Ben Gould | Wanderings and ... wonderings.

Jan 19 2015

Kaunas and Riga – impromptu frolics in the Baltics.

I’d been to Tallinn, Estonia, back in 2011, fully aware of its reputation as a riotous enclave chock-full of boozed-up Brits on stag events. There was a bit of that, but the city and its outskirts revealed so much more than a mere drinking hive. When three friends told me of their plans to visit Lithuania and Latvia on a Ryanair cheapie, I jumped right on board. A single carry-on bag with three changes of clothes and I was set.

A 6:40 a.m. flight out of Edinburgh Airport into Kaunas and we’re greeted by a mild breeze, not this ‘Baltic freeze’ I dismiss as propaganda. A €2.40 bus ride (No. 29) to our hostel on the corner of Kestucio Street – passing through Soviet-style ’80s suburbs on the way – and we head to a nearby restaurant, Berneliu Smukle, on the recommendation of the receptionist after briefly checking in.

Its interior is an indelible sight, a kind of hunting lodge theme with a taxidermist’s yearly output adorning the walls. Large stag antlers overlook our table, and we deduce that it’s definitely not a vegetarian hang-out – there are even guns plonked on shelves. I’m immediately struck by the delightful purchasing power of the Lithuanian lita. They say it’s always the Brits who compare countries based on the price of a pint. On such a basis, I’m instantly high-fiving Lithuania. I personally devour a Manhattan, a piña colada, and two local beers for the equivalent of €12.

Around the corner at the east end of Laisves aleja (Liberty Boulevard) sits the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, a Neo-Byzantine style church constructed between 1891-1895. Across the road outside the Mykolas Zilinskas Art Museum bizarrely sits a large statue of a naked man performing a ‘Come at me, bro!’ pose. When Kaunas was under the Soviet yoke, something tells me this wouldn’t be permitted.

Russian Orthodox Church.

Liberty Boulevard shouts Parisian, an exceptionally long pedestrian walkway of fountains, upmarket restaurants, cafes, and clothes stores, which segues into the Old Town, characterised by more traditional pubs and eateries. We spend the evening roaming around here from bar to bar, savouring the local beers and cocktails, arriving back at R Hostel (a splendid little hostel, with a comfy common room and secluded rooftop hideaway) for a belated sleep.

Liberty Boulevard.

The next day and we explore the city with a lengthy afternoon bike ride, the traffic light and terrain flat. The exception is Ninth Fort, a defensive structure built between 1902–1913. Now containing a museum (which we unfortunately don’t have time to visit), it was the scene of many atrocities during the German occupation in WWII. Kaunas has a lot of this: dark events from the past, things we shouldn’t as tourists bring up in conversation with residents, especially the contentious topic of Russia.

I am informed that though Russian is spoken by the majority of the populations in both Lithuania and Latvia, it is wise in the absence of English to attempt to communicate basic phrases in the native languages. Anti-Russian sentiment can be high, especially among younger people. I recall the trip I did to Tallinn, and the advice I was given there was to never utter a word of it.

To brighter discoveries, and I am impressed by the plethora of churches and castles huddled around the city – standout highlights are the Pazaislis Monastery (complete with a garden and restaurant), and the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul, with its opulent interior of expressive sculptures. We draw our cycle to a close with an excursion into Akropolis shopping centre for supermarket supplies. Magic hour approaching, the remainder of the evening is spent on the hostel roof, drinking brandy and taking photographs as the sun sets over the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, just visible through the trees.

Riga awaits.

An Ecolines bus to Riga will set you back a mere €18, and we set off at 3:20 p.m. the next day from the bus station (Autobusa stotis) on Vytauto Avenue. We pass over the Latvian border as the light dims, arriving into Riga International Coach Terminal (Rīgas Starptautiskā autoosta) at 6:50 p.m., our hostel Friendly Fun Franks a mere 5-minute walk away.

