August 15, 1998, Saturday

By 7 a.m. when the doors to the morning buffet opened I was the first to enter. My breakfast had to be a rush job because my6 bus was scheduled to leave at 8:15 a.m. The taxi dropped me off at the bus station and I waited only a short while for my bus. We were on our way with me sitting in the front seat where I could watch the scenery through the front window. There were two fellows operating the bus, a driver and a conductor. One man drove half way and then the other took the wheel.

We crossed into Lithuania with no problems at the border and arrived at the Vilnius bus station late morning. There was no line of taxis like in Riga. In the street outside the station one was parked with the driver eating his lunch. He drove me clear across town to the Balatonis Hotel, which was not in the town center, to my disappointment. This error for the long ride was 28 litas which relates to five dollars so taxi fares were cheap. The manager said it would cost about two dollars to old town, where all the tour is still. He said there was a festival in progress.

The taxi driver dropped me at the festival grounds. There was a throng milling about. It was much like our Olympia Lake fair with booths selling food crafts and souvenirs and there were rides, but nothing was sophisticated. There was a simple ball in the cup game but none of the fancy carnival games that we have. There was a bandstand where gate where first clowns were performing and later a band of about 20 played at first marching music and then real peppy jazz music. Like New Orleans and when the Saints come marching in. Many in the crowd were swaying to the music.

At one booth a woman was ladling out white chunky dough onto a hot griddle and frying them into large patties. After ordering to patties are a sat at a table. The patties tasted like potato pancakes. A couple asked me if they could sit at my table. He was a well-built man about 60 named Zed. She was named Sophia and was in her early 50s. Zed had been a mechanic and a Soviet plant that had shutdown. He said no one would hire him because he was too old. He was bitter about it and blamed the KBG for his troubles. He had stopped looking for work and said his troubles would be over when he was 6 feet under. He could speak no English. Sophia was a musician playing with a large band that 10 years ago had played all over the world such as Russia, China, England, Canada and so forth. They no longer did so because the money situation had tightened up all over the world. She still played with the orchestra but made less than 100 the toes a week, about $25.

They wanted me to walk through the old town with them to show me the sights. But after walking a short distance I climbed into a taxi and returned to the hotel. Sophia seemed all right but I did not quite trust Zed. He was a bitter loser who would probably like to see communism back so he could get paid for doing nothing.

Famous Painter - A Figment of My Imagination

On my trip to China I was impressed with the art work we were shown and reflected on the many famous painters of many nationalities such as Michael Angelo and our western painter, Remington. I thought how nice it would be to be famous like that. So, months later when I saw my art dealer, I said "Sam, how does an artist get to be famous?"


So Sam explained. "You live in a garret and suffer and starve. In the mean time you paint everything in sight and maybe trade one of your paintings for a loaf of bread. after you starve to death some one like me finds all your canvases under your bed, sells them for fantastic prices
and you become famous.

In the meantime Sam was walking around my studio inspecting my work. He stopped in front
of one canvas and exclaimed, "Clyde, this picture is wonderful. It has depth, has many tones of colors and above all has mystery. Even I can't figure out what you are trying to paint."

I said, "But Sam, That's the canvas I use to clean my brushes."

Sam said, "That's your best work. If only you were dead I could make you famous, and he looked at me hopefully."

I backed up a little and said, "Hold on Sam. I'm not that anxious to become famous. Maybe I'd better wait a while.

August 14, 1998, Friday

The hotel furnished a buffet breakfast, which was good. At those breakfasts I made a Dagwood sandwich and when nobody was looking slipped it into my fanny bag. In addition to the sandwich I pocketed a couple of hard boiled eggs. At noon this was my lunch. Every little bit counts.

At 10:00 a.m. I was picked up for the city tour. The best place to view the city as we were driven around was from the upper floor of a double decker. As I was the only one taking the tour, the guide, a young women who spoke English fairly well, sat across from me and gave me a personal one on one running account of the city’s highlights and history. Riga was an important land and sea trade route. It had the usual historic buildings, some of which go back to the thirteenth century.

There were many empty factory buildings, a legacy of the communist failure—a state run economy where many people were paid for not working. There was still a 33 percent unemployment rate.

On the elevator I had met folks from all the surrounding countries—Swedes, Norwegians, Swiss, Danes, Japanese, and Latvian. Most could speak a little English. One friendly woman was from Ireland. She was traveling alone but found herself a boy friend.

In the afternoon I visited the central market, next to the bus station. It was mind boggling. There were five or six buildings selling meat, produce and fish. Outside booths were selling cigarettes, tapes and watches. There was also a line of women, usually older, each holding hangers of used clothing they were trying to turn into a little cash. They would stand for hours hoping against hope someone would buy. There were many poor people in the countri9es once under the control of community Russia. Everywhere there were plants that had been state operated now closed and standing empty. The rebuilding of an economy was bound to take time. The older people left on the sidelines would have to make out the best way they could in the meantime.

