Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 51 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill & Bruce, Trakai Castle, Lithuania Flying into Helsinki on our Finnair plane, over hundreds of islands scattered in blue water and above dense forests up to the edge of the runway, was more dramatic than Sherrill and I had expected. After a short wait, we boarded a prop jet to bounce over the Gulf of Finland to Tallinn. The other passengers all seemed to be locals from the Baltic states.
Maaria, our Estonian guide, was small, with big brown eyes, didn't look older than twenty, though she probably was, and spoke good enough English to launch into a tirade against the Soviets and their brutal impact on Estonia as she drove us past deserted Stalin-era factories and ugly apartment blocks until we reached Tallinn's Old Town, somehow spared from both bombs and Russian mutilation.
Sherrill and I exchanged looks, but didn't respond much.
Maaria, our Estonian guide, was small, with big brown eyes, didn't look older than twenty, though she probably was, and spoke good enough English to launch into a tirade against the Soviets and their brutal impact on Estonia as she drove us past deserted Stalin-era factories and ugly apartment blocks until we reached Tallinn's Old Town, somehow spared from both bombs and Russian mutilation.
Sherrill and I exchanged looks, but didn't respond much.
"Our economy was run from Moscow—like all the countries they swallowed. We had to specialize in certain industries, use the materials they sent, and then sell the products back to them."
So young and so angry, Sherrill and I agreed later.
Estonia was the first of the former Soviet satellite countries along the Baltic that we were visiting. It was exciting to be there, while they were feeling their way into the challenging world of personal choice and free markets. For the young people, the symbol of this brave new world seemed to be the mobile phone, which we saw flourished everywhere like a sword slaying the dragon the of dictatorship. Maaria had told us that Estonia hoped to join the European Economic Union very soon.
From our hotel window we could see the towers and red roofs of the Old Town and passing trams brightly painted with ads.
"This is my idea of breakfast," Sherrill said at the buffet the next morning, as we filled our plates with herring, trout, cheese, and dark breads.
So young and so angry, Sherrill and I agreed later.
Estonia was the first of the former Soviet satellite countries along the Baltic that we were visiting. It was exciting to be there, while they were feeling their way into the challenging world of personal choice and free markets. For the young people, the symbol of this brave new world seemed to be the mobile phone, which we saw flourished everywhere like a sword slaying the dragon the of dictatorship. Maaria had told us that Estonia hoped to join the European Economic Union very soon.
From our hotel window we could see the towers and red roofs of the Old Town and passing trams brightly painted with ads.
"This is my idea of breakfast," Sherrill said at the buffet the next morning, as we filled our plates with herring, trout, cheese, and dark breads.
Old Town Tallinn, Estonia Exploring Tallinn with Maaria, we passed through historic neighborhoods of 18th and 19th century wooden houses heavy with ornate carving around the eaves, windows, and doors.
"They're going to be torn down," Maaria told us. "To make room for development."
We couldn't tell if she approved or disapproved. She took us to a yachting harbor built by the Soviets when they were hosting the Olympic Games.
"It looks nice, but it's falling apart, like everything else they built."
Nearby, at a hillside Folk Music Stadium, costumed performers were getting ready for a singing competition between Estonia and Finland. That evening, some of the Estonian team crowded into our hotel, men wearing oak leaf garlands, women carrying bouquets of roses, celebrating their victory. Folk songs, Maaria told us, helped preserve Estonian culture when they were occupied by other countries. The next morning, when I went for a walk I saw large posters advertising Tina Turner's coming appearance. Was this the beginning of a new cultural invasion?
"They're going to be torn down," Maaria told us. "To make room for development."
We couldn't tell if she approved or disapproved. She took us to a yachting harbor built by the Soviets when they were hosting the Olympic Games.
"It looks nice, but it's falling apart, like everything else they built."
