It’s been a bumpy ride…

Sorry for the long absence. I think it’s fair to say the honeymoon phase of our relationship with Latvia is over. We both still really enjoy many aspects of the country, but being an expat/immigrant is not all ice-cream in a waffle cone while strolling on a sun-drenched beach.

I was warned before we left the US that compared to Americans Latvians seem cold and aloof. It’s still weird to pass someone in the stairwell of my apartment, a neighbor, and be completely ignored. I’ve met only one person in my apartment building, and that only happened because she thought I was the one pounding on the walls in the middle of the night (it was the neighbor below me, more about that below). The truth is of course, that Latvians, like all people, are capable of incredible warmth. They just seem to reserve it all for their close friends and family.

When I say they reserve it “all” I mean they don’t seem to even consider that other people exist. I’ve tried very hard to not let cultural differences color my opinion of Latvians, but I was weak, and allowed a complex to fester. Now I see their blatant disregard everywhere; from not giving up their seat on the bus to let elderly sit down, to leaving their rent-a-scooters abandoned in the geographic center of the sidewalk; from stepping directly into the 12 inches of space between me and the cooler while I’m trying to select a brand of butter, to being ignored in the entrance of a restaurant while attempting to find out whether there’s an available table. Just yesterday, while shopping, there was a line at the check-stand that blocked the aisle to the freezer section. When I attempted to go through a space in the line to retrieve a bag of frozen blueberries, the gap was suddenly closed on me, and I was left stranded on the side of the aisle without blueberries. Well, where one gap closes another must open. So, I simply moved to that space in a second attempt to cross. To my utter disbelief a presumably heavy shopping basket, which was sitting on the floor to give its owner’s arms a rest, was effortlessly kicked directly into my path. That the owner of this basket produced such a sudden feat of strength and grace was astonishing enough. That they did it without even looking up from their phone was ice-cold and superhuman. Okay, message received. I went around, which is exactly what I do on the narrow city walkways when I encounter other pedestrians, because of course, they can’t be bothered to make room for us both.

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I don’t yet know how to say “customer service” in Latvian. I imagine it translates roughly to “customer grievances graveyard” or maybe “customer service, wink-wink, nudge-nudge.”

Monty Python exerpt

Okay, I wasn’t exactly a customer in this next scenario, so I’ll provide another afterward.

I recently got into a tiny bit of hot water with the immigration authority. I think I misunderstood an immigration law, presumably because of some translation problem, I still don’t know. Christina had flown back to the US on relatively short notice to help her mother with some things, while I stayed behind to care for our cats. I had just submitted my application to renew my residence permit, albeit two days after it expired, but I thought I was covered for three more months by the bilateral visa waiver agreement (I’ll explain a bit more about that below). Also, I had just applied for and received a new passport from the US embassy in Rīga, a fact that might have been the crux of this problem. Immigration called me shortly thereafter and asked whether I was still in the country. When I answered in the affirmative, I think they told me I was in the country illegally. I’m not sure because my Latvian is still VERY rough, and this representative’s English was nearly non-existent. So, I sent them an email to clarify. What was clear from our conversation was that I needed to leave the European Union for a day, after which I could return and resubmit my application. Meanwhile, I’m freaking out and wondering if the police would like a cup of tea, or coffee – donuts are not a thing in Latvia. Christina wasn’t due back for another week, so after searching for professional pet sitters I decided the sensible thing to do was pack an overnight bag in the event I was deported. After three days of pacing the apartment, and adding to and subtracting from my overnight bag, I sent another email.

Thanks to Brexit, I could leave the EU by simply flying to London. I had a good time in London, and it was nice to have the language pressure lifted for a few days. I stayed in a hostel for the first time. Nope, I wasn’t the oldest person there, but close. The other guys in my room were definitely not interested in socializing. It was weird. I chose a pub from online photos of their steak and ale pies and was subsequently cajoled into participating in trivia night. I formed a team of one and came in dead last. It turns out, my knowledge of British sports and politics is not good. Did you know they call soccer “football”? I guess it makes a lot of sense when you really think about which parts of the body are involved. Okay, I kid, but it was a lot of fun. I was even invited to join a team for the following week. The warmth and friendliness of Brits is almost shocking when compared to Latvians.

I met a guy from Morocco who ran a great breakfast joint. Weirdly, I was the only one in the place, so we chatted about our love of soul music (he had Sam Cooke playing on the stereo) and international traveling experiences while I put away a glorious full English breakfast. Did you know Morocco was the first country to recognize the independent US nation? Their 1786 treaty of peace and friendship is the longest unbroken relationship in US history.

Other highlights were a tour of Winston Churchill’s war rooms, a full day in the British Museum, shopping at record stores in Soho, and wandering the city in search of Banksy installations.

To my surprise, the border control agent didn’t even think I was interesting when I re-entered Latvia. He simply said my three months of visa free travel had begun. To this day, I haven’t received a response to either of my emails. I still don’t know if I was in Latvia illegally, or if they simply needed my new passport stamped by passport control before they could process my residence application. I’m not convinced they know either.

