Great bulk, huge mass, the station a Soviet stacija, вокзал. The façade, stone, beige, appended: LATVIJAS DZELZCEĻŠ ORIGO ORIGO.1
Looming, cuboid, stark, the clock ticks and fades out—
RĪGA.
—
Four hours earlier, the 06:30 to Riga pulled out of Vilnius Central Station. It has two carriages, sleek and new, in red and black livery, stamped with the riding knight—Lithuania’s symbol. This knightly cavalcade journeyed north, hailing royal Trakai to its west and passing through many a town Lietuvos: Kaišiadorys, Jonava, Kėdainiai, Radviliškis, Šiauliai, Joniškis.
Then came the frontier. Through the snow we ploughed—snow-white on white snow—as familiar terrain gave way to familiar terrain. Latvia and Lithuania are Baltic brothers. They have shared the same sufferings, faced the same trials, known the same stories. The Rigan story, like all stories, is one of reminiscence.
—
At first sight, Riga differs from Vilnius. The station, functional and lacking any particular charm, opens onto a wide boulevard, with four lanes each way. Dingy underpasses permit its sub-transit, as trolleybuses and trams tumble overhead. On the other side at last begin those well-known neoclassical apartments of the Russian Empire, reassuringly regular and aesthetically satisfying. Yet we were not in pursuit of those well-formed neoclassical orders; for in any city touched by Tsarism one can find them, whether St Petersburg, Tbilisi or our dear Vilnius. No, we hoped to find the Hanseatic Riga, born of the Ostsiedlung, trade and the Livonian crusade.
Those imperial apartments encircle the old town, but they do not intrude upon it. The boulevards converge, transforming into twisting stone streets, themselves colliding at Plätze filled with market stalls and jolly pub gardens. After imbibing some Baltic beer, the tourist is opened up to many possibilities: among them, to trip and fall over the cobbles; to get lost amongst the many twist and turns; or to find himself overshadowed and intimidated by the city’s colossal churches—a psychological punishment for straying from the via media.
The Dom is Riga’s greatest cathedral. Consecrated in 1211 by Albert, Bishop and founder of Riga, this red-brick Romanesque monolith is the city’s heavenly axis. The church’s trunk-like bell-tower, inlaid with cream-yellow blind arches, dominates the sky-line, setting itself apart in colossal magnitude. Capping the body of the tower, a black-tiled dome curves into a belfry. On top, a golden weathercock scrapes against the firmament. Inside, a resolutely Lutheran decorative scheme: plain white walls and arches, affixed with the sigils of Riga’s prominent trading families; stained glass windows depicting the city’s founding; and an intricate mannerist organ. Out in the courtyard, underneath the cloisters, are scattered the city’s secular relics. An urn contains the heart of Carl Gustav Jochmann, Baltic German writer and philosopher. Strewn about are cannons cast in defence of Riga and its trading rights. One fittingly named Mercur after the trading god is inscribed in Low German:
MERCURII DER KAUFLEUT / MERCURY THE MERCHANT’S
GOTT VNDT DAN DER GOTTER / GOD AND MOREOVER THE GOD’S
SNELLER BOTT DEN NAMEN / SWIFTEST MESSENGER, IS THE NAME
ICH HAB VND THUE HARTT / I BEAR AND ACT WITH FORCE
SHIESSEN DARZV / I SHOOT AS WELL
HANS MEIER MICH THET / HANS MEYER MADE ME
GIESSEN ANNO MDCI / CAST IN THE YEAR 1601.
And a grotesque:
(O Mercury, god of thieves, your caduceus
is now used by the rigan army
as witness this cannon)
[psychopomp]
—
Before Albert with bishop’s crook placed Riga’s formal foundations, there lived the native Balts. A mish-mash of Livonians and Curonians, these pagan peoples had had the same idea as the Germans, that the mighty Dagauva, overflowing into the Gulf of Riga, could facilitate a prosperous trade. And thus they lived, frequented by Swedes and Danes and Slavs and Krauts seeking gold and kind. And thus they lived, until Meinhard, Berthold, Albert and the buccaneering Bremers came.
At Üxküll (Ikšķile), a fair isle, there settled a Saint of an Augustinian kind, the holy monk Meinhard. There built he a house of good stone and a house of god, and in the murmuring waters of the Lord soothed many a heathen Liv and heathen Kur. But ‘twas not enough to woo a few. No, the peerless Prince-Archbishop of Bremen Hartwig desired more privileges. Meinhard he consecrated as bishop, subordinate to Bremen’s interests. Any mariner who traversed the Baltic sea entered Bremen’s new realm.
