Swiss Family Grass

Leaving the Curonian Spit we had our first encounter with law enforcement. As I drove the narrow, two lane warped road toward the ferry, I noticed a small patrol car hidden behind pine trees. Before the officer could raise his red paddle my foot was reaching for the brakes. I pulled off the road some twenty feet from the officer and watched in the side view mirror as he walked toward the driver side window, eyeing the foreign plates as he approached. I rolled down my window and innocently looked the officer’s way. It became instantly apparent that this would be no usual traffic stop. The officer didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Lithuanian. Exchanged looks were replaced by my handing the officer a small pad and pen. He wrote the numbers sixty and seven five on the pad, pointing with force at the second number. Message received, I was speeding. I apologized profusely and a look of “what do we do next” crossed over both our faces. He looked like he knew he should give me a ticket, but the time involved in the process wasn’t worth the effort. He waved us on with his red paddle and a strong reminder that sixty kilometers was the maximum speed allowed.

With the cruise control set at sixty we began the long drive back to the car ferry. Or so we thought. Unbeknownst to us, we were actually on the road to Kaliningrad. About half a mile from where we were stopped by the patrolman we reached a border crossing. And, for the first time we had reached a border crossing that truly felt like a border crossing. High fences and thick concrete buildings announced the Lithuanian, Russian border. We looked at each other, still not aware of where we were and remarked, “I don’t remember having to go through a gate when we arrived. Do you?” Andy exited the van to ask a woman where we were. Her tearful response assured us that we were on the wrong road. Apparently she was waiting, without much success, for someone to cross from the Russian to the Lithuanian side. I hurriedly turned the van around, drove past the speed trap I had been snared by when driving in the opposite direction (going only sixty this time around), and made my way to the correct road.

During the drive to the car ferry Andy and I talked about some of the more perplexing things we noticed during our stay in Lithuania. People were giants. Men and woman were tall, really tall. Andy, coming in at six feet four was forced to look up at people we passed on the street. Women too seemed heads above. We both knew that many Lithuanians treat the sport of basketball like a form of religion. But, to have both the love of the sport and size needed to be successful at the game is a rare occurrence. Here, it seemed that forces collided and the country was producing an inordinate amount of tall people.

Next, the guide books had listed the water in the Baltic States as ‘unsavory’. Boy was that an understatement. The water flowing from the showers at the campground smelled of eggs, and the drinking water pouring from the taps had a brown tint.

We amused ourselves during the ‘now cruise controlled’ drive with these little tidbits and soon we were on the ferry again. After a quick stop for gas we were on the road heading northeast, toward the Hill of Crosses.

Driving to the Hill of Crosses, Lithuania’s countryside revealed wheat colored fields, old tractors lumbering along potholed roads and women wearing sun brimmed hats riding bicycles with baskets of wildflowers attached. I was reminded of driving through South Dakota, only the lackluster sky reminding me of our whereabouts. Most of our stay in Lithuania was greeted with grey, drab skies, and this drive was no exception.

When we reached the Hill of Crosses it was instantly apparent why this stop is high on the list of Lithuania’s ‘must sees’. As you approach the parking lot to this famous pilgrimage sight, a sea of crosses appears before you. All at once, a tangle of wood and land lays before you, with crosses the only common theme.

Depending on whose history you believe, the Hill of Crosses was either begun as a father’s desperate bid to cure his ill daughter, or as a memorial to warriors lost during a great battle. Stories of a pagan ritual site also abound. Regardless of its origin, the Hill of Crosses can be traced back to the fourteenth century. More recent history reminds us of how Communist Russia bulldozed the hill at least three times; an effort to stop pilgrims and locals from demonstrating their displeasure with the powers that made placing crosses on the hill an arrestable offense.

From a mound covered with 2000 crosses pre-independence to at last count over 400,000, the Hill of Crosses illustrates mans perseverance and above all else, mans faith. A visit in 1993 by Pope John Paul II made the Hill of Crosses famous the world over, and now license plates from all over the European Union (and one California camping van) can be seen on any given day throughout the parking lot.

The area once known as the ‘mound’ now encompasses a much larger land area. Crosses spill off the mound into a sea of faith inspired icons, spreading toward a recently built monastery and encroaching on adjoining farmland. These symbols of faith bear names of those who have passed, the needy, the ill and even victims of 9/11. Wooden platforms and dirt paths wind through the crosses, giving the curious a closer look at what inspired each cross. Hours or days spent meandering through the Hill of Crosses would not provide the time needed to read each cross. Instead, time is better spent wandering along the paths stopping to look at crosses that catch the eye.

