Vox Felicitas VII — The Bourse Awakens
On last week’s episode of Vox Felicitas, I discussed the perils of advanced planning allowed to run rampant without check, and how it has the potential to lead to catastrophe quite soon down the road. After all, not everybody enjoys being led through a shoddily constructed storyline that pretty much consists entirely of “what happens if I merge Lovecraft with Warhammer 40,000 and every tired cyberpunk trope known to man? Also, psionics!”.
Today, I want to discuss something a bit more lighthearted — and lightheaded, for that matter. For those of you who haven’t worked it out yet, that is a photograph of the Riga Bourse, the city’s stock exchange. I must confess up until about two years ago, I didn’t even know what a ‘bourse’ was, though it sure is a brilliant excuse to make a really lame Star Wars pun. Why is this relevant, might I ask? Because today I’m going to discuss travel. More specifically, my holiday through Latvia that happened two years ago. Kick back with some popcorn, and you too shall become familiar with the Church of Alcohol, at least two types of mutant, and piracy…
Our epic tale of discovery and adventure begins aboard a Boeing 737 MAX. Yes, one of those Boeing 737 MAXes. This is the first time I’ve been on any kind of aircraft since 2005. Thirteen years ago. This is also the first time I’ve ever travelled any serious distance by myself — to a completely foreign country with an utterly alien culture, I might add. Add that to the realisation that I suffer from high-functioning autism and have issues with foreign and utterly alien environments anyway. Hell, I can just about manage to talk to human beings in an environment I’m familiar with. And as I’m flying into the unknown, it only tangentially occurs to me in the back of my mind that there’s a small yet distinct possibility that I may be accosted by a kidnap gang waiting to deliver me to some morbidly obese Russian oligarch to use as his personal sex slave.
So why, in the name of all that is holy, have I put myself onto an aluminium tube, propelled by jets of exploding kerosene, flying several kilometres over the Baltic Sea, on a journey to the opposite side of the Iron Curtain?
I’ve talked about my good friend Johnny quite a lot in the past two episodes of VF. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Johnny, a quick recap: we met on nation-building/roleplaying/tyranny simulator NationStates, we concocted a storyline merging the best parts of our two universes together, and now we have semi-regular talks with each other over a beer or ten. (We don’t discuss what happened when I did Power Hour on my 21st birthday.)
Johnny first mentioned the idea of a visit in the context of paid leave in the August of that year. I was also graduating from university that year, having won a bachelor’s degree for myself in that time, so I thought, “Why not treat myself to a holiday?”. And so plans were made — Johnny booked his leave off, I booked plane tickets for a September visit, and before I knew it I’d been bundled into a high-flying tube of death on my way to Riga International Airport.
At this point it’d be wise to mention that since Johnny can’t drive, he’s brought another good friend of his — Smot*, who closely resembles a cross between my old maths teacher and Albert Wesker. Johnny, in the meantime, is THE spitting image of a pirate: he likes to wear a green bandanna over his head and possesses a modest black beard and moustache. I mention this just in case you get confused between the two.
(* = Not his actual name.)
Are you a normal human being? Is it late in the evening? Have you just got to the airport from a flight? Are you feeling a little bit tired?
If you personally meet any of the above criteria and especially the first one, your first destination is most probably going to be a hotel, or a buddy’s house, or some other place where you can conk out for the night. Clearly, you know nothing of my extremely particular situation. I’m a twenty-one year old Scot-Scouser hybrid, fresh out of university and with my graduation still on the horizon, in a car with two burly Eastern European lads — one of whom happens to be a soldier.
So our first stop once we get to Sigulda, Johnny and Smot’s home town, is obviously going to be the boozer. We hence arrive at a local sports bar, dubbed ‘Olympic Casino’. I think I read about this place once, in one of Johnny’s short stories. In my defence, when Johnny asked me if I wanted to go for a drink, the ‘drink’ my autistic mind conjured up was of the caffeinated variety. That said, I don’t complain — my heritage obliges me by contract to get drunk at least once when on holiday.
