During my stay in Adelaide, I had a moment of delightful nostalgia. Spotting a stack of encyclopedias on the floor of the apartment, my initial reaction was surprise. ‘Wow, I haven’t seen those since… well, forever!’ A complete set of the Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedia, including the bonus dictionary.
For those who remember the 70s and 80s, Funk & Wagnalls was the go-to home encyclopedia, a weekly installment purchase that stretched out for what felt like forever. It was a blast from the past, especially since my niece’s set was lost in the 2022 Lismore flood.
Seeing them again gave me a good chuckle and reinforced the distinct 80s vibe of my apartment-style hotel room.
The room itself was spacious, essentially a one-bedroom apartment, which I appreciated.
However, my recent experiences with an amputation and a broken hip have highlighted the importance of asking more specific questions when booking accommodation.
This trip was my first hotel stay since my amputation almost two years ago, and while I’d been managing okayish physically until the hip fracture, navigating stairs and accessibility issues became significant challenges.
I encountered stairs that were more difficult than anticipated and a shower stall without a seat or bath where I could sit down, which meant I haven’t had a proper shower for a couple of days.
It’s a lesson learned: I need to be more proactive in inquiring about accessibility features for future travels.
Another unexpected aspect of the trip involved the wonderful wheelchair assistance booking with Jetstar. While I’ve had positive experiences in the past, I discovered their counter at Adelaide Airport only opens two hours before the flight. Arriving about three hours earlier meant I couldn’t arrange assistance or even check in. Because I’d ordered wheelchair assistance, the checkin function on the app was greyed out.
Thankfully, the staff at the Qantas Club, where I’m a member, were incredibly helpful. Despite the reciprocal relationship between the airlines, they weren’t able to log in to the system themselves, but they contacted Jetstar personnel who came to the lounge and sorted everything out. It was a seamless resolution to what could have been a frustrating situation. Many thanks to all staff involved, especially the flight attendants who were able to push me around on the wheelchair. Great stuff!
“We’d like a lot more questions about show-tunes and a whole lot less about sport…”, I told the quiz-master when she came over and asked us how we were going.
Although I used to be a quiz night regular, it was the first time in a couple of years (maybe more) that I’ve been to a quiz night.
In finding somewhere to take our American visitors (who were very keen to go to a quiz night), there were really only two important criteria: it needed to be on a Tuesday night, and it needed to be reasonably easy for them to find. I was also interested in somewhere with a bit of atmosphere, along with good beer and food prices. I chose “Forresters” in Riley Street, Surry Hills.
Forresters has always been a favourite of mine, as it’s gone through it’s various incarnations. It was also fun to relate to our visitors the history of the infamous brothel across the road. “What’s that over there…?” I was asked.
No longer involved in the detail of daily radio, and so no longer keeping up with the minutiae of the daily news cycle, I struggled a bit with some of the questions about daily news. Ten years ago, I would have known the detail of every major news story. Now, I find myself with a knowledge gap. The same goes with sport, as I no longer keep up to date with all of the detail I once did.
But as our table was a little older than the others, we had a greater knowledge of 70s and 80s pop music, and with a couple of Americans on our table, we blitzed some of those often difficult questions in quiz nights about American geography and sports.
Do you think it’s wrong to tip a waiter just because they’re cute? I struggled briefly with this moral dilemma today as I had a late lunch. On the one hand, it disadvantages the less attractive waiters, but on the other hand, a cute waiter often adds to the enjoyment of the experience. In the end, I decided I would give him a tip for cuteness, but that wasn’t the only reason I left a tip.
I also felt kinda sorry for him, as he had to deliver the ultimate bad news to a customer who has already waited silently and patiently for an hour (yes, really) for his meal to arrive. “There’s been a mistake. They’ve cooked the wrong meal”, he told me with this really sad, apologetic look on his face. I just knew he was the bunny for some major fuck-up in the kitchen. As it was, it was only the difference between steamed and fried dumplings, so I just smiled and told him it wasn’t a problem. And besides, he was cute.
