I know one Latvian. Sasha. A friend of a friend of a friend, really, but she comes to all of my karaoke birthday parties. Even the one that was only a few months after she had her first kid. She brought her mom. They were doing shots. I love this chick.
That should have been my first indication that Rīga, Latvia was going to be fantastic.
It's so great that I really don't want the rest of you to know about it.
We get off the bus and take a taxi. I'm often afraid to take a taxi in a foreign country because of all of the stories about people literally being taken for a ride, and owing a shit ton of money. We get in the taxi. Dude speaks no English. I ask for the meter with one word. He points to the rearview mirror. The meter is in the mirror. I don't understand what it's showing, but it's there. We get to the hotel. It's about an 8 minute drive. He hold up 3 fingers and says "3." I'm like, you can't possibly mean €30. No, he meant 3 euros.
This is a good indication of how different our economies are. Not that any 8 minute ride in a Manhattan taxi should ever cost $30, but I've paid a good $25 even within Manhattan. Latvia is cheap.
We're a 20-minute walk north of the center of town. The town is just gorgeous. It could be Paris, or Rome, with its perfectly kept, regal, old buildings and manicured green spaces. Everyone at stores, restaurants, and bars speak really great English. Wine and beer are no more than 2-3€ a glass.
Food is cheap too, like 7€ a meal cheap if you want, and thank god, because I'm still trying to balance out the cost of that $80 lunch we accidentally ordered in Stockholm.
Besides, this Jew really loves a good sale.
Justin finds out about a chain restaurant called Lido. They're everywhere, and very popular, even among Latvians. I generally hate chain restaurants, but these places are amazing. Each place has a different "personality." We've been to three of them thus far. But they're all DECKED THE FUCK OUT, each place like a little Latvian Disneyland. Old, deep, rich wooden interiors. Countryside murals. Everyone is wearing traditional folk dresses and flower garlands on their head. If Epcot center though to feature Latvia, I'm sure this is what it would look like. Kind of ridiculous, totally awesome.
There's a number of different stations, and you pick what you want, each dish costing between 1 and 5 euros. There's a starch staton: enormous pans filled with roasted potatoes, home fries, rice pilaf. There's a meat station: shish kebabs, beef in mushroom sauce, smoked pork shank. There's a fish station, a salad bar, a dessert bar, and everything is traditional Latvian food. THERES A BLINTZ BAR FOR FUCKS SAKE. For someone like me who is very picky, wants to try everything, and doesn't really want to pay a lot of money, this place is perfect. In honor of my friend Heather, who recently discovered a love of herring in Amsterdam, I tried this bizarre casserole thing I later found out loosely translates to "herring in a winter coat": layers of herring, potato, beets, sprinkled with shredded (unmelted) cheese, served cold. More mayo than I am comfortable with, but pretty damned good. If you've ever had the Peruvian potato/fish casserole called "causa," it's similar. With beets.
Beets everywhere. I fucking love beets. I thought Latvian food was going to be lots of dumplings, meat, and potatoes. I wasn't exactly wrong, but I am very surprised and happy with the variety and depth of flavor of everything. Latvian food is amazing.
It is NOT light. Inside this petite frame lies a 300 pound woman yearning to bust out. I love soul food. Latvian food is soul food. If I were on death row, this is what I'd want my last meal to be. And with the portions as large as they are, the amount of animal fat and sour cream on hand, it's kind of how I feel after every meal here anyway. Like I'm dying.
But then I can't wait to do it again.
We walked to the Former Jewish ghetto near the edge of the center of town. It's now called the "warehouse district," and there's pristine, gorgeous warehouses that now house a couple of shops. A little like the warehouses in red hook, Brooklyn, but even more beautiful. I'm assuming like every other amazingly beautiful warehouse district in the world, it will be super expensive. It's pretty bad all those Jews were killed during the holocaust, because they'd be living in some really sweet digs right now.
We walk into a liquor store, and ask about the local liquor we've read about called "black balsam." It's described as being bitter, crammed full of herbs, a digestive; Latvians sip it after meals, use it as a curative, put it on ice cream, mix it in coffee. Justin and I discovered a love for Italian amaro last year, and this stuff seems about the same. Justin didn't believe people actually drink this stuff, though.
So we ask the adorable girl if Latvians ACTUALLY drink this stuff. She looks shocked that we ask and laugh. Of COURSE they do, and do we want to try it?
It tastes like a mild, less syrupy version of amaro, but with a vodka base. I tell her I like it! She says she's surprised, because she doesn't know any women who like it.
I guess my Russian ancestry is coming through here.
The holocaust museum is one of the nicest memorials I've seen (although truth be told I haven't been to too many.). There's a room dedicated to the Armenian genocide, just one of many international injustices I swear I never learned about in my shitty public high school. On the wall, one quote, in four languages: "who even remembers Armenia?" -Adolph Hitler
In the front of the museum, there's a carving of a menorah, a place to light candles and place rocks for the deceased, a Jewish tradition. I lit a candle for my sister. She loved candles, and Judaica. The menorah is surrounded by the most gorgeous, 3D wood carvings of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The wood was a number of different shades. Jews come in all shades, too. This seemed very fitting.
I also took some rocks for my friend Linda, who for some reason I can't quite figure out, demands that I bring her rocks for every foreign Country I visit. I have to figure stealing rocks from a holocaust memorial is a sacrilege, but this is the sacrifice I make for a dear friend. I'll burn In hell for you, Linda.
One long warehouse room housed decoupaged lanterns, each one containing the identity of some one who died in Latvia during the holocaust. A picture, a birth certificate, an identity card, their story. And a large painting, where the artist painted 6 million stick figures, representing the 6 million people killed. He kept track of his progress in a notebook, making sure he didn't lost count.
The only thing taking away from the somber feeling of this excellent memorial is the display inside the train car used to transport all of the Jews to the Latvian concentration camps. Instead of saying "11000 of deported Jews were incinerated," or "murdered" or "killed," the translation said:
"11000 of deported Jews were liquidated."
Liquidation, you know, like they're on sale. And even this Jew couldn't stay serious or solemn after reading that. After all, Jews do love a good sale.
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