From the Hill of Crosses we set a direct course for the Latvian border. We stopped at border store to spend the last of our Lithuanian Litas. Many of the small stores in former Soviet occupied nations provide a glimpse of what it must have been like to shop back in the pre-independence days. Selection is limited and most of the food is displayed behind a counter, with the assistance of a clerk needed to select and pay for the items. It’s an eerie reminder of how government policy dictated the public’s access.

When we approached the border crossing we had all our paperwork in hand. The border agent bore a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein, and it was instantly apparent that this crossing was going to take some time. While he inspected our documents we could see two young agents inside the small booth playing computer solitaire on a pc that appeared to be from the late 80’s. After spending what seemed an eternity leafing through our passports, the agent handed our documents over to the young agent (think of the movie ‘Clerks’). The youthful agent took us our paperwork into the booth and we could hear laughing and broken English coming from inside. “Official document” we heard the young man saying, stifling giggles. After a few minutes the agent emerged from the booth and pointing at our vehicle registration stated that he had never seen paperwork that looked like that. He asked for more ‘substantial’ vehicle papers, as demonstrated by him miming a larger piece of paper. We provided a copy of our vehicle title stating the original was back in the safe, and he disappeared again. Within a few minutes he returned, our papers in hand and waved us through the border.

Latvia’s road proved just as bad as Lithuania’s, and we headed straight for the capital, Riga. As Riga’s skyline came into view, I for the first time had a vision of the states. It’s strange I know, but Riga reminded me a little of Boston. We approached from the river side and three bridges cross into the center of the city, with varied architecture on display. Old buildings stand next to shiny glass business offices, streets heavy with traffic crawl along the waterfront road, and the pulse of the city is busy.

After a failed attempt to find the city campground we crossed back over a bridge to find signs clearly marking where the campground lies, not a mile from the city. We settled in at the campground, which resembled a parking lot more than it did a campground. That evening was spent highlighting guide books as we planned our ‘invasion’ of the city the next day.

The following morning we loaded Petey into his trailer, mounted our bikes and drove the quick ten minute ride to city center. Along the way, as we were crossing the bridge Andy spotted yet another anti-Bush piece of art (notice I am no longer referring to them as graffiti?).

Arriving in Riga we went to the tourist office and picked up a walking guide to the city. My goal was to see as many of the art deco buildings as possible, and Andy was looking for a café to sample Latvian dumplings. On this particular day, we were both in luck.

Full of rich history and striking design, Riga has all the flavor of a big city steeped in Latvian culture. It’s a gem of a city, crowned by the aptly named Freedom Monument that rests smack dab in the middle of Riga’s greenbelt.

We walked through the Old Town, stopping in popular Liv Square to sample dumplings of three separate varieties. Much of the Old Town has been rebuilt to look as it did in the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries, and famous landmarks (such as the Town Square originally built in 1334) were rebuilt after being reduced to rubble during World War II. Some famous landmarks have been rebuilt as many as three times, reminders of Latvia’s turbulent and war torn past.

Passing by the guarded Freedom Monument (guards change on the hour from sunrise to sunset), we strolled through a stunning city park, where locals and tourists enjoyed the warm sunny weather. A small canal winds through the park, with pedal boats and rowboats making their way slowly along the water. Scattered throughout the park are polished marble stones, memorials to five people who were killed when Soviet Special Forces stormed the nearby Interior Ministry on January 20, 1991 eager to demonstrate their displeasure with Latvia’s recent moves toward independence.

North of the park in New Riga we visited Elizabetes Street, a small street famous for the Art Nouveau buildings that adorn it. Looking down, you miss all that makes Riga’s romantic style rich. Lift your head, and you are welcomed into an art world of facades, brilliant and profound.

Back in the Old Riga we wandered along the route outlined in our walking guide, taking occasional breaks to rest our tiring legs. We ended the day by riding our bikes through what is probably the largest market we have seen in Europe. The Central Market, dating back to the town’s founding in 1201 can now be found across from the train station (originally the market was located closer to the popular river trade routes). Housed in five enormous Zeppelin hangars, the Central Market is like a food and flea market super sized. Stalls spill out onto the streets and engulf neighboring streets. It’s a maze of shacks and umbrella covered stands that overwhelm the senses. Russian can be heard throughout the market, owing to the fact that 43.7% of the capital is Russian. It’s a people watcher’s dream.