The first obvious sign I’m in Eastern Europe is the sight, upon entering the bar, of a hockey match playing on the TV in the left corner. A group of gangly, slovenly individuals armed with beer glasses sit perched on the couch watching the ongoing sporting event with accipitrine patience.
“Mutants,” Johnny introduces them just out of their earshot. “Apparently, they’re ‘builders’ who got a big contract.”
Mutants. A local term for junkies, alkies — you get the idea, I’m sure. And, of course, the air-quotes that Johnny uses when describing the mutants’ profession makes it clear that these gentlemen are not entirely as reputable as one may think. So I nod in response.
Now the barkeep is coming up to us. It’s my turn to order another round of drinks. Muy bien! An opportunity to deploy my limited knowledge of the Latvian language, using phrases and words picked up from Wikitravel!
“Vel vienu rinki, ludzu.”
Mistake number one: ‘rinki’ is not to be mentioned in the phrase I seek. What I have essentially just said to the poor bartender is “please go around again”. Mistake number two: butchering the language in front of Johnny. Good news, however — he corrects me on this linguistic burp, and the night continues as normal. Until the bartender comes back to us with the drinks I think I ordered.
“Paldies,” I thank her as I take my tipple, a Malibu and coke.
“You’re welcome.”
This most unexpected enunciation in my own tongue from the barkeep makes me blink with surprise.
“Well that makes things a million times easier…” I remark.
“Most of us are actually pretty well-educated and can speak three languages — our own, English and Russian,” Johnny explains this bizarre turn of events. “Usually it’s just the over-thirties you need to worry about.”
“I see,” say I.
Half of me thinks the barkeep just got fed up with me mauling her native language and switched to English. I’m not even going to try and argue with that logic.
Much of the rest of our stay at Olympic isn’t particularly special. It mostly consists of small-talk about how our weeks have been, interspersed with some of Johnny’s saturnine race jokes. He used to be a skinhead back in his early years, but has since tempered himself to the point where he is no longer ‘horrendously violent and ear-wiltingly racist’ and is now merely ‘ear-wiltingly racist’. With the propensity to speak his mind with the gentle sensitivity of an elephant charging through a glassware shop, I might add. Compare and contrast this to my younger self, a self-admitted Stalinist who at one point in his school life walked around with a pair of custom-made red dog tags that said “Free Speech is Bad”. Damn, even writing it makes me grimace and empathise with the poor sod who had to made the tags…
I don’t identify with any particular branch of the far left any longer. But if I had to pin a moniker to my modern self, it would most probably be ‘utilitarian Leninist’. In the same regard, modern-day Johnny is quite comparable to a refined Nazi military officer, a man who would demonstrate his race’s superiority through education and civilised debate. It isn’t perfect by any measure, but it’s a lot better than bricking minority-owned businesses and reaving the night streets in gangs for lone Jews.
But you’re not here to listen to me rabbit about politics … yet. You’re here to read about the drunken adventures of two amateur fiction writers and Smot.
We depart the Olympic Casino with a coffee cup of jack-and-coke each, plus six bottles of Corona beer. Since I’m wearing a big green coat, as opposed to Johnny’s hoodie and Smot’s shirt, carrying the beers is a task which falls to me.
“Watch this, this’ll be the part where I drop them,” I muse to myself.
“An unforgivable offence in the Church of Alcohol,” Smot overhears my remark and homilies. “The spilling of alcohol except for the purpose of libation is to be punished by excommunication!”
“The Church of Alcohol…” I chuckle at the thought of a religion I for one could definitely get behind. “Blessed are the drunkards, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven!”
And there was much rejoicing.
Since this tale has dragged on for long enough now, I’ll fill you in on the rest of my Latvian adventure next week. Thank you for reading, and I will see you again with the next episode of Vox Felicitas’ first two-parter!
~ Harry