Summer, 2015. I spent some time in Sigulda, where I learned about a Jewish painter who had a strong influence on Latvian art. I tried to find a latte but had no luck. I wandered through the main square and along the main street, passing the house of a famous family—possibly connected to a pharmacy. The town has a very industrial past with tanneries, textile mills, lumber production, and steelworks, but now it’s known for krowki candies (a leftover from Soviet times) and ice cream. The old houses are fascinating. I took a walk along the river before heading on to Kuldīga.

Kuldīga greeted me with a stunning waterfall—one of the widest I’ve seen—approached over a charming bridge. I searched for affordable accommodation and eventually settled at the Metropole, where I had a great room and an excellent breakfast. I spent time wandering the medieval narrow streets and admiring the really old houses, including a Rococo-style city hall. At the Visitor Information Center, I met a laid-back guy who was also a cyclist, and a handsome Italian who told me about an international photography workshop in the next town, with an exhibition scheduled in a few days. Later, at the exhibit, I met a talented Japanese photographer.

Meanwhile, I enjoyed my stay at Metropole, then traveled to a nearby town with a Livonian Order knights’ castle. There, I toured the museum with a nice Latvian family who still lives in part of the building, which doubles as a B&B. I met some siblings who had also stayed there. The castle has a beautiful moat and fascinating furniture, including a dramatic hunting room/study filled with antlers, dark walls, and Bavarian-style German hats. There were also fancy cigar and tobacco boxes on display.

Next, I visited a traditional town with a small shop selling handicrafts: woodcarving, handmade clothes, and knitwear—especially mittens and socks. The tradition is that brides knit mittens for their groom’s family using special patterns handed down through generations. I tasted a special carrot rye tart there, along with fresh local bread. The local inn was owned by the mother of the girl who gave me a personal tour of the town museum, which featured dresses and gowns illustrating how people lived and dressed in the past. The tour guide was part of a famous group of local women singers who perform traditional songs. Her mother also makes those delicious carrot rye tarts—I bought one at the inn. As I left town, I saw women selling vegetables from their gardens and baked goods from carts.

Driving toward the seashore, I passed vast logged forests—Latvia prides itself as the largest wood supplier to the EU, though that’s a dubious honor. I stopped at a small cliff and walked through the forest to the beach. The beach was nice but narrow and long; I prefer my usual beaches better. Then I headed to Pāvilosta (Paul’s Port), where I visited a fisherman’s museum and a large riverside estate. I met some siblings searching for lodging—all places were full—so we decided to stay together. The town had many Russian tourists as well as Latvians. The Latvian flag—with two red stripes and a white stripe in the middle—symbolizes Russians surrounding Latvians in the middle, a poignant image. The townspeople had all helped build the huge port at Liepāja, ordered by the czar.

We found a lovely cabin to stay in, situated on an island in the middle of a pond. The place felt magical, though I barely slept—afraid I’d breathe too loud and wake everyone. Late at night, I walked around trying to find the owners, but no one was in sight. Later, in Liepāja, I got a 100 euro speeding ticket—no speed limit signs posted, but 50 km/h applies in towns, even when it doesn’t look like a town. I visited a museum with a beautiful exhibit of early 1900s fashion—pre- and post-flapper styles—with gorgeous materials and patterns. Russian women flocked around the exhibit, bumping into me repeatedly as if their goals were more important. I also met a local artist from Riga with a new exhibit featuring thoughtful and beautiful sculptures.

I walked around the old working-class neighborhoods, admiring lovely buildings like Peter the Great’s palace and a huge church he built. At the end of the fancy boulevard along the quay stood a statue of a woman gazing out to sea. Liepāja’s big beach was crowded with people. I had a traditional meal of potatoes and some kind of meat at a greasy spoon before heading back inland toward Kuldīga for the photography exhibit via a scenic route.

On the way, I got another ticket for passing on a double solid line—two tickets in one day! I was angry but thought I earned it. The police took forever, and I worried I’d miss the presentation. Thankfully, I arrived just in time. The exhibit was fascinating, featuring work from five or six different courses. One group made handmade books, including bookbinding, which I studied carefully. I met the Japanese photographer again, who told me about upcoming presentations by teachers in Riga—which I ended up attending.

There was also a film screening showing all the work around the museum I had visited, which displayed historical buildings in town and their former uses. One beautiful house by the river was supposedly moved there. That night, I camped near a graveyard, parking where signs indicated historical sites—a usually safe place.