A hostel that greets you with a free beer upon check-in is something I’ve never experienced before. The laid-back atmosphere extends to the city centre, now dark, as we take a stroll around town and venture into a couple of bars, conforming to tourist cliché by sampling some Riga Black Balsam. Let’s rule on this right now, Balsam, a liqueur concoction of 24 different herbs, is utterly revolting. A single shot can be enough to send you darting for the nearest cubicle. It’s Riga’s emblematic drink, an ethanol cough medicine cooked up in Hell’s Kitchen. We call it a night after this.

The Neo Sky Bar-Restaurant located on the 8th, 9th and 10th floors of the central clock tower is not exceptionally high, but it is an excellent spot for a bit of photography, offering elevated landscape views as you sit down for a meal. We arrive around 11:00 a.m. the next day for a light brunch and a couple of beers, the interior a cocktail lounge decor with chill-out music dominating the soundtrack. The alternate option here is the Radisson Blu Hotel Skyline Bar. Located at a higher vantage point on the hotel’s 26th floor, but with a €3 price of admission, the vistas are meant to be impressive.

Indulging in a cheeky pint in Neo Sky Bar.

On our wanderings, the most striking building we find is that of the futuristic-like National Library of Latvia sitting on the west bank of the Daugava River. A three-dimensional triangle-shaped construction, it conspicuously stands out amidst the city’s Art Nouveau gems. Background information regarding the intention behind the building’s somewhat anachronistic appearance can be found here: http://www.lnb.lv/en/nll-new-building/gunars-birkerts-national-library-latvia-idea-project

That evening we partake in a few Zelta beers and Somersby ciders in the hostel before proceeding to Funny Fox Bar for an embarrassing session of karaoke. It’s a small, jam-packed, dimly lit establishment serving a reasonably priced selection of drinks, with an encyclopedia-sized list of music choices for those willing to act the prat on stage with a microphone. What happens in … Riga stays in Riga.

It appears that hangovers don’t befall me in these parts. What I crave upon waking up each morning is not the placebo effect of a strong coffee but the atmosphere of an unscripted saunter – the cool air and soft light, the artisanal stores tucked away on side streets, and the dirtier shops lurking behind the city’s banks and malls. As a tourist I can enjoy the aesthetic contrasts, blithely ignoring the reality of what is a difficult life for many of Riga’s inhabitants.

Through the hostel we arrange a tour of the city by a local university student, who tells us about Latvia’s history, particularly the transition to democracy after gaining independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. She discusses the impact of the euro, and expresses deep concerns over neighbouring Lithuania’s future in light of the current eurozone crisis. I am told that austerity measures have hit Latvia hard, and that despite subsequent growth and a reduced deficit, the unemployment rate remains high. A lot of young people have as a result emigrated in search of work and better career opportunities. Though I’ve only restricted myself to the capital, I get the impression of a country somehow wavering between the old and new, unsure of itself and wary of economic travails lying ahead.

Riga street sculptures.

Of the tour’s highlights, Freedom Monument I find to be particularly affecting. It’s a 42-metre high memorial on Freedom Boulevard commemorating soldiers killed in the Latvian War of Independence (1920). The elegantly designed National Opera House sits in a park just south of the monument. You can find the current programme here: http://www.opera.lv/en/all-repertoire/

Amaretto in Friendly Fun Franks hostel.

Our tour culminates in a visit to Riga Central Market. Meat, grains, and vegetable stalls span the interiors of five pavilions constructed from old German Zeppelin hangars. If ever there was a more appropriate place for a spot of shopping. Goods are sold based on weight (per kilo), bargains to be found aplenty. I emerge with a hamper of goodies to take back to Scotland – chorizo, black bread, and local cheeses.

