacts

Visiting DC started out as wanting to visit the Smithsonian, so without further ado I hoofed it down to the Mall to start my excursions. First stop:

Renwick Gallery. Home of American Art and, more of interest to me, Craft. It's gotta be in one of the smallest Smithsonian buildings, a house from 1861 that was DC's first art museum. The downstairs was devoted to an special exhibition of the architecture and decorative arts of Henry and Charles Greene, which is quite good - lots of furniture, right up my alley. Bits of the permanent collection are displayed upstairs, and the best in show is i am no one by Beth Cavener Stichter. holy moly. It's unsettling to look at, yet I couldn't stop. It's not Craft, at least not in the manner that I think of as Craft, but I've been mulling over whether or not it's Sculpture. I suppose technically it is, but it's not the first term that comes to mind when I look at it. I'm content to think of it as Art. Whatever it is, it's riveting. Tucked into one corner of the room, it made everything else in that space not matter. I took a bunch of photos, but will be violating some copyright law if I post them, so you'll need to go look at her website. The pictures there are better, anyway.

Museum of the American Indian = information overload number one. Stymied perhaps by my admittedly limited-to-high-school education of the Native American, I had some trouble grounding myself anywhere in the exhibit. Objects from 10,000 years of Native heritage in both North and South America, from all tribal affiliations, with descriptive and historical literature splashed everywhere, and multiple television screens broadcasting interviews and videos, over speakers gently pumping out Native recordings left me lost. And the layout of the exhibits follow curving walls that separate different points of interest, but also make it sort of hard to navigate with any sense of order. Maybe you're not supposed to. I think I spent almost three hours in there, which was a bit too long, although some of that was at lunch. It's actually sort of hard to find food on the Mall, unless you want a hot dog from a cart. All the buildings are hulking, federal institutions, and anything not one of those is at least one block away. I think this is actually a good thing, because the architectural presentation of these freaking huge buildings isn't interrupted by some food joint. Instead, lots of the museums have cafes, and the one here is the best, featuring foods from different Indian cultures. It's typically overpriced, but worth at least one meal. I might even go back for another some day. You grab a tray, browse what the various sections have to offer, and pick up what you want, cafeteria style. I got fry-bread with berry compote and a rather delicious veggie tamale. Sturdy vittles. Fortified, I went back to the exhibits, by which point things were making a little more sense, or else by then I had stopped caring about my fragmented viewing experience.

One of the current temporary exhibitions is Comic Art Indigène, which explores storytelling through comics and comic-inspired art, mostly focusing on contemporary art, but there are a few examples of ancient rock and ceramic art. I liked the women superheroes by skater chick Jolene Nenibah Yazzie, because women superheroes are always badass, and also because Jolene received early inspiration from Wonder Woman's long luxurious black hair. But, there are at least two glaring oversights in this exhibition; first, not a scribble from the Hernandez Brothers. How could an exhibit on comics + Native Americans not include Palomar? Second, an issue of The New Mutants is in the Stereotype Cavalcade (reflecting both good and bad stereotypes). I'm not sure if the curator thought Psyche/Dani Moonstar is a good or a bad stereotype, but what they really should have included is Bill Sienkiewicz's cover art for the Demon Bear run, because, damn, that's one amazing cover.

Other than the comics, the random object of interest was a pair of bull-roarers, and only because I made a bunch of these for a sound designer a couple of months ago. Before then they wouldn't have turned my head, because I didn't know what a bull-roarer was.

Museum of Air and Space = information overload number two. I sorta only went there because it was (a) right across the street from the Museum of the American Indian and (b) open late (seeing as it was past 5pm). I think I would have gotten more of a kick out of this if I had visited when I was twelve. Rockets, planes, capsules, astronaut fecal matter bags, missiles, stewardess uniforms, lumps of lunar rock, you name it, anything that can fly, anything that has flown in a manmade contraption, and anything related to flying is probably there in one form or another. Eyes glazed over by all the shiny surfaces, I found the more vintage displays more to my taste. In WWII, airmen were distinguished by their soft caps, which had to be that way to allow headsets to fit around their heads. Hats repeatedly jammed into bags and pockets would crumple them at an accelerated rate, allowing the wearer to appear more veteran than they perhaps really were. I'm not sure if this was to impressive senior officers or dames. I'm guessing dames. Those dashing white parachute silk scarves didn't do anything to hurt the cause, either. Plus they kept necks warm and prevented chafing otherwise caused by the constant swiveling of the head to scan for enemy fighters. Who woulda thunk that something so simple would be so multipurpose? I'm pretty sure those high tech fecal matter bags had only one purpose.

sometimes you just want a popsicle

First two days in DC were spent wandering around and burning off extra fat I've acquired from long hours of (paid) sloth behind a computer. Plus after spending a day on a plane, I wanted some fresh air. I'm staying in the U Street Corridor, and seeing as how I'm a big believer in seeing things other than the main tourist attractions, walked down 16th Street until I ran into the White House. It's a white house with a fence and nice green lawn - and lots of not-so-Secret Service hanging around outside in Secret Service Vans and wearing Secret Service wind-breakers (it was raining). There were a handful of lackluster protesters for various causes across the street, but overall there wasn't a whole lot going on, so I skirted around it and made the mistake of walking around to the front, which has a really narrow sidewalk in front, or maybe it just seems really narrow when full of tourists. After jamming my way through I made a beeline for the Tidal Basin, but the cherry blossom bomb had mostly fizzled by then. The rain was keeping the hordes away, but it and the wind had blown down most of the blossoms. A few were still hanging on, and the ground was an expanse of pink polka dots.

