Once you leave the major city roads, which takes longer than you would expect- trying to navigate against other drivers is like trying to win an argument with a fundamentalist (have you tried? I have- not the driving, it's a stick we have, but the arguing. It doesn't work and takes way more effort than any reasonable person should expend)- you come face-to-face with countryside. In December at least it is dark countryside that spreads out away from the road like a sadness.
First impressions? Stark. It is dark and cold here. But it is not the starkness of the far north cold or far north dark. It is the starkness of recovery, a sensation I know well. Anyone with a long illness knows that sort of bleakness. It is the tunnel that almost always seems lightless. The illness here? Sovietness. It lingers today, appearing even in the young whose eyes shift too nervously and too suspiciously. It pervades in the older generations, short tempered and sparing with their kindness. (So far the nicest man we've met was the vendor who sold painting next to one of ten-thousand Christmas markets in Riga. And he's (sort of) paid to be that way.) It bullies it's way into the structures of buildings.
The lights in the Tunnel of Baltic Starkness are the very odd, very sweet old towns and cities. There was something rightly magical about wandering through Old Town Riga, hearing the faint echo of a cellist who is nestled in some doorway, hoping for a tip; something achingly happy about watching children in their hats and mittens running through those market squares, excited and expectant. The yellow-gold lights scattered around the city- reflected off of dark, cold, wet cobblestone- makes the world look warm (the mulled wine helps, too).
These tiny moments of wonder are balm. They soothe the savage process of nations and people reclaiming their identities. And until next time Dearests, I sincerely hope I have not offended any Soviet sympathizers. If I have, well, put on your big-kid pants and deal with it.
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