We closed the day with a few beers back at the campground. Just as we were planning to head into the van for a night of ‘must see tv’, courtesy of our small dvd collection, we were approached by a gregarious and some might say obnoxious Swiss fellow. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. He had Swiss plates and has lived in Switzerland for most of his life, but ethnically he is German. His name escapes me now, it was Umondo or Umongous, or Andy thought maybe Humongous. For the purpose of this writing we’ll just call him ‘Bearded Man’, for the lengthy, shaggy hair that covered his face.

Bearded man pulled into the campground as the sun was making its’ daily slip out of the sky. He drove by our site, eyeing our van. After checking in at reception he walked not back to his car (as one usually does), but toward us. Halfway across the street he could be heard asking, “Is that two lazy Americans sitting there drinking beer?” Stunned, Andy and I looked at each other in disbelief. Next thing we knew, Bearded Man had sidled up to us and invited himself over for drinks. He brought a bottle of Four Roses Kentucky Bourbon and a chair and plopped himself down in our site as if we had known him for years. The next few hours were spent hearing all about Bearded Man’s travels, his soon to be ex-wife, and his disdain for politics. Probably one of the most interesting meetings of our trip, not soon will it leave my memory.

For a break from big city touring we headed next to Gauja Park. Latvia’s first National Park, Gauja is filled with colorful flora, crumbling castles, and too many pine trees to count. We only spent one night in the park, as the facilities left much to be desired. And, the water flowing from the taps actually surpassed the foulness of the water in Lithuania, leaving a scummy brown film on all our dishes.

We criss-crossed our way through the park, driving into the Gauja Valley bound for the town of Cesis. Cesis is known as a true ‘Latvian Town’. To us, Cesis looked somewhat like a Gold Rush town, the wide streets lined with wood and stone paneled buildings. Cesis is quaint and charming, as yet unspoiled by tourism. Storefronts are not yet strewn with souvenir items, and locals can be seen ducking into the local apothecary or café.

While in Cesis we visited a castle left for ruins in a local park and walked through an outdoor market where the lack of vendor booths left one wondering, “Is this really all there is to the city market?”

We tried in vain to find an entrance to the oldest brewery in Latvia, relegated to looking at the remains of the place from the far side of a chain link fence.

Even though it lacked in tourist driven sites, Cesis provided us with a glimpse of how Latvians go about their everyday business. We bought a toaster at a small electronics store for about nine dollars (I can’t tell you how much we have been craving toast lately). We exchanged Latvian Lats for Estonian Kroons at a local bank, and eyed the fare at a local café. It was noticeably like a Saturday at home, running errands in town. This stop, more than any other made us feel like people are pretty much the same wherever you go.

We left Cesis by mid afternoon. Andy made sandwiches while I drove and we drove until the road ended, literally. As we were making our way to the Estonian border suddenly the paved road dropped off, leaving us in a cloud of dust. After checking with a local who assured us we were on the right road, we plugged along on the rocky, dusty path for another fifteen miles, until we reached the border.

The border as it were, consisted of a wooden barrier across the road, with a small cabin of to the side. Not a soul was in sight. We waited, and after a few moments a brusque guard appeared and asked for our papers. He sifted through our documents for quite some time before attempting to converse with us. We labored to understand his English and he didn’t appear interested in our responses. Confusion set in and suddenly we were gathering more ‘original’ documents for our ‘friendly’ border agent. He disappeared into the cabin with our paperwork and when we saw him next he was handing us our documents saying, “I give you all papers”. Yes, he did return all of our papers to us, without the flashy red folder we had handed them to him in. Quick to weigh the option of questioning the agent as to the whereabouts of our nifty folder, or just take the loss and make a clean break across the border, we opted for the latter.

First stop in Estonia was the resort town of Parnu. Not like the traditional resort towns we are accustomed to back home, Parnu feels more like a quiet beach town. The beach is filled with bronzing bodies laying on white sand, with the Gulf of Riga the backdrop. Apparently Parnu is where Estonian’s visit for some much needed rest and relaxation. Mud baths are the spa service of choice and chic bars border the lovely new paved promenade that follows the coastline. Crossing through parklands from the beach one reaches the small town center of Parnu, its’ streets easily walked in ten minutes time.

We spent most of our time in Parnu at the campground, an ideal spot next to the Parnu River Estuary. We watched a film about 9/11 we downloaded from Google and read about our next stop, the capital Tallinn. And, one evening we walked through a weekend carnival, a reminder that the Baltics have quickly grasped western culture with a zest long ago lost in the states.

Tomorrow, we’re off to Tallinn.