The next day, I headed to Riga via Jūrmala, a fashionable seaside town near the capital. I stayed two nights with a couchsurfing family. Arriving late one night, the next day their little boy helped me wash my car, and the mom treated me to a magnesium soak tub session. I gave her money afterward—I didn’t want to take advantage. I’d been exhausted from traveling, and the soak was a welcome recharge. I wanted to stay longer, but they had more guests coming.

Marita, my Couchsurfing host, shared her fear that Putin might invade Latvia next; that the war in Ukraine was actually meant for Latvia but was diverted at the last moment. It was scary, and she said she might move to New Zealand. We sat in their garden sipping fresh tea. Later, I borrowed a bike and rode into Riga, remembering the area near where Madara used to live. I found a nice French pastry shop called Le Bohemian, and an interesting place where the first mall in Riga was built in the early 1900s. I also had homemade ice cream there, from the same place I discovered later along the river.

That night, we swam in a lake at the perfect temperature. I felt refreshed and happy, not wanting to leave. It was cold getting out, so we ate cheese and crackers and joked with their close friends, a couple who rode bikes to visit.

The next day, I headed south toward Rundāle Palace for an hour, then to a larger city that had been bombed during WWII (except for the church tower). I slept outside Rundāle and, after some negotiation, got to see it on the same ticket as the next day’s visit. I took my time touring the palace, admiring the French Baroque garden with red flowers arranged in a fleur-de-lis pattern, a secret garden, a maze (Harry Potter style), and a huge forest across the river where nobility once hunted.

Later, I went to another mansion and wandered the grounds. Inside, I admired the circular rotunda upstairs with beautiful Palladian stucco work. There, I met an Italian man traveling Eastern Europe, admiring mansions and art. He knew a lot about Palladio and architecture—a very interesting conversation.

Afterward, I visited a nearby town with a castle on the river, then stopped at a burger joint craving a burger. They were terrible. Feeling homesick, I called Tom via Wi-Fi/Skype and told him I wanted to come home—I didn’t want to be away anymore. He talked about needs and wants, and encouraged me to figure out what I needed. I decided to set a flight date home and booked it a few days later. It helped to give voice to my inner child, who had been resentful and feeling left out for months. For a few days, I let myself vent and cry, emptying out feelings that had built up. I still sometimes forget to listen to that part of myself.

The next day, I explored towns along the river—Jacobsburg? and others—with rich history and charm. Then I returned to Riga and found Madara and her family just as they were biking home. I brought bedding and slept on a mat on the floor under the sink—very primitive. Sleep was hard; their son kept waking up and screaming at the top of his lungs. He was used to getting his way, and it worked well.

Madara went off to work in the morning, as did her husband. I realized Madara’s sister was with the son instead, sleeping next to him—an effective switch none of us noticed. I walked into town, explored parks, read Vanity Fair (an article about the Pope and …), and caught the first day of the Riga Festival, which lasted all weekend. There was Latgalian singing and storytelling on one stage in the park, with locals dressed in traditional costumes. Madara’s family is Latgalian, and her husband studied sauna administration and performed a traditional sauna with herbs.

I found a lovely café Madara had recommended and had a latte. A girl came with her fiancé to a place called Love Café (I think). I explored more, visiting a museum about Riga’s history—very interesting—and attended two or three days of the festival. There was some loud music, and on the last day along the river, a 1950s Americana festival with people jitterbugging and doing the Charleston in poodle skirts, saddle shoes, and classic muscle cars. It was strange and disorienting.

That night, Madara and a friend took me to Jūrmala. They swam in the freezing ocean while I walked along the beach, thinking they were crazy. We strolled along an old street by the beach, admiring houses and talking about what we wanted to do when we grew up.

It was really good to connect with Madara beyond the usual rush and distractions. I asked to buy a down pillow she had from someone’s house. Her sister had washed and sewn the case—it was very nice. I offered 10 euros, which she accepted, though I thought it was too little. Her husband, an architect, loves to ride bikes. We rode together to watch fireworks over the river, then went to the market to buy watermelon. It was very expensive and rotten—only one vendor selling, who seemed to have a racket.

The next day, I left for the Ethnographic Museum, arriving around noon. I went as fast as I could, trying to see as many houses as possible before closing. Madara and I had visited once before. I ate something quickly, then hurried through the exhibits, catching the windmill just before it closed. It was very interesting. Later, I went to a similar museum near Kaunas in Lithuania and bought some wheat weaving, wood carvings, and beeswax candles.

