June 30, 2018. I woke up in Mikulov, just over the Austrian border in the Czech Republic. I drove toward a large castle, then wandered on foot, discovering the old Jewish quarter tucked behind the castle—including a beautiful synagogue and a row of preserved wooden homes that were simple yet charming. My morning mission was to find a good latte, and after walking all over town in search of one, I finally stumbled upon a great little art gallery café right next to the synagogue. Ironically, it was where I had started my search.

In the process of looking for an ATM, I got to know the whole town pretty well. The synagogue offered a wealth of information about Rabbi Loew and the history of Moravian Jews. At one point, Mikulov had the highest concentration of Jews in the region—at its peak, about 60 percent of the population was Jewish. A particular view from the old cemetery sparked the realization that I’d actually been here before, though I hadn’t remembered until that moment. I visited the cemetery hill where over 4,000 Jews are buried and placed stones on Rabbi Loew’s grave. The nearby burial house, where bodies were prepared for burial, held detailed exhibits about mourning practices, rites, and even the funeral carriages used in those times.

Later I returned to the gallery café for that excellent latte and sat for a bit. Two young girls passed by, dressed in traditional Czech outfits with tall boots and crowns, which added a festive feel to the afternoon. I walked up again to the castle gardens for one last view of the valley. This part of the Czech Republic is known as the banana belt—mild, fertile, and attractive to Austro-Hungarian elites like the Liechtensteins, who built three large mansions in the area.

From there I continued on to Brno, parking up on a hill and finding it to be a surprisingly charming medieval city. The Augustinian monastery is especially well-known for its mummified monks, which I didn’t get a chance to see. Still, the main square was lovely, and I grabbed a fantastic chicken kebab—grilled and served on homemade pita—for just 3 euros. It was definitely a meal worth remembering. There was some kind of beer and music festival going on, adding to the city’s energy. I learned about medieval passageways beneath the main square, but didn’t have time for the museum tour. Still, wandering around the old town was a real treat. I found the last surviving medieval gate, tucked into the side of a building, and came across a coffee shop run out of a bicycle—which I loved.

That evening, I drove north toward Poland, hoping to reach Gdańsk. I was excited to finally see this historic port town, famous not just for Lech Wałęsa but also for its colorful wooden architecture. I passed through Marburg and saw the castle from the road, but didn’t stop. In hindsight, I wish I had—because I ended up driving four hours out of my way. My GPS had routed me through Kaliningrad, but I didn’t have a visa for Russia and had to turn back. I finally stopped for the night in a beautiful barley field near a stream and a small wood, and slept in the car.

July 1. I explored the streets of Olsztyn, then continued toward Suwałki with plans to head to Kaunas. Once I crossed into Lithuania, I was surprised by how many people were out and about, giving the place a timeless feeling—almost like stepping into the 1800s. I was rushing to catch a parade in Riga, but lost an hour to the time zone change when I entered Latvia. The road quality noticeably improved after the border crossing, which made the last stretch easier.

I arrived in Riga with just 20 minutes to spare before the parade ended, an hours long procession of 43,000 dressed in national costume and wearing wreaths made of flowers for the women and oak leaves for the men. Undaunted, I rushed to the end, snapping photos, until I could go no further. They had blockaded the street, only allowing parade participants to pass for a celebratory dinner. Cold and exhausted, I found my rented apartment and collapsed. The room was enormous, and for the first few days I slept well.

July 2. The National Song Festival in Riga was the main reason I’d come to Europe for the summer. Madara had told me about it a year ago and had bought my ticket to the closing concert and sing-along night at the Mežaparks open-air stage, knowing it would sell out. I met Madara at the tourist information office in 2010 on my first trip to Riga. I’d been staying in Selcuk, Turkey for a month and was getting reeled in for money by a guy I’d fallen for. I finally figured out I was being manipulated, and headed to Riga to get my head together. Why Riga? I wanted to get out of the heat and the $60 price tag for a Ryan Air flight didn’t hurt.