Pro-tip for all you European travelers: technically, your stay in Europe may not be limited to 90 days if you’re traveling to a country that has a “bilateral visa waiver agreement” with the country you’re from, in our case, the United States. Latvia, for example, and I verified this directly with the immigration authority, allows you to stay 90 days under the EU visa, AND an additional 90 days under the visa waiver agreement as long as you don’t leave and attempt to reenter the country. So, for example, you could spend 90 days touring Europe and then another 90 days touring Latvia. Many other countries have this agreement but their interpretations may vary, so be sure to double-check.

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In Latvia, almost all bills, rents and utilities for example, are paid via bank transfers. It’s impossible to financially function without a local bank account. Christina and I chose Swedbank because it’s the largest bank in the region and has a relatively large international presence, a large ATM network, and English speaking customer service. So when we decided to buy an apartment they were the obvious choice for escrow services. Unfortunately, we selected an apartment owned by a Russian (at the time of this post EU sanctions against Russia are still very severe), but this Russian was using a Latvian friend to conduct the transaction by way of a power of attorney. I guess the fact that this Russian was also going to use a bank in Tajikistan which had international SWIFT services by way of a bank in Kazakhstan was also a red flag, but what do I know about international banking? After three weeks of near silence we get an email from Swedbank that read: “After reviewing all the information provided, the bank is unable to offer a escrow account service.” That was it! No explanation. So we fired back another email explaining that we were willing to try to buy from a different seller but we first wanted to know whether the problem was with us or the seller. Their response was: “An additional inspection has now been initiated and will take a few more days.” Have you ever been pissed off and laughing at the same time? I don’t think I’ve ever been treated with such disregard from a professional institution. But also, have you ever seen the scene in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy where they try to get a prisoner released from the Vogon bureaucracy? It’s comedy gold and coming to a bank near you!

So we reluctantly decided to wait the requisite “few more days.” Actually, they responded the following day with: “Today I received the final reply. After reviewing all the information provided, the bank is unable to offer a escrow account service.” Were we being punked?

Finally, we spoke to a representative who reluctantly disclosed that they weren’t accepting escrow account applications from non-EU citizens and residents. Since our seller was Russian we had to kill the deal. Why it took them three weeks I’ll never know. We verified a similar policy with another bank. I’ve been seeing some rather dramatic price reductions in property listings. I think I now know why. I don’t know how they’re going to sell those properties. You’d have to be nuts to hand over a briefcase full of cash, right?

So, why the move? Well, even though our apartment is generally nice and our landlords are great, Soviet era construction isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, hehe. One night, the neighbor below us decided to start pounding on something in the middle of the night. The noise transfers so efficiently through these Soviet buildings, Khrushchevkas, that the neighbor ABOVE me pounded on my door accusing me of making all the racket. I was really surprised to see an average sized and normal looking woman. I had envisioned that all the yelling from the apartment above was coming from something that was half human and half wild beast. I can regularly hear the splash of the people in the apartment above using the toilet. The running and jumping of their kid sounds like thunder – NOT hyperbole. And, understandably, neighbors are constantly performing renovations; bandaids for these architectural turds. I think the sound of drills has permanently created a Pavlovian response where my heart shoots up 20 BPM and my blood pressure leaps off the scale.

And then there’s the smoke: car exhaust, cigarette smoke, fireworks, gas appliances, wood furnaces, all of it, makes regular, unwelcome, guest-appearances in my home. We joke about having an evening cigarette after dinner. Again, my complex informs me that they (my neighbors) haven’t considered that I don’t really appreciate those regular evening assaults.

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The silver lining to all this anxiety is that I’ve been forced to establish care with a family doctor. I’ve had a couple panic attacks because anxiety can mimic heart attack symptoms. Turns out my heart is in great shape. My doctor is easily the best medical care provider I’ve ever had. She’s attentive, unhurried, and collaborative. Because it had been a long time since I had my blood drawn she ordered a full blood panel for me. A few days later I walked into the laboratory clinic with my order slip and took a queue number. It was interesting to see that about half the patrons were wearing masks despite the requirement posted on the front door. When my number was called I walked into the tiny office where a tech was seated at a computer and I was promptly asked to pay for the service. As an American this felt weird, but I appreciate that I know what my medical care is going to cost beforehand. A full blood panel was about 80 euros if I remember correctly. Almost in complete silence the tech inserted a needle in my arm, filled three vials of blood, and then sat back down at her computer. Nearly in shock about the efficiency of the performance I finally asked in my best Latvian “is that everything?” She nodded, I thanked her, and went home. My results were emailed to me the next day. Cold, but efficient.

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So what’s it like being an introvert in such a taciturn society? Well, first of all, I’m not convinced I would be classified as an introvert here in Latvia. In many ways I fit right in. On the other hand, in a place that largely ignores you, you have to be more assertive. Flagging down the waiter, who has inevitably disappeared after my meal, so that I can pay and go home is awkward every time. I feel like I have to make a scene just to earn the right to leave. I appreciate that while shopping I won’t be accosted by a stream of sales associates, but then it’s more difficult if I actually need help. I feel like a hero when I let someone who just wants a candy bar or soda move ahead of me in the checkout line, or offer some old lady my seat on the bus. Standing at a nearly silent bus stop while some asshole, who is obviously from New England, spews profanity feels like a bee sting in my soul. With the exception of my neighbors, the volume of the world has been turned down. So, the splashes of noise sound louder and the jolts from the quiet are more disorienting.