I was devastated when one day, about a month ago, I went to get my daily cup of coffee at Zeppelins, only to find it had suddenly closed down. A sign in the window announced that a "real" Irish bar would soon be opening in its wake. There was even a "real" Irish flag outside, just to serve as proof of the authenticity of this claim.
Zeppelins was my favorite bar in Riga. Or pub. Or restaurant. Or whatever it was. It was everything a good bar should be. It had charm, atmosphere, intriguing waitresses, good music (occasionally), good porridge and a wonderfully intimate view of Old Riga from its large windows. For goodness sake, it even played silent films on a large screen (which once fell on my companion's head), such as those of Eisenstein and Chaplin.
I had so many memorable times at Zeppelins. There was something truly wonderful about it. It was the perfect place to think, talk and feel freely. Perhaps it was all that fake mahogany wood. Perhaps it was the dim lighting. Or perhaps it was just all that vodka, beer and hot wine (depending on the season). Whatever it was, some of the most interesting conversations I ever had were held leaning excitedly across a table there.
There's nothing else quite like Zeppelins in Riga. It was the sort of place where people of all ages could go and feel at ease. And unlike many places in Riga's Old Town, it was mercifully unpretentious. I think at some time or other I took someone from every social stratum in Latvia there for a cup of coffee, from prostitutes and petty criminals to academics and parliamentarians.
But best of all I liked to meet my good friends there. Whenever we had to decide where to meet, the first place that always came to mind was Zeppelins. And my God did we meet there: for breakfast, postbreakfast coffee, prelunch coffee, lunch, post lunch coffee, predinner coffee and then finally dinner, by which time we felt like we deserved a stiff drink for a day well done.
But the moment I will probably most remember from Zeppelins, if only because it was so excruciatingly embarrassing, happened on a hot, crowded Friday night. I was extremely drunk and smitten with a certain dark-haired waitress who worked there. The more I watched her work her way through the crowd, and contemptuously take people's orders, the more I was mesmerized by her. Finally, as I went up to the bar to pay, I couldn't help myself. "I l**e you," I whispered. She looked at me very intensely for a moment, as though she were carefully taken the precise measure of my stupidity, and then handed me my change. As on many other nighs, I staggered out of there with a deeply satisfied sense of bewilderment.
So farewell Zeppelins. I'm sure that the "real" Irish bar will give a lot of people a "real" good time but I, for one, will miss the wonderful place that was Zeppelins.
