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In Which I Don't Meet Myself

November 8, 2006 by Mike

Riga

I don't mention him lightly, and I am not not NOT presuming to compare myself to him, but the only thing I can remember about Alan Whicker is his secret to being a good travel reporter. (He was on ITV. We didn't watch much ITV in our house. It was too commercial.)

The gist of it was: Always record yr feelings and reactions straightaway. Otherwise you get used to having elephants walking down the street, you don't bother to mention them and your viewers are left none the wiser.

So, reader, the elephant in the street here in Riga is made of snow. Lots of it. I don't need to dream of a white Christmas. Three or four inches fell on Monday morning. The pavements in town have turned to ice. Main roads look relatively clear where thousands of cars have turned the ice to slush and then water. But the bike was at the back of the hotel, plum in the middle of an ice rink. This Is Not A Good Thing. Rain since then has broken down more of the snow. But not the ice. I'm relying on forecast being right and a warm front tomorrow.

But I could be here 'til April. And everything else here described has wet feet, freezing fingers despite wearing gloves and just wants to settle down under a blanket in front of the telly with toast and teacakes.

Meet two Englishmen in Riga. I'll call them Mark and Mark, because that's what they were called, and they're looking forward to appearing in "the book". Ha ha! Nice one. But you're on the website! *Nothing* to do with yesterday's drunken loons, though they were in the Dickens and, yes, they were a wee bit drunk. Very sociable (as you can see.) And very interested to know, on hearing a bit about my trip and the countries I have visited in the last few months, one of the all-important pan-European questions. One that this trip is designed to find out, for the good of mankind. To Mark and Mark, my thanks for putting it so succinctly; for summing up in eight-and-a-half short words what this is really all about:

"Where d'you reckon the best-looking birds live?"

Having found Rein in Tallinn with a little forward planning, and Jaanus in Pärnu with a huge slice of luck, I took it in my stride when it turned out that the biggest motorbike dealer in Riga, the one recommended to me, turned out to be in the very next building to my hotel. Complete coincidence.

[Mike-style lengthy and only partially relevant anecdote:
I once booked a hotel in Los Angeles, hugely spread-out LA where buses take all day to travel from one end to the other and people get in their car to check the mailbox at the end of their drive, only to discover that my good friend Ivan -- well, i say good friend, we hadn't spoken for ten years at that point and I'll be jiggered if I can get hold of him now -- lived in the apartment block overlooking the hotel room. He could have spat through the open window. But he didn't. Proof that he was a good friend, after all. Dear old Big Ive. Lovely, lovely man. Anyone got his email address?

The motorbike dealer in Riga.. remember them?.. is called Motofavorits. My good fortune had run out. They were surly, disinterested, dismissive twerps with absolutely no social graces. They were ugly, with bad haircuts, and they didn't smell so great. The spotty social inadequate sitting on reception was "too busy" to answer my questions: after all, as you can imagine, a Latvian motorbike dealer in mid-November is almost drowning in work, what with all the local bikers having stored their bikes away two bloody months ago. He appeared to be downloading porn from the internet: I wasn't more interesting than that.

But talking of good friends: having dropped Stephen (good friend) at Riga Airport the morning after the evening he arrived from Helsinki, I caught a cab back to town. The driver was keen to practise his English. He was born in the Ukraine, moving to Latvia in the 80s to attend maritime college.

"There was no problem moving from Ukraine, no. Money was tight, of course, but the government didn't stop me. So I went to the college here. Always thinking, when I graduated, that I would jump ship the first time we docked in the West.

"But then I was called in by the authorities: 'Of course, you'll never be allowed on a ship sailing abroad. You're Jewish.'

"And so I became a taxi driver. I don't miss the Soviet Union very much."

But you stayed in Latvia after independence?

"I have lived here for twenty years. My children were born here. This is my culture. I don't want to learn how to live in a new country. I don't want to have to teach new neighbours about who I am."

He confirmed that many Jews who had left the USSR for Israel have since returned to independent Latvia.

I was talking of good friends. The thing about this taxi driver, the reason I flagged him down in the first place, is that he was my good friend David Lancaster's long-lost identical twin brother.

David, I even got a picture of him which, naturally, looks nothing like him. Or you.

But seeing him in the flesh it was quite uncanny. He says 'Hello' and said to wish you well. I assured him that you would reciprocate.

The themes keep on coming today. Bike dealers; good friends; now we continue with doppelgangers - or at least, people with the same identity. OK OK, with the same name.

Way back in northern Norway I discovered that a famous Norwegian's great-grandfather had been born Michael With in Riga in 1703. Now I wondered if there was any information here on my namesake, a Michael With even older than me.

I slid and slipped down icy pavements to the National Library where a helpful and efficient librarian directed me towards another building, another department and two more helpful and efficient librarians. Between them they scoured dusty shelves, pulled out volume of Baltishdeutschbiographischeslexicon after volume of Baltishdeutschbiographischeslexicon, cross-referred to manilla envelopes and cardboard folders tied with silk, but to no avail. It didn't help that my Latvian was considerably better than their English. With hand-signals, drawings, names and dates written out in CAPITAL LETTERS and a few minutes of Charades they knew what they were looking for. It just wasn't there.

Michael With, born in Riga in 1703, came from a family that originated in Flensborg. More, hopefully, when I get there.

Riga is fun. It's beautiful, in parts, but for me it doesn't compare with Tallinn. The Old Town just isn't quite as old as Tallinn's. Hell, the snow isn't even as cold, and neither is the beer. I think my bad experience at the bike dealer is colouring my judgement, because in many aspects Riga has been the equal of the Estonian capital, but on the basis of just a few days in each city I can Officially Confirm that the result of the Baltic Cup is Tallinn 2-1 Riga. The winner goes on to meet Klaipeda of Lithuania in the final.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Don't Meet Myself

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