Nearby, at a hillside Folk Music Stadium, costumed performers were getting ready for a singing competition between Estonia and Finland. That evening, some of the Estonian team crowded into our hotel, men wearing oak leaf garlands, women carrying bouquets of roses, celebrating their victory. Folk songs, Maaria told us, helped preserve Estonian culture when they were occupied by other countries. The next morning, when I went for a walk I saw large posters advertising Tina Turner's coming appearance. Was this the beginning of a new cultural invasion?
As Maaria was driving us to what she called an outdoor museum she asked us about job opportunities in the U.S.
"I have to make a decision," she told us. "Whether to be a teacher or do something else with my English skills."
We told her a little of what we knew, but didn't want to urge her in any specific direction.
The outdoor museum was a collection of thatch-roofed farmhouses and barns moved from across Estonia. Although the museum was to show a traditional way of life, one old farmhouse also commemorated the deportations of thousands of Estonians to the Russian Gulag after World War Two. It was left as it was the night Russians came to take away the occupants, with photographs of the family and other Estonian victims.
"I have to make a decision," she told us. "Whether to be a teacher or do something else with my English skills."
We told her a little of what we knew, but didn't want to urge her in any specific direction.
The outdoor museum was a collection of thatch-roofed farmhouses and barns moved from across Estonia. Although the museum was to show a traditional way of life, one old farmhouse also commemorated the deportations of thousands of Estonians to the Russian Gulag after World War Two. It was left as it was the night Russians came to take away the occupants, with photographs of the family and other Estonian victims.
Old Town Riga, Latvia Soon after breakfast a few days later, our Latvian guide, Rita, came to take us south to Latvia and its capital, Riga. She was older than Maaria, tall and thin, different in appearance, but we soon discovered almost as outspoken. We drove along the Via Baltica, the road that extends all the way to Warsaw in Poland.
"On this road," Rita told us, "in 1989, a human chain of a million people from the three Baltic countries stretched from Tallin in the north down to Vilnius in Lithuania, swearing that we'd all be independent again."
Sherrill commented about how beautiful the countryside was.
"The Russians didn't bother to destroy it—except where they built factories to make things to go back to Russia."
Sherrill nudged me.
"Look," she said, pointing out the window to a high-shouldered, long-legged stork hiking through a field.
"On this road," Rita told us, "in 1989, a human chain of a million people from the three Baltic countries stretched from Tallin in the north down to Vilnius in Lithuania, swearing that we'd all be independent again."
Sherrill commented about how beautiful the countryside was.
"The Russians didn't bother to destroy it—except where they built factories to make things to go back to Russia."
Sherrill nudged me.
"Look," she said, pointing out the window to a high-shouldered, long-legged stork hiking through a field.
As we drove on, we saw more storks, including several in nests atop barns and houses, frequently on chimneys, a couple of times clacking their bills at us or each other.
The midsummer festival was coming soon, Rita told us, on June 23, the eve of St. John's Day, or the "Festival of Johns" for all men named John, rather than on the summer solstice.
"On midsummer night," she explained, "everyone is supposed to stay awake all night and bathe naked in a river or lake or in the dew of a meadow to ensure good harvests." She laughed: "Of course, there's much celebration and eating and drinking! We have a long history of worshipping nature, giving god-like powers to trees and rocks and lakes." She smiled. "The Baltic states were the last in Europe to be Christianized."
The pre-Christian gods and goddesses weren't shown as figures or statues, but in symbols or shapes that could be drawn or woven in fabric. Rita had brought her fifteen year-old daughter—named Mara, after the earth goddess—along for the bus ride.
"Why," Mara asked us, "are so many school children killed in America?"
"Because of guns," Sherrill answered.
This conversation happened almost twenty years ago, not last week.
The midsummer festival was coming soon, Rita told us, on June 23, the eve of St. John's Day, or the "Festival of Johns" for all men named John, rather than on the summer solstice.
"On midsummer night," she explained, "everyone is supposed to stay awake all night and bathe naked in a river or lake or in the dew of a meadow to ensure good harvests." She laughed: "Of course, there's much celebration and eating and drinking! We have a long history of worshipping nature, giving god-like powers to trees and rocks and lakes." She smiled. "The Baltic states were the last in Europe to be Christianized."
