There I was frying chicken schnitzel, blinked, and was a child again sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen on a green vinyl chair with spindly steel legs that would go for a fortune in a vintage shop today. Most things in her house would. It’s amazing what a smell can do.
Most Sundays for years we’d gather as a family at her house and the grandkids were, without fail, served chicken schnitzel. Bear in mind, this was a woman who went on to run her own successful catering business after immigrating to Australia from Latvia following the war. Chicken schnitzel. Every week. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been a card-carrying member of the breaded-and-fried-anything club but even as a child I must admit to yearning for something different. At least what the adults were eating.
The leap from chicken schnitzel to finding myself stark naked in the middle of a Latvian forest in deep Winter might seem a far one. Even farther, how it also led to my becoming a Latvian citizen. Let me explain.
My grandparents immigrated to Australia in 1948. Four years earlier, at just 17, when a future under Stalin’s totalitarian Communist regime was all but certain, my grandmother fled Latvia for a German refugee camp - talk about Sophie’s choice. According to the Australian Department of Immigration’s ‘Selection Report,’ my grandmother had a ‘fair’ grasp of English, ‘average’ appearance (harsh) and found to be suitable for ‘factory’ work. The desperate despair of her situation was laid bare in questions such as ‘What funds do you have available for transfer to Australia?’ and ‘What identity documentation do you hold?’ both answered simply, harrowingly as ‘None.’
The way she recounts the story is that there was a choice between immigrating to the US, Canada or Australia. All three countries vying for arms and legs to fuel post-war growth. Apparently the Australian officials were ‘nicer’ than the others and that was how it came to be that the course of her life was completely changed, yet again. She would be part of the first wave of non-British immigrants to Australia, known as the ‘beautiful Balts.’ Sadly, hers is by no means a unique story. However, what always stuns me is just how easily it could have gone another way - how arbitrary life can be and how those moments and decisions echo through the generations.
Which brings me back to my schnitzel, lest it catch in the pan. I’d known people with European descent who’d become citizens of their respective countries through some obscure, ancient rules of blood or direct descent - an option I thought to be unavailable to me given neither my Dad or his siblings had pursued this. So, whilst teleported to grandma’s kitchen, I decided to do some research. Turns out there was an obscure path to citizenship for descendants of Latvians who’d fled the country between 1940 and the fall of the Soviet Union in 1990. And that’s how a schnitzel started a six-month odyssey to become a Latvian citizen - my own sliding doors moment.
When the paperwork came through in 2022, it was a strangely proud moment. Strange because I’d never been brought up to feel a strong connection to the country - though it’s flag appeared on my first birthday cake alongside the Australian. From what I understand, this was a diplomatic compromise following a clash of cultures between my grandmother and parents. I remain bemused as to why any flags appeared on the cake at all.
I remember showing my grandmother my passport, along with a copy of her birth certificate - tracked down to support my own citizenship application - the same document she’d left behind nearly 80 years earlier. Ever the archetypal Eastern European, I didn’t expect much by way of outward emotion, but I could tell she was pleased. It felt nice to be able to do that. And yes, for those doing the math at home, she’s still with us and about to celebrate her 98th birthday - according to that very same birth certificate. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.
Passport in hand, it was time to visit this country that now counts me among its number. I hoped to gain a first-hand sense of this place and its people whose history is so deeply marked by centuries alternating between foreign occupation and the struggle for independence. I hoped, too, to better understand my own family. It’s a lot of meaning to place on a single trip. But then again, at its best, shouldn’t travel offer a chance for revelation - of self, of others, of place?
Harbouring the romantic notions of a Northern Hemisphere Christmas - markets, mulled wine, snow gently kissing little red noses - that only a child of languid Summer Christmases would understand, we arrived into Riga. ‘Twas the night before the night before and we were about to find out if our gamble on Uniqlo puffers in the summer sales would pay off.
First stop had to be the Christmas market near our hotel in the ‘Old Town’ - Riga having been established over 800 years ago. Between the bejewelled spruce tree, mulled wine, carolling choir and meats of various description smoking and grilling alongside mountains of sauerkraut, our mental Christmas stockings were stuffed to bursting. The atmosphere, though bereft of snow, delivered romance in buckets - almost as large as those overflowing with sauerkraut.