But Meinhard died, mid-evangelism, so Berthold he sent, a Hanoverian and Cistercian, to make holy war. And holy war they made, charging up the Dagauva, crushing a pagan force. But Berthold lost control of his steed, raced into the routed foe, and got a spear right in the back. Revengeful, the Pope in Rome stamped his bull. Innocent promised innocence to all those noble knights. How innocently the third Innocent called the Albigensian and Fourth crusades, also…
Thence came Albert, and the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, and the sword, and the warrior monks, the swordbrothers, militia and grandmasters. And so the murmuring waters of the Dagauva baptised Latvia by force. Force remained the trading currency of the Baltic for seven hundred years more. The Brothers of the Sword fell to the Teutons, who seized the Terra Mariana as the Livonian Order. Its eventual collapse led to the Livonian Confederation, who, stuck between the Scandinavians, the Poles, the Lithuanians and the Russians, withstood domination as long as it could. Then the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth seized it, then the Swedes, then the Russians. A brief period of independence in 1918 was betrayed by the Browns and the Reds in 1940. The Latvian SSR declared independence in 1990. Now Latvia is free.
—
Rātslaukums, the Town Hall Square, is testament to the city’s memory. In the centre, a statue of Roland stands fiercely independent. Facing him the red-brick House of the Blackheads, ornate and mannerist, symbolises Riga’s status as a trading town. On the other side of the square is the Town Hall itself, where the City Council, descended from Albert’s settlers eight hundred years ago, deliberates on civic matters. Nearby, the jarringly ugly Museum of the Occupation of Latvia reminds any visitor of the horrors of the Nazi and Soviet past. Just beyond it, a red granite monument to the Red Latvian Rifleman, who aligned themselves with the Bolsheviks during the Russian Civil War and were formerly the glorified subject of that same Museum—built in the 1970s for the one hundredth birthday of Vladimir Lenin.
—
The treasure we sought next was Riga’s Art Nouveau quarter. By chance, instead, we encountered a spiritual treasure. On Freedom Boulevard (formerly Александровская улица ‘Aleksandrovskaya ulitsa’, Adolf-Hitler-Straße and Ļeņina iela) we saw that we had come to the holy city of Byzantium. Over us rose the Nativity of Christ Cathedral, Russian Orthodox, a monument of magnificence. Nineteenth-century, Neo-Byzantine, its stately dome decreed by Alexander II shimmers in sun-gold, orbited in each cardinal direction by four black-gold stars. On the south-eastern corner a bell-tower, in sun-gold and smaller, crowns the entranceway. Under that stately dome the image of images, Pantocrator, ΙC ΧC, gazed upon us, facing the iconostasis, icon after icon, gold on more gold… and crepuscular rays slice through the incense, which stains the soul as it stains those aquamarine, Uranian, walls, blue for the heavens.
At one corner, among the painted saints, lies a relic, the body of a saint. Saint John Pommer, Archbishop of Riga, Primate of the Latvian Orthodox Church, holy martyr murdered, pray for us, sinners. A fellow sinner, a godly woman, knelt and prayed. Just before, she had made the sign of the cross thrice, directed at the altar, in the Orthodox fashion: thumb, index and middle fingers bunched together, representing the trinity; the two remaining fingers, folded down, recalling Christ’s two natures, divine and human, in hypostatic union; and the right hand touching first the right shoulder before the left, in a reversal of the Western style. She kissed the sarcophagus’ glass cover, just above his priestly klobuk. She rose and crossed herself again. Then knelt and kissed it again. Then again. Then again. Prostration. Veneration. Devotion. What wondrous devotion.
And I had judged her. She wore the outfit of a chav, a gopnik. Tracksuit and hoodie. But she had wrapped herself in a shawl of modesty. And her faith was unwavering. How could I be surprised at her devotion? I saw the mote in her eye, unaware of the beam in mine own. Hypocrite! Царство божие внутри вас, девушка!2
So I stood there, basking in the light, illuminating me, the glasslike beams grazing my face, perforating, striking my heart, my soul, breathless, hymns of divine love…
—
We cut across the Esplanāde, leaving behind the Cathedral, and moved up towards the Art Nouveau streets we had sought before. The winter sun was setting, casting dark ochre hues over the naked black trees. Passing through, on our right was the National Museum of Art, neoclassical, baroque and grand; on our left, the Art Academy, in the Dom’s Gothic colours, bricks, brown and cream. Elizabetes iela offered the first hints of that architectural renaissance. Ornament: marble heads, owls, peacocks, and striking light blue tiling. Then onto Antonijas iela, where dragons mark one building’s entrance. Another building, peach in colour, is wrapped in white ribbons, string courses of flowers and vines.
