Amber Road

For the first half of 2007 I was a man with a terrible secret. I'd been plotting a surprise trip for Theo — my partner in crime for 15 years. Reason: He was turning 29* and not one bit happy about it. I wanted to make it the Best Birthday Ever, and there was one thing I know would do the trick: a vacation. But what about a surprise trip? Wouldn't that be cool? Indeed. But it was also a lot of work. In order to pull off a stunt of this magnitude, I had to make all our travel arrangements in secret, conspire with his boss for time off work, and marshal a top-notch plant-waterer (my mom) to apartment-sit while we were gone.

By "surprise", I mean: telling a guy on Wednesday that he has less than 48 hours to pack for a two-week trip to I'm-not-telling-you-where-but-you'll-find-out-when-we-get-to-the-airport. Cruelty, thy name is Kevin. I have never seen Theo look so appalled. Or was he terrified? But it was pretty obvious that I would not accept "no" for an answer, so he passed through denial into acceptance in a couple of heartbeats, and started packing. By the time we got to the airport he was pretty excited. Me too! I began to wonder how far I could go without giving away our final destination. But the ticket agent spoiled it: “You’re flying to Helsinki today, I see.” What a jerk.

Our destination was the Baltic States of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Compared to our vacation two months earlier to Argentina, it was a trip in a teacup. The distance, from stem to stern, is less than 400 miles (650 km). Together the three countries equal about the size of Oregon, and less than one tenth the size of Argentina.

But the Baltic States more than made up for their small size.

Our flight took us through the horrible Heathrow airport in London where we endured a rattling bus ride to another far terminal, and a second security scan, before hopping on a regional plane bound for Helsinki. We spent only one night there, but a magical evening it was. The earth's rotation was approaching summer solstice, and our experience of strolling along the seaport at 11 pm with the sky still bright bordered on surreal; the wharfs were dotted with street lights glowing in the late dusk, and small clusters of people were loitering in the distance relishing the golden glow of evening. Dinner was on my mind, so we picked a small, very old Finnish restaurant just off the water. It turned out to to be, without doubt, one of the best meals I have ever enjoyed, bar none, starting with the arctic char and finishing with a rhubarb puree and strawberry shortcake, all served on fine china and a white table cloth, with vintage silverware. This also was one of the most expensive meals I have ever eaten, which just goes to show that sometimes you do get what you pay for.

Next morning we took a tour cruise around Helsinki harbor, and then caught a ferry to our where our trip was to officially begin: Tallinn, capital of Estonia.

A word on my travel style: Perhaps to heighten the contrast between the structure of our daily lives in New York and the hoped-for freedom of travel, we generally arrive well informed but with little or no itinerary. Ideally, I would not make a single definitive plan until we stepped off the plane. And on this trip we approached that goal: I had booked only the first three nights in hotels, and reserved a car for the rest of the trip. Once we hit the road, it was all glorious improvisation.

As one approaches Tallinn by ferry, the red roofs and turrets of the medieval wall and city splay dramatically up the hill. Higher up, another wall encircles the even older Toompea Hill, dominated by the spires of Toompea Castle and the onion domes of Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Our hotel in the lower city was extraordinarily romantic, integrated into a gap in the medieval wall where a tower had collapsed in the 1800’s. In the cellar you could see fragments of the original stone wall, and the hotel restaurant was set inside a 14th-century horse mill. Our room window overlooked the cobblestone street leading up to the city center, a vast stone-paved square next to the medieval city hall. The city was filled with churches, amber shops, beer halls, galleries, and was exquisitely made for walking. We explored for two and a half days, and vowed to return at the end of our trip to check out the 15th-century Kiek in de Kok tower and dungeon, maybe Fat Margaret, and definitely return to our favorite beer garden. But the clock was ticking and there were many more things we wanted to see.

En route to Riga, to the south, we drove a lazy detour through the Estonian countryside, scanning for quaint barns, fields of mustard in yellow bloom, and the occasional oxcart, before stopping to spend the night in Tartu along the scenic River Emajõgi — with its university flavor and architectural history spanning more than five hundred years. Sadly, the only hotel we could find was a dingy hostel overlooking a warehouse. But at least dinner was good, on the open square in front of the pink stucco town hall.

One of my friends who had previously visited Latvia said he nicknamed the country Flatvia, and it was so true. We drove past miles of flat scenic, birch-lined highway, storks stomping the farm fields in search of mice for dinner, quaint bridges and houses, and neatly piled haystacks.