I was struck by a couple of things. Firstly, just how many of the people looked like me or someone in my family. There was the distinctive nose, faces straight out of Eastern European central casting. It lended a strange sense of familiarity while reinforcing that, despite holding the same passport, my experience of life is such that I would never truly be a part of their world. Secondly, the people themselves. Serious, stoic, reserved. Independent and fiercely proud of their home. It wasn’t just my grandmother - this is how they are. More of my life made sense.
As an aside - in a stoush rivalling claims to the pavlova, Russel Crowe and the flat white between Australia and New Zealand - both Latvia and Estonia attest to erecting the first ever decorated Christmas tree centuries ago. We all know where my allegiances lie.
Now, what you’ve all been waiting for: nudity. We were driven an hour out of Riga, toward the forests of Sigulda - just a couple of hours from the Russian border - to experience a traditional Latvian pirts. The Finns have their saunas; Latvians, the pirts. Or so I thought.
Our experience was to be guided by a ‘pirts master.’ Ours was an otherworldly woman who appeared as if conjured from the darkness of the forest. Gliding towards us, I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d happened across a real-life sprite.
We were escorted into a low-lit, yurt-like structure, its wool-lined walls ready to secrete lanolin once heated by the central fire around which several massage tables were arranged. This was no ordinary sauna.
Having dutifully de-robed, we tentatively sipped wormwood tea to ready us for the ‘ritual.’ Upon being invited to singly or simultaneously cry/laugh/scream if the urge arose, I had to hide my upwardly rolling eyes with a sharp side-eye to my partner for what he’d gotten us into.
For the next three hours we were whipped into a lather - rhythmically it must be said - with soapy birch branches, massaged with honey and alternately doused with scalding and freezing water in rapid succession. It was intense, cathartic and incredibly intimate. The thought crossed my mind: is this a wellness ritual or extraordinary rendition? Either way, I wouldn’t be surprised to see it offered to Eastern Suburbs WAGs in the very near future.
After a period, we were guided - dazed and confused - into the all-enveloping night to a net suspended several meters above the ground. It was minus two. Donning conical felt hats to maintain our warm heads rather than any shred of shame or dignity we might have had left, we lay on the net and stared up at the blazing night sky. This quiet, elemental communion with nature - the extremes of heat and cold, rough and smooth, wet and dry - opened space for understanding, appreciation even. In that stillness, a little more of my life made sense.
Following the ritual, we learned our diminutive host’s day job is as perhaps the world’s most serene member of cabin crew with Latvia’s national airline.
After sleeping the sleep of the dead, we floated back to Riga the next day - Christmas day! What unfolded was one of those random yet entirely memorable days you can have when travelling. After the singular best almond croissant I’ve ever eaten (big call, I know), we mooched around Riga, stopping at a Ukrainian restaurant for borscht, a Japanese restaurant for ramen and, the main event, a seafood feast for dinner - one Christmas tradition we couldn’t let go.
Beyond the spanking-fresh seafood - served entirely raw - the most memorable part of the evening was the conversation with the chef after service. As usual, we sat at the kitchen counter (who doesn’t love dinner and a show?). Reserved as they may be, Latvians, much like the oysters we slurped, can open up once you crack the shell.
From that exchange - and others during our time in Riga - I sensed a stoic optimism rather than any sense of resignation that you might expect in the current geopolitical context. Here was someone running a thriving, high-end restaurant, car park full of luxury marques, in a city that felt every bit a sophisticated European capital.
Check back here in a few years to see if history is bound to repeat itself.
There was a lot of pressure on this trip, more than normal. High expectations, of course, always risk disappointment. But what unfolded was much more than a holiday - a journey not just through a country, but back through my own story.
For those not on their own path of self-discovery, go to Riga anyway - for the history, food and architecture. And if nothing else, the Christmas market was the best I’ve been to.
Oh, the Uniqlo puffers worked a treat when we weren’t loitering about in the nude.
Wow. That was a masterclass in the travel blog genre. Combining powerful word pictures, he searches for the essence in each place and shows us the view - infused with his Aussie humour. I feel like I am on the journey with him. Michael is a born writer and I always look forward to reading his stories.
You transported me to Riga and I agree with Kaz - you are a born writer. Cannot wait for more journeys you are embarking on. Keep it up - it's my "Feel Good" moment when I read your blog