August 13, 1998, Thursday

The Tarv Hotel gave me a boxed breakfast as I entered a taxi for the ride to the bus station. At 6:45 a.m. I was sitting in the front seat of the bus for Riga. The front seat gave me a good view of the road ahead and the country side. The only colorful vehicle I saw was one of the horse-drawn wagons. The harness had a metal loop over the horse’s head. The horse, wagon and driver all looked old.

The border between Estonia and Latvia took about an hour to cross because first the Estonian border guard in a rumpled uniform took our passports and disappeared into a shack that served as a border Estonia office. It seemed forever before he climbed back in the bus and returned our passports, grunting to each of us as he handed them back.

We drove a few yards to the Latvia border station. We relinquished our precious passports again. Here the passenger cars were searched and the hoods into the motor compartment had to be searched. It looked as though the guards, two of which were women, were writing down the serial numbers of the cars.

We reached the outskirts of Riga by noon. The toilet was my first stop, where I paid 5 cents for the privilege of peeing. I did guess right as to which symbol meant men. The taxi driver took me to the Riga Hotel and only cheated me a little.

The Riga was an older type of hotel with a desk on each floor and a house keeper in charge of each floor. When I left my room, I gave up my key and picked it up upon returning. The Riga was located in the center of Old Town, which made it handy for eating, shopping, and sight-seeing.

The Old Town area was interesting to explore but it was important to have a map. The one the hotel gave me was hard to read. The one I obtained from another hotel was better. The old cobbled streets twisted and turned so a good map was essential. One block from the hotel was a square where a crowd gathered to listen to a musical group. An Indian blew on pipes, making a plaintive tone. Up and down the street were tables displaying jewelry, mostly amber. There were several restaurants, usually with tables outside.

August 12, 1998 Wednesday

The hotel taxi driver took me to the Old Town and showed me the historic points of interest. The driver was a tall, thin, angular, middle-aged Estonian who spoke some English. It was interesting, but in the afternoon I took a self-guided walking tour of the same area and got more out of it by reading the literature. The town went back to the thirteenth century. It had been overrun by all of its larger neighbors at one time or another. The latest occupant was Russia. It has only been independent since 1992 and still fears Russia. It was like sleeping next to an elephant. You never know when it will roll over.

The most striking ruin was of a church that had been damaged by wars and fire. Part of it had been restored and was used as a museum. There were several monuments of Estonia’s heroes. The university buildings were scattered about, leaving plenty of green park-like space between them.

The Estonia women were blonde, blue eyed beauties. Most of them were slim, small built and not overly tall. They show their Nordic origins. The ones who worked in the hotels were pleasant and helpful. On the street, however, the average natives appeared cold and distant. They passed me and each other looking straight ahead and with no expression on their faces. It was as if they were fearful of each other. The guide book said if you can get past their cold exterior they could be warm friends. You couldn’t prove it by my experience. Maybe they thought I was a Russian because of my beard.

The girl at the reception desk made a reservation for me at the Riga Hotel in Riga, Latvia. I also had my bus ticket.

Tartu was first mentioned as a city in the eleventh century. It was a pleasant place with a river flowing through it and walking bridges to cross over. As with most of these old country towns there were many small parks, each with its own monuments commemorating the country heroes. Many of the ancient buildings and cathedrals were in the process of being restored. It would be easier to tear down and build a new building, but a piece of their history would be lost. Besides, the old buildings and crooked cobbled streets were wonder for drawing the tourists with their ready cash.

August 11, 1998, Tuesday

As I was getting dressed I saw a beautiful sunrise from the hotel window. After breakfast I loaded my bags into a taxi and headed for the bus station. The guide book said there was no place to put luggage on the Estonia busses but the driver took my bags and put them in the baggage compartment. My seat was comfortable and we moved along on the good road through the agriculturally rich green countryside. There was a great variety of crops growing including grains, corn, and vegetables. There were dairy and beef cattle. The wool merchants said they used Estonia wool but I didn’t see any sheep. The ride took about three hours.

At the Tartu bus station I found a taxi. It was only a short distance to the Tarv Hotel, a five story building. The rooms and the elevator were smaller. Not only was it necessary to use a key to get in my room, but it was necessary to use a key to LEAVE the room.

The young Estonian hotel workers were very helpful, especially the young woman at the reception desk. She went to a lot of trouble getting me a reservation at my next city—Riga, Latvia. She also called the bus company about my ticket from Tartu to Riga. She called a taxi so I could visit the Old Town. The fare for the short ride was about $1.30.

It was a university town. You would think that the college students would be able to converse using English. This was not the case. At least not with the ones I tried to talk to. Very few people spoke English. It was difficult ordering in a restaurant. I pointed at the menu and was surprised when I was served roast beef with French fries. Every other country I have visited, the young learned English in school starting in the early grades.

In the late afternoon I walked to the bus station for my ticket. The elderly women selling tickets asked me for what day. I said, not tomorrow, but Thursday—the day after. She kept asking me in her language and I was answering in mine. We were getting nowhere. Someone in the line behind me who spoke a little English said, “Give him ticket for Thursday.” She took my money and printed out my ticket. It was for Wednesday. I wrote the date I wanted on a piece of paper handed that and the ticket back to her. She called a colleague to consult with her and then wrote me a new ticket with the date I wanted.