The view from my lunchtime restaurant in Riga.
“I’ve never been so hungry in my life since arriving in Latvia”, a bloke told me in a bar last night. I knew exactly what he meant, as I’ve felt the same way. I’m guessing by the popularity of the central markets, most people eat at home and there isn’t a significant restaurant or cafe culture here. The food I’ve had has been pretty good, by and large, but there are nowhere near as many places to eat as you would find in a similar-sized town in Western Europe.
And there aren’t that many restaurants, cafes or anything really in the area where I’m staying. There are just lots of shops with absolute crap in them. Like really useless crap. OK, that’s maybe an exaggeration as I’m about 5 doors down from the Benetton store, but I hope you get the meaning.
The bloke I met in the bar was Irish. He’d been here for a few days for a wedding and because his boyfriend (who was Latvian) needed to renew his passport. I went up to him and said hello, “Do you mind if I join you” because he was the only other person in the bar, literally.
I’d searched around on the internet for the names and locations of gay venues in Riga, and could really only find one that was suitable, as the only other venue sounded more like a sex club than somewhere you might go for a drink and conversation. Luckily it wasn’t too far from where I’m staying.
But to get in, you need to press a buzzer. A bloke greeted me at the door and told me it was 2 lats entry (about $5) which I happily gave him. “Turn on the music” he shouted to the bloke behind the bar. And that’s when I realised that, for the second time in the same week, I’ve been the only person in a gay bar.
The barman who was very nice gave me a wry apologetic smile as I sat alone in the corner waiting and hoping that someone else might come in. I smiled back, reminding myself it wasn’t Sydney or San Francisco, it was Latvia on a Tuesday night.
And when you’re sitting there all by yourself, you start to notice things you’ve never noticed before. For example, the decore. The place was fairly well decorated in strong red colours, including red leather lounges and with “Tom Of Finland” images all over the walls. I don’t think I’ve spent as long observing the decore of a bar in my life.
Finally, after about 30 minutes, the doorbell rang again. It was a bloke unwilling to pay the cover charge, so he left. Later, there was a group of about 5 blokes who also wanted to come in, but baulked at the cover charge. If the owners of the bar are reading this, can I suggest dropping the cover charge on a Tuesday night, as I reckon you’ll make more money over the bar if you just let a few people in?
I think it was about 1 or 2 in the morning before the place had a modest crowd of people. And when I say modest, I’d say the bar peaked at about 20 people. I’m sure it’s busier at the weekend.
All of these restaurant and bar experiences remind you it’s not so long since Latvia was part of the Soviet Union, with all that implies. And this leads me into telling you about the amazing experience I had today at the Latvian Occupation Museum.
Communism Museum
The museum covers the period 1940 to 1991 when Latvia was under the control of Russia, then Germany, and then Russia again. A strong theme of the exhibition relates to the agreement between Hitler and Stalin just weeks before the outbreak of the Second World War. Although a student and great lover of history, it’s an agreement I wasn’t that aware of. And although the US and UK said they did not support the Soviet occupation after the war, another theme of the exhibition is the west did nothing about it either.
The museum is very moving. On a couple of occasions, I found myself a little teary and a little overwhelmed by the many terrible things that were done during this period. The exhibition, for example, describes the terrible position of the Prime Minister at the time when Russia moved in. On the one hand, it’s argued by asking Latvians not to resist, he may have saved the lives of many people, but he may also have condemned them to something also quite terrible. It’s explained he went missing within a couple of weeks, died soon after and his grave was never found. Chernenko apparently presented the Independent Latvian Government in 1991 with the last known photograph of that man.
The exhibition also takes you inside the kind of huts people lived in at the Gulags and describes how people were just left to starve to death. Unlike the Nazis who killed people systematically, the Soviet system was to put people in such terrible situations they just died.
Fall of communism.