Moving back in time, I stopped at the memorial monuments to FDR, Jefferson, and Washington, by which time it had cleared up. I hung out for a rest at the base of the Washington monument, watching the illusion of the tower swaying against the sky. I couldn't look for too long. I don't like heights, and that goes both ways. Looking up at tall buildings makes my insides do funny things. Kind of like bits of me go off balance to compensate for the vertigo, but they all do it in different ways.
Heading down the Mall to the Capitol Building, I stopped at the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden. I'm not a huge fan of sculpture, especially modern, abstract sculpture - I just don't get it. If someone wants to explain it to me, I'll listen and try to understand. It's not so much that I don't like it - I just don't understand what makes it valuable as a piece of art, and I can't appreciate it as a connoisseur or art history major would. But I can appreciate publicly displayed art, no matter what the form, so the garden as a whole I found quite nice. I suppose the one cheesy sculpture, if you want to call it that, is Yoko Ono's Wishing Tree. Which is a live, very branchy little bush with scraps of paper skewered on the branches, upon which people have scrawled wishes. I read a few that were still hanging on, the others having blown off and littered the garden (it's okay, it's Art). Lots were sappy wishes for world peace, healthy children, prosperity, and happy, dull relationships, so I was pleased to find one utterly selfish wish, no doubt posted by some cranky kid.

Took a break on the steps of the Capitol, walked to the back (or the front? there's a statue representing freedom on top of the dome, and her back is to the Mall), circled around the Supreme Court and Library of Congress, by which point it was dark and most of the tourists had presumably staggered back to their hotels, exhausted by an excess of American history and bickering with one another (I like eavesdropping on the bickering). I rambled back home along Pennsylvania Avenue and up 13th or 14th, catching part of a fireworks show over the Potomac while standing on 7th Street. No idea what the occasion was, and I could only see the ones that shot over a building which was in the way, but it was still a good show. Stopped at a Whole Foods to pick up a dinner of crusty bread, nice cheese, an assortment of olives, and red grapes. I could happily eat some variation of that for dinner every day of the week. Vacation from work is also a vacation from cooking; I like to cook, but rarely want to spend the time it takes to make a meal. I prefer food to appear in front of me, ready to eat. And if that doesn't happen, something simple and delicious is the next best thing. By the time I got home it was after ten. I thought about doing some reading to plan the next day, but after eating, all I did was fall asleep.

Which meant Easter Sunday wasn't too well thought out. Sort of still on California time, I dragged myself out of bed past nine in the morning. Two steps out the bedroom and Gatsby flies over to my shoulder. I didn't really realize until now that birds make a lot of noise when flying. Gatsby approaching is heralded by a fluteyflutteringwhirry noise, and then you don't really feel him land because, well, he's as light as a little bird. It's more like you sense his presence. My host Antonia make me coffee - it's that appearing food thing I like so much!

I walked to the beaux arts Union Station down Massachusetts Avenue. DC is a very airy town. Lots of the buildings are low, the streets are quite wide, and the sidewalks are really roomy. And maybe because it was Sunday, and Easter to boot, there was almost no one around. For some reason I rather enjoy deserted neighborhoods full of imposing structures. After kicking up my heels in Union Station, I headed to the Eastern Market for a drastic change in scenery - large, institutional structures and ugly modern condos replaced by rowhouses. The neighborhood was equally attractive for exactly the opposite reasons. The Eastern Market was a bust - the Market itself burned a couple of years ago, and the temporary location was closed, maybe because it was Easter, and I wasn't interested in any of the other vendors, except the crepe cart, which was doing brisk business. The pretzel guy next at the stand next door must be seething in bitterness and large salt crystals all day. After a cursory wander about the neighborhood, I hopped the Metro to Smithsonian, and walked down the Reflecting Pool to the Lincoln Memorial. I didn't realize that a tribute concert to Marian Anderson's 1939 Lincoln Memorial concert was happening, and showed up just as Denyce Graves took the podium to belt out a few tunes. Talk about serendipitous timing. There was also a guy walking a ginger tabby on a leash, but my timing there wasn't so good - I missed the picture because I was fumbling with my camera.