The pre-Christian gods and goddesses weren't shown as figures or statues, but in symbols or shapes that could be drawn or woven in fabric. Rita had brought her fifteen year-old daughter—named Mara, after the earth goddess—along for the bus ride.
"Why," Mara asked us, "are so many school children killed in America?"
"Because of guns," Sherrill answered.
This conversation happened almost twenty years ago, not last week.
As we continued driving south next to white sand beaches and past forests of slender green trees, an elderly Czech-born woman in our group asked Rita why so many Latvians were in the Nazi SS during World War II. Rita replied that they were conscripted by the Germans, but the woman shook her head, her sharp nose aimed like an accusation at the guide.
"The SS was a voluntary corps and I know that thousands of Latvians were SS guards in the concentration camps."
During the trip, Sherrill and I became friends with the woman, Vera, and her husband, and learned that she'd spent time in Auschwitz and two other Nazi camps.
"The SS was a voluntary corps and I know that thousands of Latvians were SS guards in the concentration camps."
During the trip, Sherrill and I became friends with the woman, Vera, and her husband, and learned that she'd spent time in Auschwitz and two other Nazi camps.
Art Nouveau decorations, Riga, Latvia Passport control at the Estonia-Latvia border took almost an hour. Sherrill pointed through a window into the office. Two guards were playing solitaire on a computer.
Passing the now familiar Soviet-era apartment blocks and deserted factories, we drove into Riga's city center, block after block in the Art Nouveau style, with fanciful leafy decorations, sculptures of gargoyles and human faces and figures.
Our hotel was near the "Monument to Liberty" that dates from the 1930s, with a tall figure of a woman holding three stars above her head.
"During the resistance to Soviet rule," Rita told us, "she had great symbolic importance. People still leave flowers at her base."
Passing the now familiar Soviet-era apartment blocks and deserted factories, we drove into Riga's city center, block after block in the Art Nouveau style, with fanciful leafy decorations, sculptures of gargoyles and human faces and figures.
Our hotel was near the "Monument to Liberty" that dates from the 1930s, with a tall figure of a woman holding three stars above her head.
"During the resistance to Soviet rule," Rita told us, "she had great symbolic importance. People still leave flowers at her base."
We ate dinner in the medieval part of town, a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, at a basement restaurant under low brick arches, where a young gypsy couple sang in Latvian, Russian, and Romanian as he played a guitar. His playing and the songs filled the dimly lit room with wave after wave of romance and heartbreak. Walking back to the hotel, we passed a lively beer garden, more restaurants, and at least one Internet cafe.
The next afternoon, Sherrill and I found a bookstore where she bought a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in Latvian for her collection. A young man near Town Hall Square was selling matrioshka nesting dolls, with first Bill Clinton, then Monica Lewinsky, followed by a smaller, angry Hilary.
The next afternoon, Sherrill and I found a bookstore where she bought a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in Latvian for her collection. A young man near Town Hall Square was selling matrioshka nesting dolls, with first Bill Clinton, then Monica Lewinsky, followed by a smaller, angry Hilary.
Sherrill, Rundale Palace, Latvia As spectacular as Riga's red brick eighteenth-century Rundale Palace was, what we most remembered of it later were the storks who made its chimneys their home, especially a nest with a mother stork and babies.
A new guide, Darja, took us from Latvia to Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. Although, as one of the company managers, she didn't usually conduct tours and was filling in for someone, she told us with some annoyance, "I still have to do all of the usual female jobs at home." She looked at Sherrill. "I have to give my husband fancy meals—you know, take care of 'his majesty.' That's the way it is here. At Christmas, I have to fix a dozen or more kinds of sweets—it's the tradition. If I don't, I'm a bad housewife."
A new guide, Darja, took us from Latvia to Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. Although, as one of the company managers, she didn't usually conduct tours and was filling in for someone, she told us with some annoyance, "I still have to do all of the usual female jobs at home." She looked at Sherrill. "I have to give my husband fancy meals—you know, take care of 'his majesty.' That's the way it is here. At Christmas, I have to fix a dozen or more kinds of sweets—it's the tradition. If I don't, I'm a bad housewife."
