Afterwards we went to soak up a few local beers (the name escapes me for now). Apparently the hotspot in the old town is an Irish pub (for crying out loud) owned by a Scotsman. It was full of foreigners.
28 August - Hello Boys
After a reasonable night's sleep in the stark but mercifully clean "Vana Tom" hostel (I think it means either Old Tom or Grandfather Tom, depending on the context), we kicked off our first full day with a search for breakfast.
The morning was warm and bright and perfect for showing off this chocolate box town at its eclectic best. The narrow cobbled streets were lined with an uneven collection buildings of different style and period, many of which had been renovated, or were in the process of being tarted up.
The overall impression was generally very pleasing, although I couldn't help but feel as if it was more of a little enclave preserved expressly for the purpose of tourists and 12 year olds studying national history, rather than a functioning section of the town.
We spent a good few hours milling round the old town, bumping into a guided tour at every so often and encountering some low key tat sales from a couple of Russian women who's main sales tactic consisted of thrusting their breasts in our direction and calling out in thick accented English "Hello Boys". They'd seen better days.
Ate late in a cafe. The sandwich sounded promising, Buffalo Mozarella with salad, and looked great, but unfortunately was swimming in Russian dressing (or 1000 island sauce or some such gunk) and tasted er, not so good.
As time ticks on and I come back to this diary, my memory of the details fades a little. Now I know why proper writers use notebooks and whatnot. I bet they really come in handy some times.
So the remainder of the week, as I retell it may not be jampacked with the minutiae that the first three days were. This is probably a good thing.
One thing I know for sure, the hunt for the Hard Rock cafe has so far drawn a blank. Disappointing. Now that I am reconciled to the fact that the HRC actually DOES exist, I'm determined to get a t-shirt from a really obscure branch of it. One that I've never seen anyone else wearing. For quite a while Beiruit was the prize, but I've seen it done. Now I'm on the lookout for the next cool destination. Riga would've fitted the bill nicely.
The bulk of Tuesday was taken up with the city to city on the Eurolines bus. We got a trolleybus up to the station (with no ticket!) after a bit of a lie-in at the hostel and a coffee & croissant en route.
Tallinn to Riga was about a five hour jag through mostly uninspiring agricultural countryside, kind of an untidy version of Iowa. The roads were good however, and the journey was smooth enough. Out hostess for the trip, Svetlana, a chubby Russian girl with an innate inability to smile, was courteous enough to read out the half dozen pages of rules and regulations out in English over the tannoy for us. Bless her. Other people's beaurocracy makes me smile.
We arrived in Riga around five-ish in bright sunshine. It was indeed a different prospect and more that a little intimidating. I guess some times new places are. Straight away it was obvious that it was going to be radically diferent from Tallinn. Don't know what it was, it just seemed more "urban".
It was right about now that it all began to go wrong. "Be strong", I should have said to myself. "Stick to your principles", "be confident, for you are seldom wrong". I should have allowed my confidence to massage my ego, or something similarly freudian... But no. I allowed myself to be swayed. Persuaded. Cajoled, if you will. And therein lies nought but despair.
I wanted to head for what appeared to be the centre of the city, have a quick look around, perhaps check out the tourist info. I liked my plan. It was a good plan. But, just across the river, intoned the Adester, is the Riga Technical University, where one can secure sleeping accommodation for the bargain price of 3 Lat each. Sounded groovy. Actually it sounded like a piece of shit, but I kept my doubts to myself and we headed for the bridge.
So we hiked across the huge cantilevered bridge that spanned the River ??? carrying not only pedestrians but cars trolleybuses and I think trams as well. At the other side was a grimy suburb that looked singularly down at heel, and certainly not the kind of place you'd find a Technical University.
The Rough Guide said quite clearly it was the first stop on the first side of the bridge. Why we hadn't caught the bus in the first instance was now beyond me as we walked up and down the streat between trolleybus stops looking puzzled in the extreme. Until I noticed the numbers didn't match up. I got Ade to check the RG. The horrible realization had begun to dawn on me. IT WAS THE WRONG BRIDGE.
Photos of Tallinn
I was fully intending to get out and about on Monday night and experience the nightlife of Tallinn, which has a reputation of being pretty good (believe it or no). However, a couple of days hard travellin' plus all day on the hoof and I was plum tuckered out. Me and the Ade-ster repaired to the Hostel below the strip joint with the increasingly miserable array of receptionists for a late siesta and before I knew it, it was dinner time.
Well finding a restaurant to match the Italian took some doing but we managed. Called Vanama Jaares, or something along those lines (meaning Grandma's Place), it promised a traditional Estonian nosh up. I read about it in one of the local guides (it might have been Tallinn in your pocket or the regional English language paper, can't remember which); we turned up and the place was packed (it was just a small basement affair with room for around 35 or so) mainly with a large table of Scandanavian academics getting roaring drunk and insulting each other's homelands.
We had to wait for a table, so me and Dond went to a bar round the corner to absorb a large "le Coq" beer (nothing special). On our return the table was set with a "Reserved" tag (I love that) and we got the VIP treatment from the waitress.
Soup was good and the main course consisted of a large slab of meat with a variety of pickled stuff: onions, gherkins, cabbage. I think there were spuds too. The mustard sauce I had with my pork was a bit rich and sweet but you couldn't fault them for effort.
It was a monument to concrete. I've recently seen that concrete, when used creatively, can be made to look attractive. I'd never have believed it, until I saw it. However, this was old