After listening to Denyce, I toured the four war memorials in proximity to Lincoln - the Vietnam War Memorial, Women's Vietnam War Memorial, Korean War Memorial, and DC WWI Memorial. So, I don't know anyone who died in a war, either personally or via any degree of separation, and I hardly know anyone who has served in the armed forces. I don't have any personal connection to these events and monuments. I can only appreciate them as memorial to the event itself, and as a commentary on war in general. I didn't like the Korean War Memorial at all. I found it garish and ugly. War is garish and ugly, but I don't think that was the point. Maybe I'm just spoiled by all those Berninis and Michelangelos I saw in Italy, but I thought the sculptures were amateurish, and the whole thing just far too literal. Same goes for the Vietnam Women's Memorial, but on this day it was set off by the presence of several lilies bearing Happy Easter wishes to several women from one Doc Spresser. The Vietnam Memorial, on the other hand, while literal in quite another sense of the word, I liked. It's simple and elegant, quietly making a poignant statement, and is a lot smaller than I for some reason thought it would be. The DC WWI Memorial is a Doric temple buried in the trees, and almost no one goes there. Dedicated in 1931, the inscription refers only to The World War, since only one had happened by that point.

Today - it's time to hit the Smithsonian.

cheese skipper goes to washington

Ahoy! I have emerged from my subterranean, temperature regulated cheese cave for a jaunt to our nation's capitol. Cherry blossoms, chili, and Obama!

It was an oddly symmetrical journey from one end to another. Walk to BART, ride BART, catch AirBART to airport, takeoff, land (Salt Lake City), takeoff, land (Chicago Midway), takeoff, land (Washington), catch Metro bus to Metro, ride Metro, walk to lodging. BART and the Metro even function identically. I almost lost my luggage in Salt Lake City. I didn't get too much sleep the night before, so I settled into the very back row of the airplane for a snooze. This also gave me a front-row seat to luggage hold comings and goings, where I saw my trusty rucksack going when it shouldn't be. What the? I gotta hand it to the Southwest flight attendants who scrambled to get it back, and seemed more upset than me about the whole issue. I got to walk out of the back galley door of the aircraft onto the lift of the food services truck to yell at the luggage handlers on where to find my bag - "Under the flowery suitcase!" Awesome. Two hours into vacation and I'm already having fun!

The leg from Chicago to DC was packed with a womens soccer team, all of them wearing identical Puma tracksuits and toting Puma gym bags. It's either in their contract to advertise, or maybe that's just how they find each other, like tiger cubs recognizing mom's stripes and ear patches. When I think if Pumas, I think of those 80s sneakers with zippy pockets on the side. I guess it sounded like a good idea at the time.

Arriving in DC very much in a state where I shouldn't operate heavy machinery, my host took me out to the local institution of Ben's Chili Bowl for dinner. We sat at the counter eating veggie chili, chocolate shakes, and a bushel of fries drowned in cheese sauce, and watching the patrons come and go.


More on where I'm staying later, but there's a resident budgie here. Gatsby flies around landing on shoulders and heads, likes to take baths in water glasses, and grooms humans.

this skipper has sailed

What kind of numbskull would bother living in a city that has barely any public transportation running after midnight? And what's that smell? The local drivers are keen to demonstrate their profound lack of driving skills, and alarming impatience. People are loud and garrulous, but maybe I'm just noticing because I can understand them. On the other hand, 24-hour diners serve breakfast at 2:00 in the morning, keeping alive the holy tradition of the bottomless cup of coffee. Self-service laundromats are cheap. This bed is pretty comfy. Seems sorta familiar...hey, wait a sec, I'm home!


Twenty-four hours of transit on a bus, the Underground, two airplanes, and a Kia Rio got me from London to Oakland. I had to leave early, and London was still strewn with festal detritus.


With spare time at Heathrow, and a few extra pence in my pocket, I seized one more opportunity for cheese (two, actually. I also bought an aged cheddar sandwich). Okay, it's a packet of snack crackers, but given the deep love of Britons for packaged nibbles, is fairly appropriate to the place.

For the last few nights I've dreamt I was still traveling. I don't know where, I just felt like I was Somewhere Else. I tend to fall asleep with the lights on; a result of whatever personality trait I have that makes me try to do more than I'm really capable of accomplishing in one day. I must have been staring at things in my apartment while still technically asleep, and even though they are all familiar objects, they morphed into something foreign and I didn't know where I was. When I woke up it took a few minutes to realize I was home. There's some nice things about being home. I no longer need to have a wad of toilet tissue in my pocket at all times. I have drawers full of clean underwear and socks. I can use a nice fluffy towel instead of the lightweight rectangle of chamois-felt that I've been carrying around, and can run out the hot water without feeling guilty. I no longer need to rotate between my two pairs of trousers. I can buy groceries without limiting myself to only items that I can eat in two days. And I can spread my things around without worrying that I'll leave something behind or that someone will swipe anything. But these are all small things, minor conveniences. I'd still rather be wearing the same shirt for three days, not understanding what the person in the grocery store is saying to me, and being in new and different places every few days.

A rug salesman in Turkey – the one who didn't try to sell me anything – taught me a nice word over tea: inşallah. Literally translated, it means if god wishes, but it's not necessarily weighted with any religious sentiment. It really expresses the sentiment of I hope. Potentially sappy, but it's poetic enough to avoid any saccharine wallowing. I hope I get another opportunity to go out and see the world. There's a whole lot out there that I didn't get around to visiting.

Thanks for reading this blog. It's been fun, but challenging, challenging, but fun. I may try it again the next time, but for now, I'm going to go read a book in the bathtub.