All of our guides in the Baltic states were outspoken, but Lara may have been the most blunt.
"Now, we have the freedom we wanted, but we still have corruption in government, economic inequality, food shortages. Old people lost their savings when the banks failed....."
"Now, we have the freedom we wanted, but we still have corruption in government, economic inequality, food shortages. Old people lost their savings when the banks failed....."
Sherrill, Trakai Castle, Lithuania Vilnius, like other old cities here, was surrounded by Soviet-era apartment blocks, but the restored Old Town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The city's old Communist statues were banished to an Open Air Museum in the southern part of the country.
Darja showed us where the city's two Jewish ghettos were and told us about the extermination of thousands of Lithuanian Jews. A small monument to the victims stood on the site of the largest synagogue in Vilnius. The Germans damaged the synagogue, but after the war the Russians blasted it to nothing. Later, we drove past the forest outside of Vilnius and the mass graves of 100,000 people shot by the Nazis: 70,000 Jews, 30,000 gypsies, plus Polish intelligentsia, Lithuanians, war prisoners, and resisters.
Darja showed us where the city's two Jewish ghettos were and told us about the extermination of thousands of Lithuanian Jews. A small monument to the victims stood on the site of the largest synagogue in Vilnius. The Germans damaged the synagogue, but after the war the Russians blasted it to nothing. Later, we drove past the forest outside of Vilnius and the mass graves of 100,000 people shot by the Nazis: 70,000 Jews, 30,000 gypsies, plus Polish intelligentsia, Lithuanians, war prisoners, and resisters.
Sherrill & Bruce, Lithuania Two days later, Sherrill and I stayed in Vilius while the rest of the group went to Minsk, which we visited 11 years before and had no desire to see again. We took a taxi to the Jewish Museum, where we were the only visitors. Middle-aged women in shapeless dresses scurried ahead of us, unlocking doors on different floors and turning on lights. We were about to leave when a voice called out from behind a curtain. With gentle, eager courtesy, this little bespectacled man escorted us around a museum-within-the-museum, chiefly dedicated to bookplates and pictures of famous Jews.
It seemed appropriate that we visit the Museum of the Soviet KGB next, even the basement rea used for the processing, interrogation, torture, and imprisonment of suspects and prisoners. Explanatory signs in English and photographs of victims were mounted in the rooms and corridor. There, in that cold hallway, in those square little rooms, behind those heavy doors, behind those sliding steel windows, on that stained concrete, human beings suffered and died and the Lithuanians wanted the world to know.
Thomas Mann's house, Nida Spit, Lithuania A few days later, we drove south to a spit that runs along the edge of the Baltic. We could see the Baltic on one side and the lagoon on the other. A short stop at the Witches Hill Sculpture Park reminded us how people in that part of Europe enjoy grotesque fantasy figures, witches, and monsters. We visited Thomas Mann's summer house, built with money he got for the Nobel Prize in 1929. He worked on Joseph and His Brothers in this blue-trimmed two-story wood house with thatched roof and view of the sea until the Nazis drove him out of Europe.
Sherrill on way to Poland The evening we reached the seaport of Gdansk in Poland the narrow old streets were crowded with midsummer festivities. Some streets were closed, filled with tents and crowds of people. A sense of hilarity filled the night air. As four of us walked along the river, fireworks shot up from the opposite bank, exploding in sparkling cartwheels over our heads.
Gadansk Monument to Rebellion An important port, Gdansk was devastated during World War II. Wandering around the Old Town the next day, Sherrill and I could tell that behind the narrow facades of the restored houses were modern buildings. We'd seen the same thing in Warsaw in 1989. After breakfast, we drove to the Gdansk Shipyards to see the Solidarity monument near the place where the freedom movement started and then past the walled, heavily guarded, home of Lech Walesa, founder of the movement and later president of Poland.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
 Sherrill, Krakow Castle, Poland |  Sherrill near Gdansk, Poland |
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