There are over 1.2 million Latvian folk songs, known as ‘dainas’, which have been recorded for centuries, with over 300,000 different melodies. This makes the Latvian oral tradition one of the richest in the world. Typically, dainas are made up of four-lined stanzas (quatrains), and their themes cover love, philosophies on life and the rites of passage surrounding birth, marriage, death and the seasons. After centuries of foreign domination, Latvians were eager to reclaim their national identity through song. The first Latvian song festival took place in 1873, with around 1000 participants.

Back to my friend Madara. Since I’d last seen her in 2010, she was married and had a son. I met up with her family for lunch, and Madara pointed out a number of inexpensive eating establishments in the Stockpot neighborhood. I appreciated the tip. After lunch we walked for a time until they begged off, hands full with their active son. We promised to reconnect over the next week and I bid them farewell, heading to the National Library. I caught a fascinating exhibit about the Latvian diaspora, including a memorable quilt. The exhibit addressed the pressure within the diasporic community to continue speaking Latvian and marry other Latvians.

July 3. I slept in, enjoying the luxury of sleeping indoors. The apartment felt so roomy with its 12 foot ceilings and palatial bathroom. It was probably built in the early 1900s. On a less positive note, the floor shook like the dickens when cars and trains passed. I often woke with a start, afraid the place would collapse around me.

I got up and investigated the neighborhood, taking a stroll around the Esplanade and Stockpot. Later I met Madara for a free concert at Gertrude Church, a lovely venue.

July 5. I attended the symphony and then headed to see Maras Zāle, a beautiful country dance. I missed the first half hour of the dance because the symphony ran late, but the dance was amazing. The dance was followed by a huge street festival.

July 7. I had a slow morning at a nice cafe reading The New Yorker. From there I headed to the Art Nouveau Museum, thoroughly losing myself in the architectural world. Riga has the densest collection of Art Nouveau buildings in the world, thanks in part to Homestead, the early-20th-century British mayor, who influenced its development. From there I headed down Albert Street, where many of these lovely homes are located. In a pipe shop, I met a former pro basketball player who had lived in Irvine and liked the U.S., but had returned to secure citizenship. Albert Street was full of guided tours. Later, I listened to more singing groups in the center and ate my second street burger of the day.

July 8. I woke late and went to the city center to hear singing in Vērmanes Park, and later watched some of Māra Zeme on TV. Tonight was the closing concert and all night sing-along. There were 67,000 attendees, making it the highest attendance for a single event in the festival’s history. The setting of the final concert at Mežaparks is impressive in itself – even before you arrive, the walk down the long avenue surrounded by trees into the woodland area is stunning.

We arrived around 4pm. When the concert started, thousands of singers moved onto the stage like gentle waves. I loved the way the choirs entered in a stately procession through the aisles. The costumes were spectacular. Before I knew it, the sun had set and the sky faded into darkness and stars. Of course, this only happens by about 11:30 p.m., as it’s shortly after midsummer and the sun sets late in northern Europe. Initially the singing was separated by gender, male and female choirs, but as the night wore on, their voices sang the powerful anthems together.

Madara’s husband had insisted I bike to the performance. I had hoped to drive, as I didn’t think I’d last the whole evening. I turned out to be right. Around 2am I finally left, eyes heavy and falling asleep.

July 9. I was exhausted and slept like the dead. The festival officially over, I had one day to rest before Shawn joined me for an adventure north to Estonia and Finland. Today was a national holiday, and Madara and I decided to ride out bikes to Jurmala, a quaint seaside town favored by Russian tourists. I loved the cutesy shops and charming wooden buildings. We spent the day there, meeting some of Madara’s social activist friends. I enjoyed our discussions and between that and riding around, we stayed till dark, missing the last train back to Riga. We had to ride the 10 miles home.

July 10. As always, there was more to see than I had time for. I had hoped to visit the open-air ethnographic museum Madara and I had visited in 2010. Shawn arrived at 3 p.m., and we drove to the Citroen dealer to fix the headlight (I’d broken it in a parking lot) and then headed back to Jurmala. The town was very crowded, with mostly Russian being spoken. Shawn was amazed by the Baltic Sea, which looked more like a lake than an ocean. You could walk out forever and still be calf-deep in water.