Toodles!

the sparkling sky

Flying from Tallinn to London's Stansted Airport takes about two and half hours, which is coincidentally also the amount of time it takes to then cross London to Dulwich. Buying my bus tickets I did my best to avoid thinking about the exchange rate between the dollar and the pound. It borders on highway robbery and makes my stomach feel a little squiggy. Fortunately the only thing I had to purchase during my two days in town was transportation to and from the airports. The bus ride from the airport to Victoria turned into a mini drive-by of tourist central; the sun had long set, and I was idly staring out the window when we went around a corner and there was the Tower and Tower Bridge, all lit up and looking splendid. We continued right past Parliament, and swarms of tourists pointing cameras in every direction. I stopped taking pictures about a month ago. Most of what I've shot recently has been based on its blog potential.

London is a fine town, as some old anonymous ballad goes, a great and gallant city. I like how cities have their histories hiding in plain sight. It's all there to see, but a lot of the time you either have to already know what to look for, or have a good guide. Friends gave me a rather cool tour of the East End, which is sadly losing its seedy charm as the rich move in and spiffify the streets. We had a drink at the The Ten Bells Pub, where Jack the Ripper's victims boozed away their free time and tuppence, probably trying to forget their dreary lives before meeting their bloody, organ-strewn ends. Remarkably, the only indication of its historical reputation is three pages from a Victorian broadsheet with cartoons of the events on the wall of the stairwell leading to the toilet. I didn't take the time to read through them all, since the overpowering miasma in the stairwell gave every nasal indication that it had also been there since 1888. Other than original Victorian wall tiles, and tarty bottled Victorian Lemonade, the joint doesn't have a whole lot to recommend itself. We had a much better time hanging in another pub that I'm not going to name to keep it a secret. Perfectly unassuming, it looked exactly like a living room with chamber pots hanging high on the walls, and a piano and an accordion lurking in the corner waiting for anyone with a modicum of talent and knowledge of pub tunes to come along and bring them to life. The dame behind the bar refused to serve us drinks until we each blew up a balloon to contribute to their New Year's festivities. They even had a bagpiper, complete in Scottish regalia, and I was really hoping for a tune, but it was too early for proper piping, he was purely pootling around with them.

We stood on Fournier Street and wondered which house belongs to Gilbert and George, and not long after that, a few blocks away, espied them walking down the street behind us. I was slightly tempted to tail them home, but really wasn't that interested. Nicholas Hawksmoor's Christ Church was looming a mere half-block from where we were standing, vying for, and winning, my attention. I've developed a new interest in reading history as a result of traveling, and two hours in the East End only reaffirmed this desire, especially as it concerns the esoteric and bizarre.

Just past midnight, we were all standing atop a hill with glasses of bubbly, watching the sky sparkle around a 180° panorama of the greater London skyline. We were miles from the Embankment fireworks inferno, but could see them low on the horizon, and even the Millennium Wheel when it lit up. What with all the official borough displays and backyard arsonists contributions, it was like standing in the trenches, explosions and rockets whistling through the air, except without the death and destruction. On that night, it was just colorful and celebratory.

It was a good way to end 2007.

holiday cheese! and some herring, too.

It was December 24th, and I wanted to get to Tallinn early, so I caught the early bus from Rīga. I had to wake up the hostel night shift girl to get my ID deposit back. The reception of the Rīga hostel is a bar, and whoever is on the night shift sleeps curled up in the windowseat, like a cat. I noticed they were all sort of petite. The Eurolines bus was the plush model. If it weren't for the layer of dirt blanketing the entire bus, it might have just rolled off the assembly line. And the kicker – one of those instant coffee machines where you press a button get a cappuccino. I was asleep most of the way, but woke up in time to get a scalding hot bevvy.

Not really knowing how Christmas is celebrated in the Baltics, I was minorly worried about all the food shops being closed. So before leaving Rīga I bought some potatoes, onions, and garlic. Not the most tantilizing meal, but all easy to transport in the backpack. Turns out there was no reason to worry. Some businesses were closed, but the majority of shops, restaurants, and cafés of all sorts were open thoughout town, even though I was told by a couple of people that Estonians celebrate Christmas on the 24th. Had I not been told, I wouldn't have known, since the atmosphere was neither overtly religious nor commerical. There was a winter market in the main square selling knitted goods, and lights were strung up throughout town, but overall the mood was modest. From what I could tell, most of the business was being generated by tourists. Food was omnipresent, but I still picked up a few supplies from the supermarket before conducting my requisite tour of the Old Town. Tallinn's Old Town gets it as right as can be done in the modern day. It's full of souvenir shops, as usual, but eschews the razzle-dazzle of neon and flashy lights in favor of more tasteful and appropriate signage. Most of the souvenirs here are of the crafty variety, textiles above all. There are stretches of street that are devoid of anything modern within eyesight. At night you can almost imagine walking down a medieval street a few centuries ago, except for the lack of filth in the gutters and horrible smells beseiging the olfactory senses. Today it's too clean to be truly authentic, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

