A public “apology”

I had hoped to ride out the rest of my time here on a wave of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, but then something came up – namely, my hackles. On Monday, I received this as a private message:

Dear Linda An Irish friend of mine just pointed out to me that you mentioned me in a blog. I have now read this and i would like to point out what i actually said to you. I said i lived in Daugavpils and Lived with a Belarussian woman for 5 years and now i am Living with a Latvian woman. Never once did i use the word doing. Of course i realise why you use those words as you like to be controversial and get a reaction from people. I was hoping you would be at the last internations meeting where i would have announced this publicly. I await your public apology on your blog. Of course i will be writing to the internations body to report this matter .

Meh. Potato/pot-ah-to. Much as I dislike threats and demands, in the spirit of sunshine, etc., etc., I decided to let it slide and ignored the message. The post in question was written way back in March. Old news. Then, yesterday, this comment was posted on my blog: 

A Public message to Linda O Grady.
A friend recently pointed out to me that you slandered my name on your blog on March the 30th.
I am the Irishman you referred to in your blog regarding the Internations meeting. Firstly i want to publicly state that you are a LIAR. The conversation was exactly this. I was living in Daugavpils for 5 years with a Belarussian woman and now i am living with a Latvian woman. At no time did i ever mention that i was doing a Russian woman and i am now doing a Latvian as you stated in your blog. Of course i realise why you make controversial statements it is to get a reaction from people. I demand an immediate retraction of this slanderous accusation on my name and a public apology. As a proud Irishman i am ashamed of the fact that you are one of our own.

And yes, believe it or not, he signed it. Fine. If you want an apology that badly, you can have it. Although I probably should advise you to be careful what you wish for in future. 

Me. In apologetic mode.

First of all, I’m sorry that the Irish education system seems to have failed you so completely. While I’m not in the market for any new students, here’s a freebie – in English, the personal pronoun ‘I’ is always capitalised. I could list your other offences against the English language, but I’m kind of busy, and a 5-year-old Latvian could probably do it just as easily. (You can look up ‘slander’ in a dictionary.)

I’m also sorry that when your “friends” read a blog post about a lecherous old expat in Riga, they automatically assume it’s you. I certainly never named anyone. Even more bemusing is that you agree with them. But the most bewildering thing of all is that you then seek public recognition of the fact. Still, it seems like you’re in good company – if my granddad had behaved the way some of the men here do, I’d have had him neutered.

I’m sorry that you don’t understand blogging, or writing in general for that matter. Blogging, like many other forms of writing, is subject to a little creative licence. Or did you really believe that every Latvian man I’ve ever met is called Jānis? You did, didn’t you? Bless your (probably mismatched) cotton socks…

I’m sorry that you couldn’t figure out how to post your comment on the correct post. Instead, you posted it on a totally unrelated post written almost a month later – probably confusing the hell out of anyone reading it. Luckily for you, I noticed and published it here. You can thank me later. 

I’m sorry that I fail to see any of the pride you mentioned in your comment. All I see is a desperate, rather pathetic, bid for attention, and a failed attempt at intimidation. I’m assuming you were egged on by the worm friend in your ear. If they ever do a Latvian remake of “Mean Girls”, you should put yourselves forward. 

And finally, I’m sorry that in the final weeks of this blog, I’ve had to deal with (and subject my readers to) this nonsense. As anyone who actually READS the blog will know, I’ve put up with my fair share of trolls, bullies, bitches and backstabbers while in this country, and I had hoped I’d seen the last of it. 

Well, I think that’s about all I’m sorry for. I hope that the heartfelt nature of my sorrow shines through. I suggest that you go back to… well, I guess you probably call it a life, and let me spend my last few weeks in Latvia in peace. 

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, everything that’s wonderful is what I feel…

 

 

 

 

 

You’ll miss me when I’m gone

Well, my dear Latvians, our time together is almost at an end. Try to hold back the tears. While I know that you’ll miss me desperately, fear not, there are several other foreigners out there writing blogs on Riga/Latvia too. Of course, none of them can quite replace me, but maybe all of them together can half-fill the void I leave behind. Here is a selection for you to get acquainted with, while I try to figure out how to fit my entire wardrobe into one suitcase. 

Still no leopard print

First up, it’s one for all the foodies out there. Food in Riga is a brutally honest, often very funny, look at the restaurants here. The review of Lielais Kinas Muris even made me wince a couple of times, and that’s not an easy thing to do. It’s written by Michael, a Swedish guy, who I’m currently trying to lure out for a pint because Scandinavian guys are hot I like talking about food. 

