'That's near Russia isn't it?' said a few people, when I mentioned that I was going to Latvia on Tuesday. 'Well yes, it sort of borders it, but only a little bit, only about two centimetres on the map'.
The flight was early morning, so I splashed out and booked myself a cab to save a 4am awakening. It was seamless, well, seamless until I felt quite unwell. I opened the windows for some fresh air, which didn't really help. I pushed down the central arm-rest and curled up, trying to keep my head still to ease my throbbing headache. The motion wasn't helping. I do not get travel-sick - I should have sat on some magic newspaper, I thought - in case you've never come across this phenomenon, sitting on magic newspaper prevents travel sickness, as does clutching a magic spoon (in case you forgot to fish the magic newspaper out of the recycling before the Recycling Pixies came).
Then I realised that I really was going to be sick, in the back of this pristine white Kia driven by a kindly young man who had come to collect me even earlier than planned at 6am - I looked around hopelessly - my eyes fell on a sign, 'CCTV recording' - oh great. We'd chatted up to this point, about he'd just had his car cleaned by the Car Wash Pixies on Thamesmead. Great, just great.
Feeling green with nausea, I had a sudden brainwave - I dived into my rucksack and pulled out.... an Air Serbia sick bag! Un-used, at this point.
'I'm really sorry about this, but I'm going to be sick, but I have this Air Serbia sick bag, so I won't make a mess' - the driver looked blank, but nodded. I was duly sick.
He still dropped me off at the airport - rather swiftly I felt - and I headed to check-in. I told a kindly lady with big teeth at check-in there that I hadn't felt too well - I left out the bit about the Air Serbia sick bag. We chatted a bit and concluded that I was ok now.
I had checked-in online - which, as devoted blog followers will know, I never like to do in case Jesus comes back between checking-in and boarding the plane - but only because there seemed to be a fee for checking-in in-person! I wasn't going to pay to do that! That said, the kindly lady with the big teeth at check-in said that if people turn up without having checked-in online, she tells them to do it there and then on their phone to avoid the charge. Top tip.
I thought I had booked a BA flight - my favourite airline - (my least favourite in case you're wondering, is Spice Air. Never fly with them, ever. Long story.) Anyway, it wasn't a BA flight so I'm not quite sure who I'm flying with, nor was the kindly lady with the big teeth and she works there and everything.
I slept almost the entire flight, having had limited sleep recently - the new neighbours who moved in recently have arrived with a menagerie which includes a plethora of chickens and a rather vocal cockerel who cock-a-doodle-doos from the early hours. You might expect that in a rural area, but not in a terraced house in urban Plumstead, south-east London. I just hope they are going to supply eggs rather than the abundance of local chicken shops.
On arrival at Riga immigration, I had to perform that awkward maneouvre of manipulating both thumbs onto a tiny screen to enable my entry. I have curious double-jointed thumbs which bend backwards, so it's always tricky to do this and 'I've got thumbs like a pterodactyl' doesn't always translate for a sullen border guard. That said, this border guard looked younger than most of my Rangers - I'm sure people are getting younger.
I'd booked myself an airport transfer - twenty years ago I'd have hitch-hiked into town, but there's something very reassuring about seeing a sign with your name on it on arrival in an unknown land. I bundled into the transfer vehicle and he dropped me close to my budget hotel which is in the heart of Riga old town, a very characterful, quirky capital which I will learn more about tomorrow. The old town is mainly cobbled and car-free, making it pleasantly walkable.
I checked-in then had a good initial wander, getting my bearings, to the extent which I do, which is limited at best, then found some food and spent a happy few hours sipping cold Coke at a pavement bar, reading the first of my huge pile of books.
It feels odd to be in Europe without a bulging file of paperwork and thirty-one teenagers. I keep thinking, 'ok, sound off: one!'
It also feels quite liberating to be writing without having to reference every single thought to avoid plagiarism - some of the above could even be considered to be genuine 'original thought'. RIGArous.
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