December 26 was the day that things seem to shut down, although there was still plenty open. Having been through most of old town numerous times, I started wandering around the surrounding neighborhoods. There's a market by the train station where you can buy cheap and second hand clothing, old cameras, light switches, and any size box-end wrench your heart desires. I think most of the vendors and shoppers are Russians, but could be wrong. I bought a tin toy train, and got a smile when I thanked the seller in Russian instead of Estonian. Or maybe she was smiling because she got a bunch of kroon out of me. On my way back to old town I found a city wall entrance I had missed before, and right next to it was a boarded up shack. Two of the most wretched looking cats I've ever seen popped out of a hole in the door. One had ruined eyes, and the other had sad eyes, and they were both looking at me with a quiet look that said, "if you have food, we'll eat it." They didn't look desperate; they looked resigned that their efforts would come to nothing, but they were going to try anyway. I felt so bad for them; they were filthy, messed up, miserable, and it was a cold, cold day, cold enough to cause a heavy snow flurry later that night. I wanted to give them baths and take them to the vet. Instead I went to the corner shop and bought packet of herring and a packet of KitEKat cat food, went back to the gate, and dumped the herring in front of the door. Before I even had it open they had reappeared and were rubbing against my ankles. They weren't gobbling down the fish, so I took it as a good sign that they weren't totally starving. I saved the cat food to give them the next day.

I spend another afternoon walking along Tallinn Bay, stopping to watch a mother and toddler feed the seafaring swans. It was kind of cute, and they were having fun; mom would give the kid a piece of bread, and they would hold it out together for the swans to take. There were a whole lot of swans milling around, but they were feeding a smaller flock, maybe six or so, who were behaving themselves. Another mother and toddler arrived with a bag of bread, which piqued the interest of a larger flock of swans, who waddled up from the beach, en feathery white masse, and converged on the newcomers. There were at least thirteen of them (I counted), and while not aggressive, they were making a slow but persistent advance towards the free food, those big, black, webbed, slightly turned-in feet flapping against the pavement. Mom and toddler #2 were steadily backing up and mom was tossing out bread chunks in an attempt to slow the tide, with only limited success. In the face of a flock of hungry fowl, kid #2 at first wasn't perturbed, but eventually started getting a little agitated. And who wouldn't in that situation. I don't know how old he (or she) was, but feet on the ground, he was shorter than the birds. One swift strike is all it would take to pluck out an eyeball. Stategically retreating to the parked stroller, mom tossed out the remainder of the bread and made a hasty escape. The episode was simultaneously slightly ominous and very goofy. I was laughing, and the moms were laughing. The swans even came up to me, even though I had no offerings, and gave me The Eye. I guess it's because of the way their eyes are situated on the sides of their heads, but if they want to really inspect something, they turn their heads a bit and train one bright eye on their target.

I wen to the St. Nicholas Church and Museum to see the approximately ten meter long fragment of Berndt Notke's Danse Macabre. There was also an exhibition of church bells that I initially only took a minor interest in, since it was included in the price of the ticket, but ended up learning some interesting facts about them. For instance, they are said to be able to repel lightning, and some have been inscribed with the words, "I break up the lightning." Manifesting these properties required that the bell be rung at the approach of lighting, and bell-ringers were offered hazard pay to do this. I like that some inscriptions were first person proclamations, because it lends credence to the belief that the bells had souls. Another good one is "I ring properly," referring to chiming the time correctly, although probably also to good voice. Bells were frequently taken as the spoils of war in accordance with the "right of bells," to be recast as artillery. People saved them by burying them underground, sinking them into water or bogs, and keeping their mouths shut while their fingers were chopped off in an attempt to get them to reveal the hiding place. Yick. Unfortunately, the guy who managed to do this also had his throat cut, keeping his secret to the last. Final cool fact – the bell in the belfry of St. Olaf's is so heavy at seven tons that when they rang it, the spire began to sway. It said that it took twelve men to set the clapper in motion, but didn't say how many were needed to stop it once the spire got going.

I ended up being in Tallinn two days longer than I originally planned. I think it's the furthest north I've ever been. I don't mind it when the sun sets early, and I actually really like it when I'm at home. Someday I want to go up north into 24 hour night and stay there for a couple of weeks, just to experience a complete absence of sunlight. I keep writing about the short days because it's a big determining factor in how I spend my time. On the bus ride up, I woke up from a doze, looked out the window, and looked at my watch. If my foggy brain is remembering it correctly, it was between 0800 and 0900 and still pitch black. There was a little bit of blue heaven one day, but for the most part, the sky has been shades of opaque white and grey for the last two weeks. I think the last time I saw the sun was in Poland. Tallinn is pretty small, and even after non-old town perambulations, and dawdling visits to museums, used bookshops, and craft galleries, I had a lot of time left over. I kind of wanted to see The Golden Compass, but evening shows were even more expensive than in the States. I could have gone to a matinée for half-price, but decided sitting in cafés sounded better. Tallinn is full of places to eat, and since I couldn't be bothered to cook for myself, I decided to take a crack at restaurant reviewing.