Next up is Heather over at Ferreting out the Fun. She’s only been living in Riga for a little over a month and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting up with her a couple of times. Her blog focuses on various touristy things you can do in Riga, and I’m sure once she finds her feet, she’ll be venturing further afield as well. So if you’re feeling a bit suicidal after reading a few of my posts, I recommend checking out her super-positive blog. 

One that I’m particularly interested in is the perpetually confused Englishman in Latvia. He’s already got the Death Stare from his Latvian fiancée, so depending on what she lets him write, this could be fun. He’s also working on renovating an old house in Limbaži, muddling through the various pitfalls of dealing with Latvian tradesmen, and almost being killed driving to and from his house. Spelling and grammar aside (well, he is English), this is one to watch. 

Life in Riga is a semi-foolproof guide to moving to Latvia. There’s no such thing as a foolproof guide to moving here as you have to factor in the Latvians. Written by a Scottish guy and two locals, it’s a practical, honest guide to what you can expect when you move here. Their post on driving in Latvia gave me an extreme case of writer’s envy and I can’t give a blog higher praise than that. 

And last but not least, it’s my good bluddy John over at The Real Riga – yes, it’s another pesky Irish person writing about the places Latvia would rather foreigners didn’t see. John is on a mission to visit all 58 shitholes districts of Riga, “warts, šašliks, Valmiermuiža and all”. He often saves the very best places for me so next weekend, we’ll be hitting Sarkandaugava. I’m sure I’ll love it. 

If anyone knows of any other blogs on Riga or Latvia, pop them into the comments. I’ll let Delores sing us out – because yes, other countries have music too. (All together now ‘Du be duh, du be duh…’)

 

* To my fellow WP bloggers, my comments are being treated as spam at the moment, so if you’re wondering why I’m being so quiet, I’m not. I’m probably just languishing in your spam folder. Fish me out please! 

For the love of Latvian men

The other day, I received an interesting message. It was from a Scandinavian girl wondering what it’s like to date a Latvian man. Now, I get messages all the time from men asking about Latvian women. These conversations generally go like this. 

Sucker: I’ve met the most…

Me: NO. 

Sucker: But she’s so…

Me: NO. 

Sucker: But shouldn’t I just…

Me: NO. 

But this message actually made me think, as my feelings about Latvian men are really quite conflicted. As far as my personal experience goes, I’ve run the gamut. My first Latvian love interest was a raging alcoholic. We had a volatile on-again-off-again ‘relationship’ for a couple of months, the high point of which was him calling me and telling me to look out my window. (We lived opposite each other.)

Me: Are you naked?

LLI: Yep.

Me: Is that a pineapple?

LLI: Yep.

Me: Why are you dancing around with it?

LLI: For you. 

Me: Oh. Well, just be careful if you’re chopping it up later. 

While I knew there was a great guy in there somewhere, he just wasn’t confident enough to believe it. We didn’t last.  

Most recently, there was Yummy Jānis – sweet, kind, affectionate, funny, smart – and a dream in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the timing was off but I’m sure he’ll make some girl very happy some day. 

Latvian men, in general, have an odious reputation. And sadly, in a lot of cases, they’ve earned it. They’re lazy, they’re cheaters, they’re alcoholics. In an article from The Baltic Times, Latvian men are described thus: “Local men do not want to work or to help with housework. Women can rely only on themselves, and mostly they make all the decisions themselves, even if it is connected with some men’s work.”

Poor, poor, tragically beautiful Latvian women! Maybe some foreign men should come and…

NO.

Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, the emasculating, ball-busting women in this country should shoulder some of the blame? OK, so people like to blame it on ‘history’, and perhaps some of it can be. But think about it – why is a guy in his early thirties cheating on his wife? Is it because of something that befell his grandparents or is it because he gets roughly the same amount of love and respect in his own home as the pet goldfish – possibly less.

                              DENIED

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for strong women – I like to think I am one – I just think that it’s possible to be a strong woman without castrating every man that crosses your path. 

Here’s what the Latvian Institute has to say on the matter:

Women play an especially important role in Latvian society. In the family, it is the woman who binds the family together and passes on family traditions. In Latvia today, women have assumed leading roles in society, among other things the previous state president was a woman. Latvian men, however, take pride in the fact that Latvian women are not only smart and caring, but also extremely beautiful. 

Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like much of a life, does it?

Jānis: Hey honey, I think I’m done admiring you for the day. Is there anything else I can do?

Laimdota: Oh, what’s the point. You’re useless. You never do anything right. 