Then I headed to Cēsis. I arrived in the evening, spotted a nice hotel, and found parking near a historic area Madara had mentioned—a perfectly preserved old mill town. The next morning, I walked around and explored all the buildings, including an old factory site near the dam, the old school, and more.

Later, I visited the Cēsis Castle, where I saw a statue of Stalin in the castle grounds. Inside, I admired the work of a Latvian jeweler and metalworker who had written a book filled with ethnographic details and pagan traditions. I bought the book—it was heavy, but I managed to bring it home. I climbed to the top of the castle’s highest tower (under reconstruction at the time) and noticed the chapel architecture next door.

I wandered through Cēsis, which I really liked. I then drove to a nearby park and tried to reach the castle museum before closing. I ran to the museum and managed to catch some exhibits about the Latgalians, including bee hives carved out of tree trunks. Although I missed the full museum tour, I climbed a tower (Madara and I had done this before), explored the ruins, and wandered through a fairy-tale-like sculpture garden—each statue had a story, which I later looked up on Wikipedia.

I visited a spring on the other side and made a wish for Margaret’s healing and for Nick Ferentinos. I performed a small ritual before heading to the back of the property, where I caught sight of a working sauna by the pond and an old barn filled with carriages. I crossed the road to see several other historic buildings before heading back to my car. I don’t remember exactly where I slept that night.

The next morning, I returned to the hotel I’d seen earlier to ask about a room. After about 20 minutes, they said guests from Belarus were arriving, so there was no availability. But the man helping me kindly offered to show me another place. I followed him and eventually ended up at Laso, just outside of Cēsis—a truly beautiful spot. It looked like a modern-day Gone with the Wind mansion with a vast green field, which I later learned was a paragliding landing site. The whole family were accomplished hang-gliders.

A youth conference was scheduled for the next day, and I met the organizer, a very capable and kind woman who even helped me recover my ATM card—it had been swallowed by a machine for the second time, and she helped negotiate with the bank.

Though reluctant to leave, I checked in and dropped off my things. They later moved me to another room, which was lovely and comfortable. For just €30, I had a great night’s sleep and a delicious breakfast—even though I hadn’t paid for it, they included it anyway. A man there thought I was drunk because I was weaving while driving, but I was just trying to avoid getting dust on my car after washing it—again. (Over the course of the trip, I probably washed and vacuumed the car five times since I was always driving dirt roads to find camp spots. I kept a bottle of Windex and paper towels on hand at all times.)

I loved the place and didn’t want to leave, but I hit the road, heading toward the coast through another charming town, then into Estonia. I stopped at a border town with a unique wooden church I hoped to revisit—but never did. I saw some lovely lighthouses before catching the ferry to Saaremaa Island (via another island). I arrived around 11:30 p.m. and parked near a mansion, planning to explore the grounds the next morning—but they were closed. I did walk around the property again Sunday night, before leaving the island.

I took a scenic road to Saaremaa and visited a potter’s house. Her husband had a beautiful garden, and she and I talked for hours over tea and homemade bread. I showed her Karen Gunderman’s work, and she was so inspired I emailed Karen on her behalf (but never heard back). She told me about her time in a Soviet-era pottery collective near Riga, where 40 potters shared resources like tractors and kilns. These days, she lamented, neighbors rarely visit.

I bought a delicate blue porcelain cup (sadly shattered when I returned home). She had a sweet, big dog that greeted and saw me off. After a few hours, I continued to a fragile coastal site where clay was once mined, then to a friend’s rustic B&B—though the food wait was long and pricey, so I passed. I visited a fishing village museum in the north, just in time to tour all the buildings. I especially loved the attic with handmade quilts and exhibits on old fishing gear.

Later, in Saaremaa town, I found another car wash and heard the song Happy playing at a wedding—a sweet moment that reminded me of the jazz festival in Nida and Soul Unit Lithuania. I camped in a nearby conservation area and headed into town the next morning. At the town hall, I learned about a concert celebrating Estonian independence at the meteor crater that night—featuring a famous Latvian singer.