But the scenery changes at Riga, a city of Art Nouveau/Jugendstil masterpieces, which grew brilliantly around the medieval core (significantly Hanseatic in style) as the city’s size exploded during an economic boom in the 19th century. We took a hotel in the Art Nouveau district, and each day varied the route for our 20-minute walk into the old city each day to see the city from changing angles. Highlights of Riga included an elevator ride to the top of St. Peter’s church tower for a fine panoramic view; the central market housed in five great Zeppelin hangars with a mind-blowing selection of almost anything and everything in existence; the amazing historic “House of the Blackheads” extravagantly rebuilt in 2000; a 13th-century cathedral and 14th-century guild halls; amber vendors along the streets; the infamous House of Cats; and the Swedish Gate.

From Riga, we crossed over into Lithuania and headed for its second largest city, Kaunas. Although it is somewhat off the tourist map, we fell instantly in love with the place. Smaller than Riga or Tallinn, it also had some more modern touches at the outskirts, a funicular that climbed the hill for a view, a controversial outdoor sculpture, and history... a 14th century castle overlooking an amusement park, a large central square at city hall where everyone seemed to be getting married. One night we chanced upon a folk music festival behind a courtyard wall. No tourists. A live band. People dancing, young and old. We stood in the crowd for more than an hour, and as we left I picked up a CD from the kid selling them by the gate, for the memories.

En route to Vilnius, the glorious capital of Lithuania, we detoured to visit Lake Trakia Castle, set on an island. It’s all red, from the brick to the roof tiles, and utterly picturesque. A series of wooden gangplanks lead from shore to a first, forested island, and then on to the castle. Being king of that place would have been a nice life, except under siege. A few miles away we stopped to see the Rumsiskes Outdoor Museum — modeled after Williamsburg, Virginia, perhaps — but on a larger scale. Typical buildings (houses, farms, schools, pubs and mills) from 18th-19th century rural life have been transported to 430 acres in the breathtaking Lithuanian countryside, and clustered in five village settings based on the region they came from.

We also paid our respects at the somber 9th Fort, Devintas Fortas. Built in the late 19th century, it one of a series of forts built by the Russians to guard the western border of their empire. Starting in the mid 1920’s, it was used as Kaunas’s prison. Then, during the Soviet Occupation before and after WWII, the KGB used it to hold political prisoners on their way to the gulags of Siberia. After the Nazis occupied the area, it was converted to a killing camp. But today it is a museum and a monument, a haunted place. We did not stay long.

Vilnius is the crown jewel of Lithuania, and an utterly indescribable medieval fantasy world. We spent several days checking out the city walls, the museums and art galleries, and walking the clean-swept cobblestone streets. Picture perfect. I learned that the city was undergoing a major rebuilding campaign to prepare for the 1,000th anniversary of when it was first mentioned in historical writings. Numerous buildings have seen total renovation, and gaps in the cityscape have been filled with new, yet authentic, buildings. From St. Anne’s church, to Gediminas Castle, the Gate of Dawn, the presidential palace, and Vilnius Cathedral.

Along the main street of Pilies Gatvé we’d stop for a beer, or lunch, or dinner, and watch the people. We’d been eyeing amber during the whole trip, but the bests prices were definitely in Vilnius, so we picked up with several cute pieces. The best surprise was aural, not visual: a quartet of conservatory students performing on the street, on unusual instruments that were a hybrid of clarinet (the reed), the recorder (finger holes), with a cow horn stuck on the end. Their reedy tones blended into a mellow whole, something by Bach, I think, as the grove of nearby trees cast shadows against the players in the lengthening golden afternoon. I was riveted. The city came to a standstill. I did not hear trucks honking and rattling, nor the footsteps of passersby, nor Theo calling me to hurry up. I glanced over at him, sighed, then dropped a tip into the basket. I took a couple of steps, and turned back to look, listen and linger one last moment before we headed down into town for dinner, the graceful notes slowly receding into the noise of the city.

We allowed ourselves two days for the road trip back to Tallinn, time enough for a stopoff at the incredible Hill of Crosses. After another night in Riga, and then in Tallinn where we dropped off the car, we caught a return ferry to Helsinki, hopped a cab to the airport, and then onward home. A long depressing flight. Our special trip was over, and we were both miserable.

Back in New York, we slouched off the plane, cleared customs and immigration and emerged into the damp urban evening. Horns were blaring at the taxi stand. A recent rain had scrubbed the streets and the last slanting rays of daylight glanced off the shining angular surfaces of the city. At home I tossed my bags on the floor and ventured out to inspect the goings-on of the last two weeks in the garden. The martagon lilies were in bloom – a panicle of buds at the apex. Lower on the stem the blossoms were fully open, their creamy recurved faces turned downward. This was their first season of adulthood, and I had been afraid they’d come into bloom, and then fade, while I was away. Mom had done a fantastic job with the plants. It was good to be home.