But don’t assume that because you’re useless, you’ll be allowed to roam freely. Hell no. These women are controlling and possessive to the point of insanity. 

I promise to obey, obey and OBEY you ’til death do us part.

Grown men are actually ‘not allowed’ to do stuff here. Or if they are, there’s a good chance they’ll either be stalked or receive so many calls and texts that they’ll decide it wasn’t really worth going out in the first place. One friend of mine used to call his wife ‘The Eye of Sauron’ – but that was back when he had a sense of humour, before the nervous breakdown…

And if you’re thinking that Latvian men are a bit weak and pathetic for putting up with this, fear not – I know plenty of foreign men that have married Latvian ‘beauties’ and ended up drooling husks of their former selves. In my bleaker moments, I’ve considered setting up a National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Husbands, but then, they probably wouldn’t be let out of the house to attend meetings. 

      I’ve even got a uniform picked out.

The problem with Latvian women, if I may be so bold, is that they believe their own hype – this ridiculous notion that, somehow, they are god’s gift to men. So what, because you know how to slap on an inch of make-up and a short skirt it gives you the right to treat men like crap? Wake up. I’ve been observing the dynamic between couples here over the last couple of days (more closely than usual). The women, in 98% of cases, look bored and sulky. Profferred flowers and trinkets are met with a self-satisfied smirk rather than an appreciative grin. Why any man would bother is beyond me. 

I don’t think Latvian men, any more than any other nationality, get married with the intention of someday becoming cheating alcoholics. Think of that sweet-faced young boy who gave you flowers when you first started dating; blushing, shuffling, and looking at you like you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Look at him now. Something must have happened along the way. And maybe you, Latvian woman, should take a good look in the mirror – you definitely know where it is – before judging the men in this country. In fact, perhaps the reason Latvian men die younger is simply because they want to. They’ve run out of other excuses to get out of the house and this is their last stand…

But back to the original question – should you date a Latvian man? I don’t know. But if you do, treat him the way you’d like to be treated. He may surprise you. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It drives me crazy

Walking around Riga can sometimes feel a bit like being an extra in ‘Night of the Living Dead’. Nobody seems to be aware of their surroundings or any of the other people around them – sometimes I wonder how anyone actually makes it anywhere with all the bumping into people that goes on. But much as I’ve lamented this, it’s really just a mild irritation. 

The real problems start when you take these zombies and put them in a hunk of metal, moving at speed – usually with a mobile phone in their hand. Seemingly zombies text too. You see, Latvians drive the same way they walk – like they’re the most important people in the world and nobody else matters. 

Speeding, dangerous overtaking, drink-driving, mobile phone use, reversing up one-way streets, illegal u-turns, parking wherever takes their fancy, speeding up when the traffic lights turn amber, breaking red lights, shooting out of car parks without looking left or right, stopping on pedestrian crossings, continuing to nudge forward across pedestrian crossings when pedestrians have right of way – the list of, at best, uncool, and at worst, deadly behaviour is never-ending. I’ve actually seen two cars crash into each other when there were no other cars on the road at all. (Seemingly, Latvia called in a French expert to fix their ‘traffic problems’ a few years ago. He observed, had a bit of a chuckle and went home again.)

The Germans make wrapping a car around a tree look good.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed either. The Englishman in Latvia recently published a post on how he thought Latvian driving was the worst he’d ever seen. (Yeah, his honeymoon period didn’t last long.) Naturally, I couldn’t resist adding my two cents’ worth in the comments. And naturally, I was accused of exaggerating. Another girl said that while Latvian drivers weren’t the best (you think?), nothing could compare with how they drive in Russia, and, in particular, in Moscow. 

Um, I’m sorry, but why are we comparing Latvians with Russians? Isn’t Latvia European? Isn’t everyone always whining about how Latvia is in Northern Europe? Shouldn’t we be comparing Latvia with those countries instead? Plus, bearing in mind that the population of Moscow alone is almost 6 times that of the whole of Latvia, it’s hardly a reasonable comparison. But of course, it’s always easy to point out those who are ‘worse’ than you – and it’s just an added bonus if they happen to be Russian. 

So, back to comparing, which Latvians seem to love so much (but generally, only when it’s favourable to Latvians). In 2012, there were 86 fatalities in Latvia per 100,000 inhabitants. It doesn’t sound like a huge number until you compare it with other European countries. Denmark – 32, Ireland – 36, Spain – 41, Germany – 44, the Netherlands – 32, Sweden – 31, and the UK – 28. The only countries that were worse were Poland (93), Lithuania (100), Romania (96) and Greece (92).