Then onto Albert iela, where Mikhail Eisenstein (Sergei’s dad) worked his magic. Here, the whole street is testament to that fin-de-siecle beauty. So ornate, they are impossible to describe, but allow me, dear reader, a modest attempt at one:
2a
A monument of perfect, though unusual, proportion. The central facade, comprising perhaps five-sevenths of the total width, jut outs as a slight avant-corps. On each side it is flanked by recessed wings, one-sevenths in proportion to the whole. These two wings are in architectural communion with the main facade, yet are unique in having two-storey bays which protrude. These bays span the middle floors, creating on its top and bottom balconies for the third and fifth floor windows.3 The bays extend out further than any other part into the street and are bound by square columns topped by marble spheres. The wings and the main facade are united in colour; untouched stone is accented by scarce strips of red tiles. These strips align with the six vertical axes of 2a’s design. Each axis is topped by a rounded crennelation, forming, with intervening capitals, a rampart fit for an artistic war. Eisenstein has constructed a fortress of the Art Nouveau, and against his enemies positions the helmeted heads of Amazons in an apotropaic fashion. Each of this six-woman troupe crowns a bas relief column which advances down the building in mechanical-imperial grandeur, reaching the red tiling and dissipating as the lower half of the building begins. Hugged by our six axes are the five window-sections; each window above and below surrounded by elaborate reliefs. The lower half of the building, introduced by three square blue tiles horizontally laid out on each axis, is in the main simpler, with its layered indented bands. Its primary feature is the entranceway, formed of four square columns. The middle two gird the entrance hall and arched windows. The outer two slope down into sphinxes, neo-Egyptian guardians of the apartment block, guarded by the gaze of two noble marble ladies—one holding a wreath; the other bearing a torch. Hanging from the four columns are gargoyle faces, crowned by the mechanical capitals, with their temples sprouting bat wings and their faces contorted in shrieks. The details here, geometric, futuristic, with chains, bolts and metallic strapwork, fuse with conjured exoticisms. 2a Albert iela (Isaiah Berlin’s childhoood home) unites the classical with the exotic, the modern with the ancient and even prefigures Art Deco, still yet to charge, with all its energy, onto the world stage. Modernist. Orientalist. Symbolist. Romantic. Eclectic. Exotic.
—
Menu — 3 pavaru (chefs) restorans — the tasting menu.
Location: Jacob’s Barracks, just outside the Old City Walls. A line of yellow houses with sloping red roofs, converted into restaurants, shops and bars.
First course: Goat’s cheese with watermelon and mint. A Latvian variety—‘Līcīši’.
Second course: A beetroot broth accompanied by a little beetroot tart and cashew cream. A rich and pure flavour. Couldn’t get enough.
Third course: Venison tartare with lingonberries, beer pickled onions, chips and spruce needle mayonnaise. A reminder of Lokys in Vilnius, but more exquisite. A taste of the deep forest.
Fourth course: Mussel ragout with cabbage and milk powder. A healthy break between carnivorisms.
Fifth course: A beef loin, with a ‘potato doughnut’, kale cabbage, mushroom sauce and rowan berries. Meža māte, the Forest Mother, blesses us once more.
Dessert: Chocolate mousse with black garlic, blackcurrant and rye bread. (Why rye?)
—
A Pilgrim’s Progress: a journey through Riga and its environs, in the metre of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, poorly but honestly rendered.4
I - Annunciation of Our Most Holy Lady Church
I was a man of firm convictions,
But now, the woman I had judged
has disabused me of those fictions:
I start a journey unbegrudged.
A gate so green surrounds this parish.
Encrusted on it letters lavish
The one who bore the Lord alone,
With praise; for she has grace, enthroned.
A chapel of Annunciation
Was stablished proudly in this place
Where votives shine upon Her face,
And all there offer veneration.
Two other saints reside in here,
As three the Godhead they revere!
II - Latvian Academy of Sciences
Across the road, a brown brick tower
Was built alone, a rival Dome
To glorify another power—
So Stalin could have felt at home!
They studied here the Marxist science,
On which they placed utmost reliance,
Until the day it disappeared,
And all the people cheered and cheered.
And so remain those leftist emblems:
Reliefs of hammers, sickles, too,
With sheafs of wheat crop poking through—
Replaced, at large, like all those anthems
That Riga knew. The spire’s design
Still somehow recalls the divine!
III - Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jesus
From both those temples we departed,
Towards the place Elijas5 flowed;
That street becomes a circle, chartered
For Luther’s church, to which we strode.
The church is simple, stark and sodden
And pledged to Jesus Christ begotten
By God the Father, worshipped there
With modest, earnest, upright prayer.
I pulled the door and wished to enter.
The entrance, under pillars white,
Was shut. I tried with all my might,
But failed to find that sacred centre.