Kehrwieder Café. Voted Tallinn's top café. Top for cracking your head on the extremely low vaulted ceiling and the tentacly lights sprouting out of it. Also top for waiting 20 minutes in line, watching the counter staff try to find a wine glass to match the one he's already poured, while feeling slightly paranoid about your laptop that you left sitting on a table in the other room, but not wanting to give up your place to go check on it because then you'd be back at the beginning, or rather the end. But other than that, a good selection of pastries, and a chocolate truffle served with each cup of coffee (they have a chocolate shop across the alley). The dark, candlelit interior with heavy wood tables and an assortment of wooden and upholstered chairs is easier to enjoy once you're sitting down, and no longer in danger of concussion. Despite the minor complaints I had about this place, I went back multiple times.

Café Chocolaterie. I stopped in here on Christmas morning because I was hungry. I ordered a hot chocolate, which wasn't what I expected from a chocolate café, but scored high anyway for preparation and presentation. Melted chocolate was run over the inside of a glass, and steamed milk was mixed in with a cinnamon stick. And they have an assortment of pastries. I couldn't decide between sweet or savory, so just got one of each, and enjoyed everything squished into an armchair with a window view into the courtyard. I think every inch of the interior is covered in one kind of fabric or another. Hope none of the candles tip over.

Kuldse Notsu Kõrts (The Golden Piglet). Dishing up Estonian country cuisine. I don't know if the word "piglet" in the name refers to what's available on the menu or a jab at the patrons. If you don't look like one going in, you'll feel like one waddling out. I ended up going here for Christmas dinner. Christmas in my family is all about excessive eating, so I had ancestral duty to accomplish. The interior is a little too bright, and probably 95% of the clientele are tourists, but the menu caught my eye the day before, especially the starter of Võro cheese (I think Võro is a region in southeastern Estonia). The cheese was quite mild, served with herbed toast and a ramekin of berry jam. The main was lemon-crusted chicken with mushroom sauce, potatoes, salad, a bread roll, and an enormous pat of butter. I willed my stomach to expand, and managed to get it all down, except for about a quarter of the bread roll. It was really just empty calories. I felt slightly uncomfortable afterwards, so mission accomplished. Then I had to take a walk.


St. Michael Cheese Restaurant. I would have never forgiven myself had I passed up the opportunity. What the interior designer had in mind for the theme leaves me befuddled. The medieval monastery concept is clear, with the cassocked waiters gliding past the suit of armor, boar's head, and battle axe wall decoration, but I don't know where the jazz fusion covers of pop hits and Crate & Barrel table settings fit in. Utensils come in linen bags tied at the mouth. The leather-bound menu had a little loop and peg closure that took me a few seconds to figure out. It's all accomplished as convincingly as props for the school play in a performing arts school. Even though the wonky furnishings didn't blend well, the food was delicious. I had a vegetable cream soup with a cheese cappuccino, kind of a frothy cheese sitting on the surface. Unexpectedly, it arrived with a bonus mini spinach pasty. Following that was were spinach-cottage cheese raviolis wallowing in a puddle of sitranelle cheese sauce. My stomach flooded with cheese, I was unable to order dessert (cheesecake, of course).

Tristan ja Isolde Café. Only slightly larger than a medieval prison cell, but I got a seat anyway, next to an electrical outlet, so I stayed there for 2.5 hours writing. Counter staff have a solid grasp on the concept of service, much better than the ones across the square at Kehrwieder. Am I sounding like a snotty American? I think so. I don't mean to, it was just painful watching the staff at Kehrwieder prepare each item of each order from scratch. On the one hand, it's excellent individual service. On the other hand, it's done at the expense of everyone else in line. Maybe they can find a happy medium, or at least pre-fold the paper napkins and have more than one pitcher to steam milk. There was at least one girl who was able to crank through orders, so it wasn't all bad. I usually try to not apply the American standard of service to anything else than American service, but comparisons are hard to avoid. At T & I, I got a cheese pastry because I was a little peckish, and it wasn't anything special, but the cappuccino was gooooood. The best I had in town.

Elevant. Mango lassi + veggie pakora + potato/spinach curry with rice, salad, and bread = too much food! I couldn't finish the curry. I should have gotten something with chickpeas, since I had been encoutering potato in numerous other incarnations as of late, but by the time I realized that, it was already in front of me. The very white waitresses wear slinky Indian dresses.

Café Mathilde. There were three old ladies in fur hats at the next table nursing glasses of mulled wine. I don't get mulled wine. If whoever created it wanted to take something gross and make it even more disgusting, they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. I had a refreshing slice of fruit tart, but the setting was a bit too garden club for me. The old ladies fit in perfectly. Worth a stop if you're absolutely sure you can't make it up the hill to upper old town without a snack.