In 2006, nearly a quarter of all traffic accidents in Ireland were caused by immigrants. In an article in The Guardian from that year, Nick Miller, a Fine Gael spokesman said, “Nearly a quarter of all road traffic fatalities involved immigrants. That is partially because they drive on the wrong side of the road and partially because they have a devil-may-care attitude to drink driving. They believe, wrongly, they will not be caught here. We have called for road signs to be put up in Latvian, Russian and Polish to get the message across.” (I couldn’t find any more recent information but if anyone has any links, please post them in the comments.)

So, in a country where people are disappearing overseas all the time (and taking their crappy driving skills with them), it’d be nice if Latvian drivers stopped trying to wipe out the remaining population.

(And now I sit back and wait to be told I’m living in a parallel universe – again.)

 

 

 

 

 

I left my arse in Liepāja

Last Saturday was my friend Guna’s birthday. You can imagine my excitement when it was announced that we would celebrate it by having a girls’ weekend in Liepāja. 

Lazy day on the beach + biking to the restaurant for dinner, followed by crazy dancing at the beach discos…biking around the night town…

While I could well imagine that the biking would take place, I was skeptical about the crazy dancing. Any time a Latvian has ever said to me “You just wait til you see us party – we’ll still be going in the morning!”, I’ve found that by “morning”, they meant 12.01 and were tucked up in their beds by around 12.03. Still, never one to let my cynical side get the better of me, I was looking forward to it. 

I was to be picked up by Guna and Gunta between 8.30 and 9.00. I threw a few bits into a bag and at 8.30, knowing there was no hurry, sat down with another cup of tea. Sure enough, it was close to 9.30 by the time they arrived. In high spirits, we hit the road, the issue of me moving to Germany foremost on everyone’s mind. Or rather, how to stop me moving to Germany. By the time we’d left Riga, Guna had hatched a cunning plot to pin me down and get me impregnated by a Liepājan Jānis. I briefly wondered if rolling from a moving car into a ditch was as easy as it looks in the movies. 

A couple of hours later, we arrived in Liepāja, met up with our friend Ginta who lives there during the summer, reserved a few bikes for later (sigh), and hit the beach. 

Blue flag beach – Liepāja

A blissful few hours were spent, discussing hot topics of the day such as “Do you have yogurt in Ireland?”, and turning over every 30 minutes or so. At around 5pm, we packed up and headed to the information centre to pick up our bicycles. As I looked at them, all I noticed was that they were red and had probably been around since Guna’s grandmother’s day. It was only when I was already moving that I realised there were no brakes. 

Devil bike

Me: Where are the damn brakes?!

Gunta: The pedals! 

I’d forgotten that bikes like that existed. After almost shooting over the handlebars a couple of times, I eventually made it back to our apartment – wobbly but in one piece. Quick showers were had, glad rags put on, and soon we were ready to go to the restaurant. We rode around to Ginta’s place over mainly cobblestone streets. Needless to say, the seats weren’t very well padded and shock absorbers hadn’t been invented when these bikes came into being, so it was a bit like sitting on a vibrating concrete block. (And no, that’s not a good thing.)

Brave little soldier…

We cycled to the wonderfully-located Libava restaurant and took our reserved table outside, overlooking the river. At this stage, I was so hungry I could have eaten a small child, but I settled for the roast pork, which was excellent. (So excellent, I ate it before I could take a picture.) After a while, a speed-boat full of Jānises pulled up and they sat at the table next to us. After some accidental flirting by yours truly, a bottle of wine was delivered to our table. I may have underestimated Jānises.

Still, we had to leave, as Ginta had reserved another table for us at a beach bar where a “concert” was taking place. My dismount at the end of the wooden ramp to the sand was less than elegant. In a bid to calm my nerves, and for the location that was in it, I decided I’d have a “Sex on the Beach”. To my dismay, it was listed in the non-alcoholic section – “Safe Sex on the Beach”. I decided to chance my arm and asked for a “Safe Sex on the Beach without the safety”. This actually produced a giggle from the bar girl and, more importantly, it produced vodka. It turned out I’d need it. 

Sure that I could feel Elvis spinning in his grave, I took myself off for a little walk. I was rewarded with this nice photo – and my desire to hear again returning. 