There’s a ray of optimism though, as the struggle of the resistance movement is well documented. Something I wasn’t aware of was the two-million people who in 1989 protested the Soviet occupation by joining hands, linking Tallin, Riga and Vilnius. And there’s a great photograph in the museum of the celebrations when independence finally came back to Latvia.
It’s one of the best museums I’ve been to, to be honest, and an absolute highlight of my three days in Riga.
After that I went for a bit of a wander and then went on the hunt for some food. Tonight I settled on a very Latvian looking self-serve restaurant chain. Although I don’t recall the name, their signage features a rather jolly looking older woman inviting you in. In some ways, I felt like I was at the Lismore Workers Club bistro. Looking around at what was on offer I tried to find something “very Latvian”. I have no idea if I succeeded or not. It was pretty tasteless actually.
Latvian Food – do I really need to comment?
So tonight is just a night of packing, updating my blog and backing up my photographs. And I have to be up early because tomorrow, it’s Prague (via Brussels). Yes, I’ve got a cheapie flight that involves a two-hour stop-over in the capital of Belgium, which I’m sure will be loads of fun. Apparently, these stop-over hub flights are quite common in Europe. When you consider the geography involved, it sounds totally bizarre, but it’s cheap and better than spending a day on a train in my humble opinion.
I’ve never quite understood the time and money many women invest in visits to the hairdresser. Throughout my adult life, a ten-dollar haircut with a straightforward instruction of “Just a number one, thanks” has sufficed. However, this weekend, I found myself in the barber’s chair, succumbing to the “up-sell” and emerging seventy dollars lighter.
While the difference from my regular haircut may not be immediately apparent, Saturday’s treatment offered a more profound and satisfying experience than I anticipated. In addition to the clipper cut on my head, blades, lotions, and extra attention to my beard contributed to the indulgence.
Around halfway through the hour at the barber, It became clear to me aboout the “pampering” aspect, which many of my female friends likely enjoy, was also happening to me. Though it may be a while before I splurge on such a haircut again, I truly relished being present in the moment.
“Can you please take a photograph?”, I asked the hairdresser.
Despite not placing too much emphasis on my appearance throughot my life, I’ve always aimed to present myself decently. Occasionally, I’ll venture out with friends only to discover a food stain on my shirt, which I’ll typically laugh off. While I used to dress up for formal occasions and work, my post-operation return to work has seen me favoring shorts and polo shirts, for comfort and convenience.
Since my recent operation at the age of 57, coupled with a newfound physical disability, I’ve been contemplating my physical attractiveness more deeply. Questions about whether a potential partner will look at me, notice my missing leg, and decide “we can be friends, but nothing more” have occupied my thoughts. Although physical attractiveness becomes less important in attracting a partner as one ages, it undeniably still matters.
These thoughts are currently at the forefront of my mind, and so, spending an hour at the hairdresser yesterday, and paying the most I’ve ever paid for a haircut and beard trim, could be considered a part of my rehabilitation, perhaps?
“How are you feeling?” Sue asked me today about my forthcoming trip to Stockholm. Sue was in Sydney for a meeting today, by the way.
“I’m slightly apprehensive about the weather”, I told her.
It was then I pulled out my phone and logged on to the weather application which I’ve set up for Stockholm, which gives you current weather information, a seven day forecast, and an idea of what the weather actually feels like. “Feels like” as in the phrase “it’s currently minus 14, but feels like minus 22”.
Today there were snow flurries. Early next week, some sunshine is expected, with temperatures only just below zero.
“That’ll be fine”, I convinced myself.
I am apprehensive though. I’ve never been on holiday to anywhere quite as cold. Sure, I’ve been to the Snowy Mountains, but that’s hardly in the same league as Stockholm in winter/spring.
Sue told me today she had asked a friend who lives in Moscow the difference between minus 10 and minus 30, and was told that at minus 30, the hair in your nose freezes.
I’ve been checking out the online weather most days, and the Stockholm web cameras every other day. Although the temperatures scare me slightly, the photographs never cease to amaze me.