I wandered the charming old streets, then stopped at a cafe for a latte and pastry, where I met a sweet Finnish guitarist playing Easy Like Sunday Morning in the market. He told me how much he loved Latvia. I wished him well and drove north along backroads, offering a couple a ride and admiring the tree-rich landscape. I found a beautiful house with a dock on the north shore and wished I could live there.

I eventually made it to the crater concert, which was lovely—candles lit the pond, a man in traditional dress recited a poem, and Anne (the singer) performed. The sound system was loud, so I plugged my ears, but I enjoyed the vibe. I returned to my camp spot afterward.

The next morning, I met up again with the Finnish guitarist before heading to the ferry. But I hadn’t realized there’d be a huge wait—two hours—since all the Tallinners were returning home Sunday. I decided to wait it out and drove to a beautiful manor instead, where I sat and read. I found a dock and jumped into the muddy, reedy waters. There was a Russian couple with a dog, and an Estonian couple nearby. I’d just followed my intuition to the spot—something I did often on the trip, trusting my instincts like a kind of sixth sense.

Frustrated after waiting in line for hours, I texted my Couchsurfing host in Tallinn that I wouldn’t make it and drove toward a seaside resort, sleeping in the woods that night. The next morning I arrived in the town—idyllic and peaceful. I walked along a newly renovated path near a gazebo and a former Russian palace. A girl at a crystal shop suggested her parents’ vegetarian cafe, where I got a great latte.

I explored the town, wandered the castle gardens, and came across an old but beautiful Russian spa. I took photos of a train depot built for Peter the Great and marveled at its architecture. In the mid-afternoon, I left for Tallinn, arriving at dusk. I parked near a bar, walked around Old Town for a few hours, then drove 24km outside the city to find a camp spot.

The next morning, I walked along a forest trail and wondered why Estonians didn’t seem to hike recreationally—maybe they were burned out on forests. I returned to Tallinn and explored more, meeting a friendly couple from Finland who were acrobats in a Cirque du Soleil-style troupe. I took a photo of them performing a trick outside a Russian Orthodox church.

That day, I got lost trying to find my car—I’d walked in a huge circle. Eventually, I did, and had lunch at a mall buffet with traditional Estonian food: crepes, beet soup, and more. I’d parked near the mall, asked a local if it was okay, and was told yes—but came back to a parking ticket. Apparently, Tallinn uses a mobile app system for parking payments.

Tallinn was lovely, but I had to move on. I arrived in Tartu at dusk. I walked through the old square and along the river path to the visitor center. I spotted the botanical garden and loved it. Across the street, I saw a man in curlers in front of a brick building—turned out he was in a play about Odysseus, which was sold out. He told me to come back in five minutes, and I did. I got a ticket.

He played Hercules in the play, which was an immersive, site-specific performance. We (the audience) were soldiers honoring Odysseus. The show took us to different locations via buses—memorials, mansions, Penelope’s party, all filled with actors and music. Penelope and Odysseus rode in separate buses pretending to talk on the phone, pacing back and forth. The final scenes showed them aged, on a giant bed under psychedelic projections. It was beautiful and bizarre.

I emailed the woman who helped translate during the performance, and she showed me a place to camp. Thankfully, I hid off a side road, as cars drove along the main one all night.

The next day I headed south toward the Latvian border, aiming for a state park someone had recommended—but I never managed to find it. I considered camping in the woods, but when I heard an eerie chainsaw in the distance, I decided to keep driving. I wasn’t in the mood to meet whoever—or whatever—was wielding it.

Along the way, I passed an old church and a hauntingly abandoned house that reminded me of a story Pablo Neruda once told about riding horseback into the wild hills near Temuco, Chile, to visit a similarly mysterious dwelling owned by bohemian writer-diplomats. The imagery stayed with me.

In the next town near the Latvian border, I stopped at the tourist information office, which was housed in a beautiful old building. I asked if I could scan and send the legal agreement Paul (the attorney) had asked me to sign for Julia. I finally sent it, and felt a huge wave of relief. That task had been hanging over my head since I left the Oginski Palace in Lithuania.

A young woman at the tourist office recommended a café nearby, and I’m glad I followed her advice. I had a delicious meal—soup and fish—though I ordered more than I really needed. Full and content, I got back on the road and crossed into Latvia. The first town across the border immediately struck me as different. I had heard that eastern Latvia (and parts of Estonia) felt far more Russified than the western regions, and it certainly seemed true. Big Soviet-style squares and looming social-realist statues gave the place a distinctly heavy atmosphere.