After a while, it was time to head back to the rather fancy Promenade Hotel for dessert. At this point, Ginta, being 4 months pregnant, decided to call it a night. My arse and I also decided that we’d had enough of the bike from hell so a new plan was needed. We went back to the apartment where I deposited my less than trusty steed. The girls were to cycle back to the beach to check out a singles party happening there – if it was any good, they’d give me a call and I’d hop in a taxi and join them. If not, we’d call it a night. (It was just before midnight…)

Watching them disappear into the night, I did what any sensible person would not do and took off for a wander to kill time. I was sure there had to be a party happening somewhere in this town, and just as sure that I would be the woman to find it. Hello Fontaine Palace. Gunta had just called to say that the party was crap so they were having one drink and heading home. The call of a live rock band (and possible fun) calling me, I paid my €3 and walked into the cavernous bar. 

I ordered a pint and within a couple of minutes, a guy danced over to me. He turned out to be the drunkest German sailor in the world. I couldn’t hear much of what he was saying over the music; also, I had to keep turning away to discreetly wipe his over-excited saliva off my face. Still, he was kind of entertaining and he told me my German was very good so he was alright by me. 

While we were talking, a guy behind him kept on catching my eye and then turning away. I figured he was Latvian – no smile and a man bag. After the German fell out the door, I was amused to notice that he’d moved one seat closer. He’d go to the bathroom and come back, sitting down another seat closer. This went on for some time until finally he was sitting next to me. Latvians…

Anyway, he turned out to be a nice guy and, as an insanely loud band had now taken the stage, we moved outside. The rest of the night passed in a bit of a blur. I was always ready to leave “after this pint”, but then someone else would come over, a conversation would start, and I’d end up getting another. I even met Latvia’s answer to Matthew Gray Gubler, who, although he’d been drinking for around 3 days solid still managed to look hot…

Up a bit, up a bit…

At around 8am, I decided it was probably time to call it a night day, and headed for home. Waking up at around 1.30, I was relieved to discover that a) the bikes had already been returned, and b) we were still in time for the infamous brunch at Boulangerie. 

Regaling Gunta and Guna with tales of my adventures the night before, we stuffed ourselves with omelettes, lasagna and crepes, washed down with copious amounts of milky tea – OK, that was just me. 

A few hours later, back at my flat in Riga, I came to the conclusion that although my arse hadn’t enjoyed the weekend much, I most certainly had. Thank you ladies (and Liepājans) for a weekend to remember. And no, in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get impregnated by a Jānis…

 

 

 

 

 

 

How do you solve a problem like a Latvian?

In my (almost) four years here in Latvia, I feel like I’ve got to the bottom of a lot of riddles concerning this land and its people. However, there are some things that still mystify me, even after all this time. So, as my reign here is coming to an end, I thought I’d put them out there and see if anyone can give my poor tired mind a rest. Here goes.  

1. Why does almost every man in Riga carry a man bag, and what’s in it?

Recent weeks have taught me (the hard way) that they definitely do not contain any deodorant, so I’m genuinely curious. 

The man bags and the glad rags…

2. Why do Latvians wear the same clothes for days on end? 

Unlike your average woman, I rarely notice what people wear – I know, I know, but it’s true. However, when my students keep coming to lessons in the same clothes, I notice. At first, I just thought, “Oh, it’s his ‘Tuesday/Thursday’ or ‘Monday/Wednesday’ jumper…”, then I realised it was probably his ‘every day’ jumper.

An ex-colleague and I were delighted when our miserable boss showed up in the same dress two days running – dirty stop-out. But when she showed up in the same dress every day for the rest of the week, still looking as miserable as ever, we realised that she hadn’t got lucky, she’d just got a new dress and was wearing the bejesus out of it. 

Another guy I know seems to only have a summer outfit and a winter outfit. Day in, day out, he wears the same clothes. I’m not sure how many sets of the exact same outfit he has, but I really hope it’s more than one. 

3. Why do the old people in my building scream at each other through their open windows?

In the good old days, when I had time to take a nap in the afternoon, I was generally rudely awakened by the shrieking old biddies in my block having a conversation at a decibel level that made me fear for the safety of my wine glasses. Why, WHY can’t they just go to each other’s apartments and have a conversation over a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake like normal people? (I crossed out ‘normal’ because it has a different meaning in Latvia.)

4. How can a Latvian go into a café and not order anything?

Or worse, bring their own food? How anyone can walk past the counter, sit down, and then take a yogurt and a banana out of their bags without ordering anything from the establishment they’re taking up space in is beyond me. 