We seem to have settled into routine now, and it’s another evening of food and drinks in the hostel. We heartily gorge in the kitchen as slightly jarring pop hits blare out of a vintage Soviet-era wireless. A trek to a local bar called Pulkvedim Neviens Neraksta ensues, and we are bade farewell on our exit a few hours later by the bizarre appearance of two intoxicated Latvian sailors granting us free shots of whiskey and unlimited puffs on a bubblegum-flavoured e-cigarette. They are swiftly escorted home by a more sober companion.

I have a cheeky King Edward cigar in the smoking room back at the hostel and look out over the Daugava River at night. It’s been a superb mini-adventure – the quietness and solitude of Kaunas complemented by the relative rambunctiousness and, dare I say it, decadence of Riga’s nightlife. I came only with modest expectations of quaint pubs and leisurely strolls, but I am thoroughly delighted with what I have seen on my trip – from the variety and peculiarity of Baltic eateries and bars, to the colourful playfulness of the architecture, and the richness of the cultures on display.

The next day I atone with a morning jog by the river, shuffling over the Vanšu Bridge and back like an asthmatic hippo. I manage to complete about 11 minutes of running before collapsing in a heap by a bus stop. The locals are puzzled. One of them sighs despairingly. Travelling can take the will out of your body. After breakfast we hop on the No. 22 bus to the airport for our flight to Glasgow Prestick. We vow to return, and on this future occasion equipped with at least a small understanding of the gripping historical narratives that underpin the Lithuanian and Latvian experience.

Tagged Amaretto, Baltics, Ben Gould, Eastern Europe, Euro, Eurotrip, Friendly Fun Frank's, Kaunas, Latvia, Lithuania, Riga

Jan 08 2015

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Sensation Amsterdam: Source of Light.

The trip there is in some beaten-up taxi I almost call ‘archaic’, yet the meter works … until the journey’s end when the driver turns it off and claims sabotage. An expensive ride. White, white, white, mostly Dutch, some German, no British accents yet. The Amsterdam Arena is one I see from my childhood: Champions League Wednesday night football, the 1994/5 Ajax team of Frank Rijkaard, Patrick Kluivert, Edgar Davids, Clarence Seedorf et al. that triumphed in Vienna against A.C. Milan.

Security search, complementary basket at the entrance inviting you to feed it drugs. No one seems ‘wasted’ or ‘out of it’. It’s some spectacle, a mosaic clash of white casual reveller wear, and dark, sleek suits for security, rigid dress codes for the occasion. I head inside to find kiosks adorning the walkway, queues for toilets, members of staff selling pre-loaded swipe cards, all the time rumbling and ambience getting louder from the arena’s core. Security guards chatter by stair entrances, and put out the occasional cigarette of an unaware-of-the-rules visitor.

The epicentre: Masses, strobe, piñatas, glow sticks, deep vocal announcements, floor packed, seating area behind this perch-like minimalist décor amidst the ostentation. The DJs are stood at the top of a cube in the centre of the dance floor, with burlesque (I think) and erotic dancers occupying its various levels, some dangling from transparent wires, no doubt suspended by the sensation of the event. Dutch people are incredibly tall, Dutch women are incredibly beautiful.

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Things seem to be approaching a melodic introduction. Vodka and coke. I prop my feet up on the seat in front. Beyond that is a VIP section of champagne-sipping dancers grooving out of sync in what appears to be a completely different aural and visual narrative to that engulfing the rest of the arena.

That grinding space shuttle launch sound again, this time accompanied by dark, light, then dark, then lots of lights, then balloons and confetti, then more dark, red, a beat, drums, louder beat, louder, and now a voice, the female trance omniscience that transcends pithy discussions over who’s the best Van. It’s on, one presumes.

A few hundred yards to the left I see there’s a cocktail bar lit up like a laser-themed hotel on the road to Vegas, bright buckets of ice, its patrons clutching blue and pink glasses, taking a chilled breather already. I expect to be served by a polite talking robot when I eventually make it down there.

