Out the window to my left, the turrets of a medieval-style building materialize from the mist at the end of the narrow cobblestone alleyway. A street sign reads “Skunu iela” and an Audi A6 with Latvian plates is parked at the corner. The maroon and white of the Latvian flag waves sedately in the thin November breeze.
Before the solemn face of the ancient catholic cathedral, a man, clad in rags and playing a wooden flute, is seated in a half-moon doorway. Pigeons perch on his arms and waltz on his head.
All sorts of beautiful people walk the sparsely populated streets, wearing winter boots and warm scarves and going about their Tuesday afternoon business. Speak to them in English, Latvian, German or Russian. They know it all. Quadrilingual. No big deal.
The thick glass door of the coffee shop pushes open ahead of two guests, bundled in checked scarves and wool coats, cheeks pink from the biting cold. The girl behind the counter greets them in Russian. I understand “da!”, “nyet!” and “spassiba”… I’m smart.
Inside, the coffee is warm. Banquet seats by the window are stacked with pillows and cushion my crossed legs. Coffee, wine, tequila, carrot juice. You name it, you can get it here.
I am in love with Old Riga.
Words of wisdom from the inside of an elevator.
Spectacularly Dr. Seuss-ian :)
Just reading his paper in the rain…