5. How is this an acceptable way to board a train?

Good luck

Just to give you a little perspective, the top step is roughly shoulder-level on me. The height of each step is ankle-knee distance. I have to hold onto the railings on either side and haul myself onto the train (très elegant in a short summer dress), then cling to the railings and gingerly side-step down, as the steps aren’t wide enough to actually keep your feet straight. How people in their twilight years do it baffles me. 

6. Why is it the law to keep your headlights on all day?

Yet using indicators seems to be optional, and playing Candy Crush while laughing at the notion of a speed limit obligatory. 

7. Why do parents not discipline their children when they’re being brats in public?

I remember feeling slightly miffed in Ireland when some mother would say “Move out of the nice lady’s way” or “Apologise to the nice lady for almost crushing every bone in her foot”. You see, I still think of myself as a girl – delusional, I know. However, in Latvia, I’ve had kids ride roughshod over me with not a word of reprimand from their parents. And while I’d like to blame the little bastards darlings, the buck stops with the parents. Oh, to be called a “nice lady” here, just once…

8. Why do a lot of women wear shoes that are too small for them?

OK, this is a weird one, I know, but seriously, look at women’s feet the next time you’re out and about – 8 out of 10 times, their heels will be hanging off the end of their sandals or flip-flops…

9. Why do Latvians never have their wallets ready?

You’re behind a Latvian in the queue at Rimi. They stand there watching as the shop assistant beeps through their terrifying-looking fish, kefirs and biezpiens. There’s a pause as the last item hits the bottom of the conveyor belt, and THEN, the Latvian will start rooting around for their wallet.

10. Why do Latvians like standing so much?

When I’m on public transport, I like to sit. If I have to stand, I’m always ready to dart for the first seat that becomes available. Not so your average Latvian. If a seat becomes free, they’ll just stand beside it, effectively blocking anyone else from taking it either. 

And finally, just why?

Vodka down neck; cat on neck

 

 

 

 

Pinning down my ‘process’

When the inspirational Nancy over at My Years of Sweat asked me if I wanted to continue a blog hop focused on the writing process, my initial reaction was a resounding no. I’d never really given any thought to my process beyond pouring a glass of wine, pouring said wine into me, and subsequently pouring my heart out. I’m not even sure that I think of myself as a ‘writer’. But as is her way, she somehow managed to talk me into it. Hopefully, I won’t let her, the blog hop or myself down by continuing the chain! 

My ‘process’…

The idea is that you thank the person who nominated you, answer three questions and then nominate the next victim blogger. So, thank you Nancy – I think! And here goes:

What am I working on? 

Right now, I guess I’m working on how to transition from Expat Eye on Latvia to Expat Eye on Germany, without losing too many readers along the way. Writing EEOL has been a total revelation and great fun – apart from when half the country wanted to kill me – so it’s going to be hard to say goodbye to it. 

I’ve also been toying with the idea of writing a book for some time now, but the fact that I haven’t actually started doesn’t bode well. It’s tricky as I’ve written most of what I want to write in the blog, and I’m struggling to come up with an ‘angle’ that makes the book different from what I’ve done here. I’m not interested in just regurgitating blog posts – there has to be something that sets the book apart. And that’s where I’m at a loss. If anyone has any ideas, I’m listening! 

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

When I began writing about Latvia, I was probably one of the first foreigners to do so though, in the last year or so, a number of people have started their own blogs on living here. I guess what sets mine apart is that I’ve never pandered to anyone. On occasion I’ve been told, “you’re a guest here – you should only write positive things about your host country”. But the way I see it, I’m a paying guest and I should be able to write whatever the hell I like. 

If I like something, I’ll write about it. If I don’t like something, you can be bloody sure I’ll write about it. And if that’s too much for some sensitive souls, then tough. 

My blog is unapologetic, it’s honest, it’s (hopefully) funny, and it engages people more than many other blogs of its ilk out there. Sure, it’s a bit exaggerated at times, but there’s a kernel of truth in every post and that’s what people like (or hate) about it. It starts discussions; it gets people thinking – but then, I guess some people don’t like that much. But, as the blog has just passed the quarter of a million hits mark, I must be doing something right.

Why do I write what I do?

I write what I do because it keeps me (relatively) sane. When I first started the blog, I’d been living here for almost two and a half years, so I’d built up a bank of impressions and observations. Ideas for posts are triggered in different ways – it could be something I see or hear, something I read, or something that infuriates me beyond belief. I try to post twice a week, so whatever nugget it is has a few days to flesh itself out in my head. 