A sign: on Monday we are closed.
No more work ethic, I supposed.
IV - St. Francis Catholic Church
We pressed on further into Riga—
At last! A Roman Catholic church!
A church of Alpha and Omega,
The next stop scheduled on our search!
This Romanesque and Gothic palace
Contains within the blood and chalice
And keeps the Romish faith alive
In Riga, where it shall survive!
The central window—background chequered—
Is made of glass arranged in spheres
Through which the holy ghost appears
To bless the faithful and their shepherd.
The sunlight splits in seven parts
To mark the day the Sabbath starts.
V - Church of All Saints
The bricks arise in domes of copper;
the largest glints in verdigris.
The icons inside, pious, proper,
Commemorate a jubilee—
That dreadful Borki train disaster,
Which nearly killed Tsar Alexander
—So royal patron saints they forged,
Like Nevsky, Mary, Nick and George.
In days of youth thou must remember,
while evil days come not, nor nigh
the years are drawn, remember thy
CREATOR—VANITY, REMEMBER!
The cord shall loose; the bowl of gold
shall break; and bring the dust of old.
VI - Grebenschikov Old Believers' Prayer Chapel
White walls conceal these Old Believers.
A single dome of gold above
Stands watch and guards against deceivers.
For here, the priestless feel God’s love.
We muttered “tourists”—then we entered
And climbed the stairs; inside we ventured.
The chapel’s walls in silver gleamed.
The icons layered light and beamed
The heavens at our eager faces.
We stood and stared and heard a sound:
At once, sweet voices echoed round
And filled our ears, our hearts, all spaces,
With hymns divine and hymns sublime
That snatched us squarely out of Time.
VII - St. Gregory the Illuminator Church
A shrine to the Illuminator
Came last on our redemptive quest.
The focus was on our Creator
And on the nation which he blessed:
This Rigan temple was Armenian!6
Yet by design was not Bohemian,
But modern, sleek and newly built
And somehow even scarcely gilt!
Door locked—we lingered, scanned the Khachkars.7
A kind old lady let us in—
Explained the treasures held within:
For Mary, featured on the altars,
And Baby Jesus, formed from paint,
Both celebrate this founder-saint!
—
Our tired tour came to a close. Our flight, the unglamorous 22:25 Ryanair to Stansted waited for us. Yet we were eager to economise even further and to extract from nocturnal Riga as much enjoyment as humanly possible. So we went for glamour. Supper at the Grand Palace Hotel satisfied our desire, abandoning economy of money for economy of time.
The hotel, unbeknownst to us, contained one of the few remaining smoking rooms in Latvia. Indulgence was the watchword. Russians were the main customers. Splayed out on the sofas or engaging in quiet chatter, they smoked a variety of cigars, cigarillos, and cigarettes.
In the name of moderation, we decided upon a cigarillo each, hoping to relax, contemplate and observe our fellow guests while we puffed away. Only having half an hour before our taxi, we would have wasted a cigar. To sweeten the taste, and preferring our palates not to be transformed into decaying steelworks, we secured some Calvados from the barman, savouring that apple brandy’s healing power—what ambrosia!
Across the room from us, two Russians muttered indecipherables. We imagined them as gangsters, discussing their next Latvian business proposition, or the power struggles in Moscow, or the arms-dealers in Ukraine. They were probably just discussing the ice hockey. Yet one was the very image of a mobster. Cigar in hand, he surveyed the room constantly, as rills of smoke ran out his nose and mouth and were rapidly sucked into the ventilation systems above. The other pulled out a rainbow bubblegum coconut mint pineapple vape. How crass.
—
As we drove in pitch-black towards the airport, the silhouettes of Riga’s buildings, illuminated by headlights and street lamps, gathered on the horizon. Above those patterned streets loomed the Dom, the Soviet Academy of Sciences, the spires of churches Orthodox, Catholic, Lutheran and Old Believer. On the Dagauva’s western bank sit malformed shapes of glass, steel and concrete; the National Library, Swedbank. At the harbour, cranes load products in bulk. Ships rush on populous business. The estuary floods into the frigid Gulf. Forth on the godly sea.
—
Latvia Railways. Origo is a name of a department store within the station complex.
“The Kingdom of God is within you, young lady!” Luke 17:21.
Though apparently there is a false floor. We had no access, so I could not verify this and so my description may be mildly inaccurate: https://www.latvians.com/index.php?en/Trips/Features-AlbertaIela/No-02a-Alberta/index.ssi.
A creative exercise, shall we say? The scheme of Onegin stanzas is: aBaBccDDeFFeGG,
Pronounced eLIas.
Pronounce this and Bohemian with three syllables please! are-ME-nyun.
Pronounce HATCH-cars.