Somewhere down there in the darkness, a runway has to exist.
The view from the Baltic Air commuter flight during the lingering summer twilight (which lasts until 11 p.m. in July) suggests that the ground is near. But where are the lights? The terminal? Once on the ground in the Latvian capital of Riga, only a dollhouse-size building off in the distance is seen on the flat terrain. How can there be so much open space in a micro-country?
This puzzling prelude to one of Europe's most storied capitals became typical over my 10 days in the Baltic republics of Latvia and Estonia, where cities are like avocados: mundane and crusty on the outside, rich and exotic on the inside - and all eerily uncrowded by northeastern U.S. standards.