Most of the posts are writing themselves in my head as I walk around the city, so by the time I put finger to keyboard, they’re almost finished. Sometimes a line or a thought will pop into my head that has me laughing out loud as I’m wandering around – that’s when I know it’s probably a blog post. If it can make me laugh, it can probably do the same for other people – even if I do look like a crazy person when it happens.

The hardest parts of any post are coming up with a witty title, the opening paragraph and the closing paragraph. And of course, trying to maintain a level of consistency when it comes to quality and not just publishing posts for the sake of publishing them.

The level of interaction I have with my readers has kept me going through some pretty hairy times here. Half the time, the comment thread is more entertaining than the post itself, but that’s what makes it fun. 

So, I guess that’s about it. I’m not really sure that counts as a ‘writing process’ but that’s all I’ve got! 

For the final part of the blog hop challenge, I pass the baton to the intimidatingly multi-lingual Lady of the Cakes. She’s been following me since the very beginning and her blog is fantastically entertaining – when she’s not posting pictures of bloody flowers or lanterns, that is. I think we have a similar mindset so I’m interested to see what her ‘process’ is! 

Thanks again to Nancy and good luck to Lady – her post will go up on the 21st of July so make sure you check it out! I’m off to get a refill – all of this reflection is thirsty work. 

 

 

 

You want me to do what?

A few months ago, I received a message from a girl who works at an advertising agency here in Riga. The agency was involved in a pitch to make a promotional video for the Latvian Institute about Latvia taking over the Presidency of the European Council in 2015 – and, get this, they wanted ME to be involved. Seemingly, my foreigner’s opinion and insight would be invaluable. Although she didn’t sound like an escaped lunatic, or seem to be on drugs, I re-read the message a couple of times, and Googled the advertising agency and the Latvian Institute to make sure that they did actually exist.

Even though I was still half-convinced that it was some kind of hoax, or potential ambush, my curiosity won out over my common sense – as usual – and I agreed to a meeting. When I got there, it seemed that everyone in the agency had read the blog as they were all grinning at me; I was just happy they weren’t aiming at me. 

The receptionist offered me tea (“with milk, right?”) and I was shown to a meeting room where an intimidating number of people were assembled. One girl broke the ice by saying “Our receptionist just said “You know you’re all going to be in a blog post tomorrow, right?” and I made a mental note not to write a blog post about it – the next day, anyway… 

It had been a long time since I’d been in an advertising agency or had anything to do with brainstorming sessions so I was really nervous that I’d just be sitting there like a lemon with nothing useful to add. But, as it turned out, they were wonderfully open people with lots of ideas and I realised that I really wanted to work with them – and to produce a video that Latvian people could be proud of (but not some cheesy crap – I draw the line at cheesy crap).

When I got home, I sent a message to my friend, telling her that I was alive, that I’d had the meeting and met some really cool people, including some bloke called Eriks. 

Ginta: Oh my god! Eriks Stendzenieks? He’s like THE advertising/PR guru in Latvia! 

Me: Oops. 

I guess you never know who’s reading your blog…

Anyway, I put together some ideas, wrote a short essay on Latvia and fired it off to the charming, ruggedly handsome Eriks. Around a week later, I was informed that the agency had won the pitch – naturally.

So, we got together a few more times, tossed around various concepts, drafted and fine-polished some scripts and eventually came up with the final version. Unfortunately, I was in Berlin while they were filming it, but when they sent me the final video…

I love it. I think the tone is perfect. I like to think that you can hear a little bit of me in there at times, but they’ve managed to strike the perfect balance between Linda and the Latvians. Even though the weather was absolutely awful that week, they’ve still made the country look amazing. And I must admit that I go a little weak at the knees when the actor smiles at the end. I take my hat off to the fine people at Mooz Advertising – it truly was a pleasure to work with all of you and I’m so happy that I had a small part in making this video. While my blog will probably be my main legacy here, I’m happy that I can also say that I had a hand in this.

So please, watch, enjoy, let me know what you think. I’ll carry on cracking coconuts in the meantime…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtnIUr8Q4E4

 

The master becomes the student

When the wonderful “Lady of the Cakes” published her post on “How to be a hater with German food phrases”, I immediately did what any sane person would do and started insulting one of the (three) people I know in Germany. 

Me: Du gehst mir total auf den Keks! (You are totally getting on my nerves!)

Wolfgang: What? Why?

Me: Das ist nicht mein Bier. (That’s not my problem.)

Wolfgang: You’re mean. 

Me: Das ist mir Wurst! (I don’t give a rat’s ass!)

Wolfgang: OK then, I’ll leave you alone.