I drove through Latvia and back into northeastern Lithuania that same day, eventually camping near a beautiful lake where a pagan festival was about to take place over the weekend. I asked a few fellow campers where I could buy groceries, and they pointed me to a Rimi supermarket, which was bustling with festival-goers stocking up on alcohol. Apparently, they could survive on distilled grain alone—who needs bread?

At the lake, I stood in line to take a small boat to an island where trance music was already drifting across the water. The weather promised rain all weekend. A very sweet guy struck up a conversation with me and tried to convince me to stay for the festivities. I was tempted, but I didn’t want to be soaked, nor did I want to haul all my gear across the water. I can be tough, but I was tired of being uncomfortable. After about an hour of chatting, I said goodbye—his brother had just called to ask where he was—and I camped that night in a nearby wood.

The next morning, I made my way to Aukštaitija National Park, which Skirmantė had highly recommended. What a beautiful place. Old water mills, tongue-and-groove timber houses, serene lakes, and a hilltop with sweeping views of four lakes—it was like stepping into a postcard. I would have loved to stay longer, but time was running out. I had just one week left before I had to return the car, and I still needed to make it to Poland. At the visitor center, a local told me that people no longer live the way they did even ten years ago. Tourism has overtaken traditional livelihoods like farming, shepherding, and small-scale lumber milling. It feels like a pattern everywhere I go: the old ways disappearing, surviving only in the open-air museums.

Which brings me to Rumsiskes. I left the park and drove to this ethnographic museum near Kaunas, where I had about two hours to explore. The site spans a huge area filled with historical buildings. First, I came across a working sauna lined with healing plants. Nearby, a camouflaged mud hut had been built to replicate the shelters Lithuanians once used to hide from Soviet persecution—whole families surviving winters in these leaf-covered earthen hovels. I can’t imagine living through a Lithuanian winter like that. Ethnographic museums always stir something deep in me. If I could spend my whole trip visiting them, I would. I often feel I was born in the wrong era.

From Rumsiskes, I headed to Trakai. I arrived at dusk, just in time to watch a full moon rise over the lake. It was absolutely magical. I understood why this place draws so many people, despite its touristy vibe. The town itself is medieval, with narrow, winding streets hugging the lakeshore. The island castle, made of massive stone blocks, is connected by a drawbridge—it looks like something straight out of a fantasy novel.

I strolled along the lake and found a restaurant that served kibinai, the pasty-like dish that Trakai is known for. The kind man I’d spoken with at the pagan festival had urged me to try them, and I did—beef, chicken, and veggie varieties. They were tasty, though I would have preferred a bit more filling.

From there, I drove to Kernavė, another place Skirmantė had recommended for its archaeological significance. Just before reaching the town, a speed camera caught me by surprise—its red flash temporarily blinding me as I unleashed a string of curses. I hate unnecessary expenses, and traffic tickets are my personal nemesis. Between Latvia and Lithuania, I seemed to be averaging one a day. I even got three parking tickets. I felt obligated to report each one to the car’s owner, who warned me that I might not be allowed back into the EU if I kept it up. I paid for three of them, hoping that would count for something.

That night, I camped just off the highway. The back of my car was visible from the road, which made me nervous, and the sound of cars whooshing by didn’t help me sleep. I woke early and went to the museum in Kernavė, which featured fascinating displays of Stone Age settlements and photos of Jonas Trinkūnas and other leaders of Lithuania’s neopagan revival performing fire rituals on the hillforts. I walked out to the archaeological site itself, passing a recreated craft village that included a working potter. Then I hiked down to the river and stood in a wooded spot that felt especially ancient. I performed a small ritual there—just a quiet offering to whatever spirits might still inhabit that place.

Bless Skirmantė and others like her, whose recommendations shaped so much of this journey. If I hadn’t spoken to strangers, I would’ve missed half the experiences that made this trip meaningful. So much for the old advice to keep to yourself.

After soaking up the ancient energy of Kernavė, I drove south toward Poland. Polish roads felt strange, and I cursed every 30 km/h zone and stoplight. It was Sunday, and I seemed to be driving into Warsaw just as the entire city was returning from weekend trips. At one point, it took me an hour to drive ten miles.

In central Poland, a kind Polish woman gave me directions. Though I don’t speak much Polish, I found that my basic Russian gave me enough context to follow. Both are Slavic languages, after all—similar roots, even if their differences are stark.