EAT. Sparse and bright, cheap and scrumptious. A variety of fried dumplings, savory and sweet, and also donuts are in big tureens. You help yourself to as much as you want of whatever flavor, cover them with whatever dressing you like, available in plastic squeezy bottles, and pay by how much your bowl weighs. Try to time your visit to avoid the pre-teen girl gang dance dance revolutioning it at the playstation in the corner. They were entertaining for a while, and then suddenly they weren't.
This blog entry is a little unusual because I'm managing to post it before leaving town. It's slightly weird being here. Ever since the beginning it's always been the last continental European destination that I definitely wanted to get to, and then as my itinerary changed, became the last destination. Four months ago the little city by the Baltic Sea seemed so far away, and now it's almost time to leave. Time and perspective are funny things. Sometimes it feels like I've been traveling for a long time, and other times it feels like I just left home.

donuts all day

The bus from Vilnius to Rīga revved up, started backing out of the bay, went two meters, and crunch...bumped into another bus. We had to wait over an hour while they picked up paint flecks from the pavement. No one knew when we would be leaving for good, so most of us just stayed on the bus. I steadily worked my way through most of the snacks I had packed for the 4.5 hour trip, but managed to reserve one cheese sandwich for later. At the border I was the only one who needed a passport stamp, so delayed us again, but just for five minutes. The border guard seemed to be in a really good mood.

Rīga fairly sparkles with le beau Art Nouveau architecture. Something is always watching as you stroll the streets and it isn't the KGB, not anymore. Just a gargoyle or a wood nymph cast in plaster. It's not just in the old town, either, it's all over the place. Walking around and gawking at it all is tiring, so I got a hot chocolate at Emihla Gustava chocolateria. I don't think that's a proper word, but whatever.

I also got an assortment of truffles to munch on while walking around. None of them were dazzling, but gave me enough energy to take on the Paul Stradin Museum of the History of Medicine. A good number of the instruments and apparatuses there wouldn't have looked out of place in the KGB Museum, although the two-headed dog would have been enough to pause any interrogation session. There were a couple of confusing lines in the case caption, but if I read correctly, what was on display was the taxidermied result of experiments in the 50s to join the front end of a small dog to the back of a larger one, combining their circulatory systems. I don't know what they hoped to gain from this, but they did it, and I suppose they can be considered mildly successful. Hmm. There was also an unexpected exhibit of Biology in Space, with a number of items from the Russian space program, including food packets, track suits, and...the capsules for the animals (dogs and monkeys) that blasted off. Sadly, the only documentation was in Latvian and Russian, and while one of the docents was freely dishing out information, it was also in Latvian (or Russian). Judging by reactions, whatever she was saying was pretty interesting. Dang. She did open the dog capsule for me. Weird. And sort of disturbing. There were a number of unexpectedly edgy objects on display there, quietly sitting amongst the customary forceps and prosthetic limbs – jars of fetuses and a photo of smallpox. And trepanned skulls in a special exhibit.

I also went to the Museum of Occupation in Latvia to educate myself on the occupation in Latvia. It was another extremely extensive exhibit with loads of documentation, but after two hours my brain was glazed over and I wasn't reading anything thoroughly. If I ever go back, I'll start at the end. I made an attempt later that day to catch the bus to the Rīga Motor Museum, but was misled by information in Lonely Planet. I've been using a selection of guidebooks, whatever has been available, and have steadily lost my faith in LP, which has proved unreliable more than once. Yeah, I know that that prices change, and businesses go out of business, so I expect a certain amount of inaccuracy, but too many times their information has been too wrong, and it's persisted through multiple guidebooks. Almost as if it wasn't acquired first-hand, or minimal effort was invested in updates. I should have done better homework on how to get there before heading out for the day, but why else did I spend $20? In Your Pocket are far superior guides; they're limited to eastern Europe, are updated frequently, can be downloaded for free, and are full of snarky comments that make for entertaining reading, even if you don't plan on visiting any strip clubs. No, I'm not getting paid to advertise, just credit where credit is due. Anyway, back at the bus stop wondering why the bus wasn't showing up, I first figured out I was at the wrong bus stop, and looking at the Lonely Planet map, realized where the museum was shown didn't match up to the address. The afternoon was over, and I decided I didn't have enough time to head out to the burbs when I didn't even know where I was going, so I scrapped the mission and spent the rest of the evening in one café and one pancake cafeteria. None of the pancake signs were in English, so I just chose a couple at random, and went back for seconds from the same tray. I ate twice as much as everyone else, but it was my last night in town and I was trying to get rid of all my Latvian coins. I saved only a two Lat coin because it has a cow on it, udder, teats, and all.

Rīga has the prominent Freedom Monument, which should under no circumstances be used as a pissoir. Incomprehensible as it is, there have been tales of folly, where young men with evidently only a thimbleful of brains and a bladder size to match, chose to relieve themselves on the monument instead of heading into the bushes (it's in the middle of a park). There are two formal guards, with rifles, stationed in front during the day. At night it looks deserted, but I'm pretty sure there's at least one military guy or gal lurking nearby to snare ne'er-do-wells and chuck them into a Latvian prison. The Baltic capitals have unfortunately become one of the prime destinations for British bachelor parties, bands of boys who spend their money on a cheap weekend flight simply to drink expensive beer in a different country, and tied to this business is the unsavory side of prostitution and sex trafficking. In Kiev I had a conversation with two guys about traveling as a solo female versus as a solo male. In most places, being a single woman will draw more attention, but they were quick to point out two places where the tables were turned on them – southeast Asia and the Baltics, both prime places for sex tourism. Even so, being a single woman traveler on the streets in these areas can be enough to be mistaken for a prostitute. I was wearing way too many layers of clothing for anyone to make that error. Anyway, I didn't see any crowds of boozy Brits, so it was either not the season for bachelor flings, or else they were all being taken advantage of by the local mafia in a strip club, hopefully the latter. And besides, Rīga isn't cheap for beer, food, or accommodation. British bachelorettes have an equally bad rep, but they go to the Mediterranean instead of the Baltics.

