Suicide City

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/