I wake at 10am, bleary-eyed after a much-needed night's sleep. Yesterday's journey had exhausted me.
I'd had trouble staying awake at the opera last night. I went for several reasons, firstly to get a look at the fabulous interior of the National Opera House, all plaster and gilt, and secondly as there was little else to do in the city this evening. I wasn't in a fit state to go shaking my booty at the city nightclubs!
I took my 12Lat seat in the stalls amongst the great and the good of the city, who seemed to have come out in force. The place was packed to the rafters. I then sat through four acts of Pucini's La Boheme, which I can precis as follows:
Act I - an artist's garret in Rome. Four impecunious students struggle to pay the rent. Rudolfo, the writer amongst them, falls in love with Mimi, the girl downstairs, who strays into his lair looking for a light for her candle. She has a bit of a cough.
Act II - a cafe in the Latin Quarter. Rudolfo treats Mimi to a night on the town. Mimi still hasn't taken anything for that cough!
Act III - a square at night. Snow is falling. It transpires Mimi has left Rudolfo because he is always jealous of the way she looks at other fellas. Mimi comes back. Her cough has got worse.
Act IV - back in the garret. Mimi's cough finally takes its toll and she expires in her lover's arms.
No wonder the suicide rate is up!
This morning, I breakfast at a wee cafe.....one of a chain which seem to have sprung up like a rash across the city. But the coffee is good, and the sausage and scrambled eggs are cheap. The waitress places two large salt-cellers on the table, and what I initially assume to be the salt looks more like pepper. I swap them over, but the second one also looks like pepper. I conclude it must be paprika. It's only as I take my first mouthful that I realise I've peppered my eggs with cocoa and cinnamon meant for my cappucino!
For the next two nights I am sharing a room with a chum from Shrewsbury, who is coming over with my sister and her fella this evening. I drag my wheeled suitcase across the cobbled streets of the Old City, intending to put my baggage in storage, but the staff inform me that my room is ready.
The hotel is palatial compared to last night's accommodation, and I am delighted to find an ensuite bathroom, in custard-powder yellow! I haven't got a bath at home....indeed I haven't had a bath since Christmas, so I spend the next hour or so soaking in blissful contentment.
It says in my Berlitz Pocket Guide to Riga, that the Latvians come fifth in the European Suicide League Table. That's a surprisingly high position given how small the country is, and the guide book cites the eternal grey skies as a major contributory factor.
As I descend the steps of my Boeing 737, the gloom greets me, together with a chill wind from the east.
The girl at the Tourist Information Office in the central square speaks her English with a Canadian twang. She tells me she yearns for the streets of Montreal where she recalls people smiling as they passed. "Everyone is so glum here", she complains, glumly. And I have to say, she is right. As I wander the medieval cobbles, I am reminded of the grim features of the people of Huddersfield on a cold winters' afternoon.
Further evidence of the local's suicidal streak comes at every street corner, where people seem to suddenly lurch off the pavement into the oncoming traffic. The pedestrian traffic light system takes a bit of getting used to, but I soon find myself confidently following the locals lead, joining the shoals of lemmings diving in concert across the boulevards.
Worse, though, is the tram system. The No. 7 tram stop in Aspazijas Boulevard, for instance, is graced with a purpose-built shelter and platform serving the west-bound tram....those passengers wishing to board the east-bound service, however, have to congregate on the opposite pavement, rushing into the busy thoroughfare as the tram comes to a stop in the centre of the carriageway. Alighting passengers take their lives in their hands as they leap off the bottom step and into the traffic stream, which screeches dutifully to a halt as they do so.
I fear suicide is easy on the streets of Riga!
My hostel accommodation for the night might be described as basic, but this would be putting a positive gloss on things! It is housed on the first floor of a decrepit and crumbling 19th century building opposite the grey brick post office HQ. Ulrika signs me in and takes my money off me....I foolishly pay for the two nights in advance.....I am due back on Sunday night; in the interim staying at a hotel with some chums, who aren't due to arrive until tomorrow.
Ulrika guides me down the corridor, which smells of dirty mop, and ushers me into my room. I assume it was once a vestibule when the building was in its heyday.....now it is painted a grubby salmon pink, has two single wooden cots, a fraying navy blue office carpet, and no curtains.....oh, and a small stool, which I commandeer as my bedside table.
As I hunker down for the night, I realise I have discovered another contributory factor to the suicide rate....More photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600070311161/
I wake at 10am, bleary-eyed after a much-needed night's sleep. Yesterday's journey had exhausted me.