Behind the bus station are five zeppelin hangars that house Rīga's Central Market. I was hoping for a massive flea market, but it's mostly just food and clothing. I bought a Russian navy shirt, all white and black stripes, and it's debatable whether it makes me look like a sailor or a convict. Everything edible is for sale, and there was always a long line of elderly people holding jars at the milk stand where it was being ladled out of a steel urn. I wasn't in the market for cow's tongues or jars of pickled vegetables, but I discovered the donut dive – a little stall off to the side of one hangar where two ladies lorded over an automatic donut machine and dished them out, piping hot. It was really fun to watch – a bowl of batter dropped batter rounds into a little canal of oil, the donuts traveled down the canal getting cooked on one side, were automatically flipped over, traveled down the opposite lane of oil, and were fished out. They cost .08 Lats for a plain donut, and .10 Lats for one that had been subjected to the six-pronged jelly injector. I went back three days in a row for jelly donuts, and the place always had customers noshing away. They really were just oil being held together in a lattice of batter, but so yummy. I was tempted to get a bag of them to take away, but they were the kind of treat that you had to eat fresh. They wouldn't have been nearly as tasty a few hours later.

I did prowl around all the hangars, and took a few surreptitious photos in the fish section. The entire market was doing booming business, but something about the air in the meat hangars was really unappetizing. It wasn't exactly stomach-churning, more just knocked it off its axis. I didn't really want to eat anything at all after being in there. Good thing I went to the donut dive first. I did buy some fruit and vegetables over a couple of days. As noted, Rīga isn't necessarily cheap, but since the Lat is valued at around .49 Lat to one US dollar, it's a very small change economy when it comes to buying a kilo of potatoes or three onions. No matter how many times I got rid of one and two santīmi coins, they always seemed to respawn in my pocket.


On my second night in Rīga I heard the distinctive pop pop of fireworks from my attic room in the hostel, but was too lazy to go out and find them. Later that night I realized it was December 21st, and the Baltics joined the Schengen zone, so the display must have been a doozy over the river. I kicked myself for not having gone. And no wonder the border guard was in a good mood when we passed, his job was probably about to get a lot easier. Slightly miffed that I missed the celebrations, I proceeded to miss two more fireworks displays on the following nights. After the first one I had no reason to expect there would be more, and I actually don't know why they happened. Each night it was at a different time, and a judging by my ability to either partially see or not see them from the window, they must have happened in different locations. I don't know why I was annoyed at missing them, since I never go out for fireworks at home. But that's usually because I associate them with big crowds of obnoxious drunkards, so I just hide out at home.

Having to be at no particular place at no particular time is a relaxing way to travel. When I'm ready to move on, I catch whichever mode of transport is the most convenient, and if I miss it, I just catch the next. Having a deadline injects some amount of urgency into the schedule. No matter how much my itinerary changed over the last few months, the goal has always been to reach Tallinn. There was never any doubt that I'd make it there, but during the last couple of weeks, I've had to be more mindful of how long I was spending in each place, and to research the most efficient way to get to the next. It's difficult to decide how long to stay in one place before even arriving; reading guidebooks is all well and good, but it won't tell you how you'll respond to the vibe of the town. That word makes me cringe, but I suppose it's the best one to illustrate the point. All the people I've been meeting travel in different ways. Some plan on doing a traditional tour, then fall for one town and are still there months later. The other extreme are those who spend only a few hours or one night in a place, repeatedly, before moving on again, which I really don't understand. Unless they are purposely conducting a tour of European public transportation hubs, I fail to see the point of getting to a town just to take a nap and then catch the next bus out. It's as if they are traveling without knowing how or why, or that their understanding of travel is that it's merely a list of placenames visited. Whether or not they can speak of anything in town is irrelevant. A whole bunch of tourists visit locations armed with a checklist of famous sights, dutifully check them off, and catch the next air-conditioned luxury coach out. If that's what floats their boat, I can't argue. My take on traveling around is that I don't know when I'll be back, if ever, so better to stay a little longer to soak up as much as I can. I hate leaving a place with a sense of unfinished business, like there's something I missed. I too have my list of sights that I want to see, but I also like time to get a general feel for the place, which means wandering around residential or industrial neighborhoods, and doing plenty of café time. If I decide I don't care for something and am getting bored, it's easy to move on sooner than expected, even more so because I'm solo. For the most part, I've think I've planned my time in towns well, although there are a couple I could stand to have been in longer, and a couple that I probably should have left sooner. I started thinking about all of this in Rīga, since it's the penultimate stop of this trip (I'm not counting London). Suddenly I started thinking in terms of hours, not days, of how long I would have to visit towns, which is ultimately a futile way of looking at it. A few hours here or there may make a difference, but not if you spend hours worrying about it. Sometimes it's just a matter of taking whatever time you have, and making the best of it.