I used a Polaroid camera yesterday for the first time in many years, and no, not for the reasons you might be expecting! A friend of mine who is making a television program for screening later this year asked if I could help with the audition process.
I felt like Little Miss Secretary, as I greeted the applicants at a church hall in Darlinghurst, explaining the process to them, getting them to sign release forms, and taking an impromptu polaroid photograph of them.
To be honest, I didn’t know Polaroid cameras still existed. When my sister had one when I was a very young child it was a complex process using a polaroid camera and you could never be sure if they would turn out or not. As I recall, you had to wave it around in the air for sixty seconds before peeling off the sticky paper. By the time I had one in my early teens the process had been simplified somewhat. In fact, using the camera yesterday was remarkably similar.
Before arriving, I’d had a yummy breakfast at Una’s, the well-known Darlinghurst restaurant. Actually I hadn’t known it was open for breakfast until I’d walked past. I had the pancakes with strawberries and ice-cream, along with a coffee, which, although light, was probably about right. I also loved looking around the restaurant, curious to observe the type of people who might enjoy Breakfast
In particular, I loved the old German man (a regular I assume), who said only one word as he entered. “Bratwurst!”, he said loudly, and within minutes it was there. “Very good” were the only other words he used to the staff.
Aside from that it’s been a reasonably social weekend, including a drink with Graeme and Andrew on Friday night, a beer and steak with Mark and Andrew last night at the Strawberry Hills (accompanied by cool jazz!), and then a fiftieth birthday party for a workmate on board the South Steyne at Darling Harbour today.
After all this, I think I’m gonna need a holiday. Tomorrow, I hope to knock off a fair amount of the new Armistead Maupin book, as well as some family history research.
While I was in Lismore – where it was mostly hot and humid for most of the time – I began to sleep each night with the electric fan on.
In some ways I felt slightly guilty – I thought it was a bit of an extravagance – though I did enjoy the soft, gentle breeze, and I’m sure it helped me sleep better than I would otherwise.
Despite my “urbane exterior” there are quite a few “hippy” aspects of my world outlook which, no doubt, comes from my upbringing. I believe in using recycled clothing and furniture. I do my best to keep my “carbon footprint” as small as possible (let’s not talk about international travel, shall we?). And I guess in part, this comes from being raised in a reasonably “poor” family where you had to think twice about how you spent your money, and in part, from being raised in Northern NSW with an “general environmental awareness” in the air.
Electric fan
So, for me, using a fan overnight comes with a degree of “guilt”. And don’t get me started on the air-conditioning unit in my apartment, which I generally use only a few times each year, and generally only to cool down the apartment, at which point I turn it off.
One of the first things I did, however, on arriving back in Sydney after Christmas was buy a new electric fan. My one consolation to “eco guilt” was to ensure it had a timer so I could feel comfortable that I wouldn’t be wasting precious resources and generally messing up the environment. It’s a great little fan with a maximum timer of two-hours. So every night before bed I put on the fan with the two hour timer, thinking it would be enough to allow me to get off to sleep and that would be the end of it. Generally speaking, however, I wake within seconds of the timer running out, and immediately start the process all over again. It’s a bad habit, eh?
The reason I mention this is that it was another warm day in Sydney. I didn’t wear shorts and thongs to work, as I mentioned I might yesterday, but I did wear reasonably light clothing. It was a another busy, yet quite focussed day at work which was all about preparing programming for Cyclone Yasi. While I spent most of the day anticipating I wouldn’t have time to head off to the pub tonight to meet with my mates, I “found time” and enjoyed a few drinks with the gang.
Back home, and I’ve got the fan going again, with late night temperatures up in the late 20s.
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Yes, I had a set in the 1980, although we used to mispronounce the name somewhat. But they would be out of date so quickly as technology took off.
Yes, I had a set in the 1980, although we used to mispronounce the name somewhat. But they would be out of date so quickly as technology took off.