Me: (Crap, crap, what’s “I’m sorry” in German? Something with “mir” and “leid”…) Ich mir leid?

Wolfgang: Ha ha! You just said you’re tired of yourself! 

Me: Scheiße.

But, it actually turned out to be quite an appropriate mistake. You see, I am tired of myself. I’m tired of my excuses and my sporadic, half-hearted approach to learning German. While I think I’m quite a good English teacher, it turns out that I am a terrible German student. All of the amazing pearls of wisdom that I dole out to my students fall on deaf ears when I try to motivate myself. 

Work, Facebook chat (and Scrabble), pilates, TV, socialising, blogging, napping – all of these things have won out, at one time or another, over my German studies. It doesn’t help that my tongue just does not seem to work in a German way (which I guess rules out the German porn industry if the teaching thing doesn’t pan out). I listen to the CD or the nice person on Youtube – it sounds pretty simple. I try to repeat it and end up producing word vomit. The German ‘ch’ makes me sound like a cat choking on a hairball, while the articles make me… hmm, is it nap time?

My stupid sense of humour is also a hindrance. For example, when I came across the sentence “Vater, du bist zu dick”, my immature brain had translated it into “Father, you’re such a dick” before I could stop it. Finding out that “dick” is actually German for “fat” resulted in peals of laughter and me heading over to Google Translate to find out what “dick” is in German. Lesson terminated due to general hilarity.

The upshot of all of this is that I now know I am not a good solo student. While I think I sound angry in German, the only speaking “partner” I have is my new pet fly, and he’s not great at giving feedback.

         Ah, da bist du ja!

But thankfully I’m not alone when it comes to language-learning woes. Naturally, I’m really fond of my students and it makes me happy when they do well. However, now that I’m a fellow student, it also comforts me (slightly) to know that I’m not the only one who makes a complete balls of things sometimes. I give you a selection of some of the weirder conversations I’ve had in the last few weeks: 

Me: (showing a picture of a shifty-looking woman sneaking around an office) What adjective would you use to describe how she looks?

Jānis: Fertile.

Me: Perhaps, but I think the word you’re looking for is “furtive”.

…

Dangering: Are you tasty?

Me: (Bom-chicka-wah-wah) What??

Dangering: Are you tasty? Is you tasted? Did you tastering? 

Me: STOP. Do you mean “Have you tasted it?”

Dangering: Yes. 

Me: (Bleep)

…

Gunta: I’m having some dark curtains made. I can’t sleep because it’s so bright all the time. The only problem is, it will take about a week to get them. 

Me: You could try black sacks in the meantime.

Gunta: Black sex?

Me: That could work too. 

Probably not as effective as black sex

Anyway, I’d better go and make sure Wolfie is still talking to me. God knows, I need all the practice I can get. 

 

 

An open letter to Latvijas Pasts

Dear Latvijas Pasts, 

Having lived in Latvia for almost four years now, I truly thought that I had scraped the bottom of the barrel when it came to deplorable customer service. However, on Thursday afternoon, your Čaka Street branch plumbed new depths. 

It being Mammy O’Grady’s birthday next week, I thought I’d be a good daughter and send her a card. Naturally, in order to do this, I would need a stamp. I popped into your Čaka Street branch on my way to a lesson, and was rather surprised to see that you’d done away with the 3 or 4 button system. Now there was just one button to push to get a ticket. Push it I did, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. 

When no new customers were called within 15 minutes, I left, vowing to return on my way back from my lesson. My lesson with Dangering complete, I went back. I pushed the button again and got my ticket. I was number 310. 295 was currently being served. I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. (And sweated. Ever heard of air-conditioning?)

45 minutes later, they were serving number 206 but I’d had enough. No new customers had been called in the previous 15 minutes as both (yes, there were only two members of staff) assistants were dealing with customers who wanted to post multiple packages. I wasn’t the only person to leave without doing what they had come to do. Six or seven usually placid Latvians also lost patience and left. 

I have previously compared the speed at which Latvians move to that of a severely hungover slug. I now take this back. In fact, I reckon slugs probably make jokes about the speed at which Latvijas Pasts workers move. 

However, for once, I don’t blame the staff members. I blame your ridiculous system, or lack thereof. What’s especially mind-boggling to me is that you actually had a system that worked, then got rid of it. Why, WHY, would you do that?

As for Mammy O’Grady, I’ll be hand-delivering her card at Christmas as I’m not wasting one more second of my life in any of your ‘fine’ establishments. It will probably be faster that way anyway.

Yours sincerely,

Linda O’Greidija.