David Whitley heads away from the bars and clubs of Riga’s Old Town to discover the New City and the Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum by Lake Jugla.
The Riga Flight
The stuff you can learn whilst sat towards the back of the plane is fascinating. Perched in that delightful seat just in front of the toilet, the stewardess closes the curtain to the crew’s cramped sanctuary amongst the meal trays and drinks trolleys.
“God I hate the Riga flight,” she rasps, throwing the metaphorical toys out of the pram. It’s easy to see why as well, as she’s put up with all manner of obstinacy throughout the journey. Two guys refused to move from the emergency exit seats, claiming that slugging their 6th can of beer didn’t necessarily make them drunk.
Others wouldn’t switch phones off, or stay in their seats during turbulence, while one lecherous type had pretty much worn out the Call Attendant button in a none-too-subtle attempt to get some feminine attention.
Drinking at the airport
It’s much the same at the airport. A group of English lads are sat at the bar before their flight arrives, sporting the sort of faces that indicate a good few days of heavy drinking. One of them appears to have lost his shoes, and his cohorts are attempting that forced, half-hearted rowdiness deemed appropriate for the end of a holiday, despite the beers probably tasting like cyanide to them.
Europe’s party capital
Despite gorgeous art nouveau architecture, a wealth of cultural attractions and the only genuine big city buzz in the Baltics, most people come to Riga to tear it up. The advertising isn’t subtle – it is billed as “Europe’s party capital” by the budget airlines ferrying the hordes over to the cheap booze, and so many new bars and buildings have sprung up in Old Town of Latvia’s capital that it is in danger of losing its World Heritage status.
Riga currently holds the double-edged sword that has been passed on by Amsterdam and Prague. Tourist numbers are booming, but many of those tourists are coming because they know it’s an absolutely fabulous place for a giant piss-up.
Beer is cheap, bars have easy-to-read English menus and go by reassuring names such as Dickens’ and Paddy Whelans’.
The drinking can go on all night in numerous clubs that act as battery cages for the mindlessly intoxicated. On a much seedier level, they often contain exceedingly liberal East European women with horizontal earning strategies.
Riga’s Old Town
The Old Town still retains some of its charm, however. Riga didn’t earn the nickname ‘the Paris of Eastern Europe’ for nothing, and a stroll amongst the squares and buildings in the quieter afternoon hours is wonderfully enchanting. If only it stayed the same later on, some sigh.
This influx of tipple tourism has led to such sighs from various quarters. The early adopters who spotted the party potential early are upset that their dirt cheap local bars have changed to cater for the masses, hiking the prices up at the same time.
Those who have always loved the city, irrespective of the drinking, are just sad that people come for all the wrong reasons.
The Latvian police, of course, have had it with naked drunks jumping into fountains, and are now exercising the sort of leniency and tolerance usually associated with great white sharks around a seal colony.
New City
The secret, of course, is to venture out of the Old Town, beyond the ring of parks that surround it, and past the giant freedom monument that dwarfs everything else in sight. Then comes the New City, something that would never be described as pretty, but has a tangible ballsy fizz about it.
This is where the streets are lined with casinos, but more importantly, local bars, restaurants and shops. It’s not trying to appeal to anyone in particular, and has a real if-you-don’t-like-it-then-tough attitude. Strolling down a street and peering through private archways, then nipping into an unprimped café just to see what’s inside is a real joy.
Staburags restaurant
The Staburags restaurant on A Čaka iela is a typically schizophrenic example of what to expect. Walk in and it comes across as a cosy little farmhouse, all wood panelling, flowers and warm lighting.
The waitresses are dressed in the sort of traditional dress that no-one in Latvia actually wears, and the food is defiantly solid, local fare.
Venture off to the toilets, though, and you suddenly realise the scale of the place – it’s not just one rustic farmhouse, but six or seven linked together with tiny corridors.
Once finally through the labyrinth, the diner is greeted with those delightful blue, ultra-violet lights so beloved of heroin addicts across the globe. It’s completely, mystifyingly out of place, but this is not a city in which to look for logic.
Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum
This is especially true when you stumble across Riga’s most charming area, in the woodland by Lake Jugla. The Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum is a little enclave unlike anywhere else in the city, transported from across the country and across the decades.
The buildings inside – over 100 of them – are all made from wood. They’ve been saved from destruction in Latvian villages that have succumbed to the march of progress, then spruced up and plonked wherever the trees open out into a clearing.
The result is a nostalgic amble through simpler times, past windmills, wooden churches and tepee-style kitchens.
Occasionally, the buildings host a nice little surprise. The cattleshed from Ludza is so detailed that they even brought over the troughs that the pigs would drink from, while some of the peasant houses have real life peasants inside, weaving and carving away as they produce goods to sell to passers-by.
Pantries are fully equipped, flour mills look like they could be cranked into use at any minute, and then there’s the threshing barn crammed to the gills with ghoulish sculptures and carvings. It’s a treasure trove of the highest order.
Eating by Lake Jugla
Along a quiet woodland track from an Orthodox church that is 60% roof comes a little hub of activity. It becomes clear why rather quickly.
Inside one of the huts is a rudimentary restaurant, manned diligently by a plump old woman brandishing a gigantic ladle. She’s utterly oblivious to the queue forming as she plops unashamedly Latvian grub onto plastic plates.
It’s all pork, cabbage, potatoes and soups, but a better value meal would be hard to come across anywhere in the world. It’s delicious, and costs virtually nothing.
As does the beer that comes with it. As it’s chugged back, a sweet irony dawns. The cheapest beer in the city that people come to for its cheap beer is in the place that those people are least likely to go to.
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