I waited. For bowed heads with ornate hairstyles attached. For deep glares from stern, angular bodies. A vivid sense of imbalance that I could use to dismiss a nation which had wounded me with its non-Zürich-ness. But the women were mostly looking straight ahead (and at some point which was other than me), and the men, likewise, seemed neither particularly impressed nor disgusted by my presence. A few days went by and I started to see that this, too, was a likeable place. A relatable place. A place with its own dignity economy, and rewards which revealed themselves even to a short-time visitor.
(It was when I landed in Tallinn, Estonia, that I noticed more of the misogyny I was looking for. But even that was counterbalanced in between deep friendliness, a passion for technology, and a hearty way of living. This city clearly deserves more time than we had for it.)
One thing my mother and I actually have in common is our fascination with ornate architecture. As such, I spent most of the time in Riga chasing one manifestation of aesthetic bliss to another. Along the way, I found out that the regular Jane may not be able to eat out, even for a special occasion, but doesn't allow that to diminish her enjoyment of the city's delights. I only needed to look at the physical environment discernible on the streets of the Old Town to see that the people were engaged by it. The vibe was cultured and sophisticated - a place people were creating something worth tuning into. I hope I can spend more time there someday, perhaps in month warmer than October.
Reading Henning Mankell's 'Dogs of Riga' was both a plus and a minus - the crime fiction tale put the city on my map, but continued to paint it in hues so gray, that it would take me a while to disentangle myself from a sense of horror upon viewing the real thing. I suppose I am grateful that Latvia was selected at all by the Swedish author I was dabbling in. I might not have been as eager to come otherwise. Reports of abundant Art Nouveau are one thing, but a narrative that stirs your imagination is far more lucrative. And so I reluctantly raced into the unknown, and ended up relishing the reliably colourful reality.
(It was when I landed in Tallinn, Estonia, that I noticed more of the misogyny I was looking for. But even that was counterbalanced in between deep friendliness, a passion for technology, and a hearty way of living. This city clearly deserves more time than we had for it.)
One thing my mother and I actually have in common is our fascination with ornate architecture. As such, I spent most of the time in Riga chasing one manifestation of aesthetic bliss to another. Along the way, I found out that the regular Jane may not be able to eat out, even for a special occasion, but doesn't allow that to diminish her enjoyment of the city's delights. I only needed to look at the physical environment discernible on the streets of the Old Town to see that the people were engaged by it. The vibe was cultured and sophisticated - a place people were creating something worth tuning into. I hope I can spend more time there someday, perhaps in month warmer than October.
Reading Henning Mankell's 'Dogs of Riga' was both a plus and a minus - the crime fiction tale put the city on my map, but continued to paint it in hues so gray, that it would take me a while to disentangle myself from a sense of horror upon viewing the real thing. I suppose I am grateful that Latvia was selected at all by the Swedish author I was dabbling in. I might not have been as eager to come otherwise. Reports of abundant Art Nouveau are one thing, but a narrative that stirs your imagination is far more lucrative. And so I reluctantly raced into the unknown, and ended up relishing the reliably colourful reality.
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