I’m informed that there’s a Sensation in almost every trance-inclined country in the world- one in Russia, one in Brazil, a Sensation Black. I am to watch a documentary about how Sensation first came into being, its genesis and what goes into its making every year. I imagine an Apollonian dedication to putting all the pieces together before a tragic utopia of music, alcohol, and mind-perplexing substances. I’m saying this to someone who just nods in return. I’m not sure I’m even being understood, or whether I make sense.

At the back of the arena stand the ‘temps’, some of them drooling, others just so far into their own realm they may as well be on the dance floor, and probably think they are. A man’s ejected by the stewards for approaching people in a way that looks like a drugs sales pitch. There’s some urine on the floor. I can smell onions. There’s a woman making wolf noises. I escape. The card’s not swiping. “Please try it again,” she ventures. I do so. Success culminates in a warm beer in a small plastic cup, a third of it spilled on my now not white attire by the time I escape the madding crowd around the pub/van hybrid. Eerie, silence, no one in the distance through the window mesh, only a train station, some trees and bushes.

The most hideous bathroom experience in quite some time. Like cattle, lines of odour brush up against one another. I look down at the floor and make no eye contact. Odious smell, I place an imaginary peg on my nose. I eventually make it to the sink. Utter relief, so much so I nearly urinate again. I make it out and breathe clean oxygen.

I’m back in the arena’s centre. People are blowing bubbles, masks are dropping out of the ceiling and changing their physiognomy, screaming is coming from somewhere. It’s an Edvard Munch rave. Meticulous build up to a crescendo, lights and music in parallel synthesised to a rhythmic thud, then total silence, darkness. Collective anticipation. BOOM. Fittings shaking, missiles flying, discs spinning on stage, DJs immersed in fury, dancers feeling the euphoria, blissfully lost in their own transcendental performance art. Capturing devices, iPhones shooting video. A stranger’s sweat catches me in the eye as I’m recording the near-acrobatics. Kamikaze TV cameras swoop overhead and almost hit me. I’m then barraged by a massive ball.

I run away to the cocktail bar and order a drink named Sensation. I drink it. It’s not sensational, but it’s not terrible. I buy some more and watch the show. I am now not aware of what time it is. I might have been standing here for a while because there’s sunlight everywhere. The people are vacating. The arena now resembles an indoor judo hall; white, nonetheless. I figure it’s been eight hours since I arrived. I bring out my phone, review some photographs, and send a few text messages in an attempt to make contact with the outside world.

MC Gee, the Sensation announcer, introduces the final act. The music is much better than everything that’s gone before. There’s less of the incessant beat repetition, and more actual tunes I recognise. It is, I dare say, more commercial. I curse the scheduling and whoever decided to put this on last.

My eyes are sinking; more energy drink locks them open in a vice, arms artificially unstiffen themselves. She’s saying something to me and I try and lip read to no avail. I wander away and find myself beside a large garbage bin that understandably stinks. Beyond it, just by an entrance, a woman is crying on a man’s shoulder. He isn’t taking his shades off. It’s quite a portrait, and only my awareness of my creepy voyeurism stops me from filming it.

Chatter about a train. It’s the right moment. I vacate the scene. A rainbow blazes across the morning marsh as the sunlight hits my eyes. Walking off from the arena I glance around to see a football game being played beneath it with a bottle of Coca-Cola. Station: everyone is still white. Arguments over machines and tickets. Escalator. Train to Centraal Station. A guy announces he’s from Utrecht and promptly chases a firefly around the carriage, blithely eating it, then telling everyone he supports “Sheffield Tuesday”.

At Centraal Station it’s still white. Damrak, no trams running. In Vondelpark I sit by a fountain for a quick rest, noticing my formerly white shoes and trousers are covered in thick mud. I take out my headphones and walk back to the hotel around the corner, skipping 20-odd Armin van Buuren tracks before I ludicrously settle upon a Philip Glass piece from the film Koyaanisqatsi. I wake up 11 hours later to find I have a Hannibal Lecter-like Sensation paper mask in my pocket. Lovely.