'So, there will definitely be someone here tomorrow when I check out', I said to the guy on reception who looked like a cross between Mr Bean and an onion.
'Yes, you can pay for your transfer then'.
I was a bit disappointed to have been charged EUR 1.50 for a tea bag, just because I had run out of my Earl Grey - still, this tea bag professed to be 'Lord Grey', so I had splashed out. This was yesterday evening as I approached my room for my final sleep in Riga.
I say sleep, but it sounded like there were 16 stag-dos in my room (for the avoidance of doubt, there weren't any), but combined with it being Friday night, the noise was unbearable. It's a weird juxtaposition if you think about it - the streets are lined with history, monks in medieval dress, fairy-tales about cockerels, all sorts of churches and monuments, yet Riga has become a stag-do destination of choice, with the streets awash with people drinking beer and wearing matching t-shirts saying 'Barry's Groom Support'. I hope Barry's aware of the divorce rate these days.
I had set my alarm for 4.30am and had a cab coming at 5.15am. I decided against the eye mask and ear plugs in case I missed sunrise and the alarm. After what felt like five minutes sleep, the alarm was buzzing and I started getting ready to leave. I'd packed, laid out my clothes, so just had to have a rapid shower then dash downstairs.
I thanked my room for hosting me, as one does, then bundled downstairs ready to check-out.
Reception was deserted. Adele was squawking out of a radio in the room behind reception.
'Hello - it's me', I called out.
Nothing.
I sat down - someone will be here in a minute, I said to myself.
No-one came.
I got up and started knocking on the desk.
Nothing happened.
I hoped my cab was waiting up the road (much of the Old Town is pedestrianised so you can't always get too close to buildings in a vehicle), but I hadn't yet paid for it and you're meant to pay reception, then they give you a little voucher to give to the driver.
I know, I thought - I'll call them - someone is bound to come running when they hear a phone at what was now 5.15am. I googled the hotel and started calling. The phone on reception started to ring. Should I answer it? I thought. No, that would be silly. I did that once at a conference at the Bromley Court Hotel when the phone in the restaurant started ringing - I found it very funny but the hotel staff less so.
I let it ring and ring and ring.
I hung up.
I heard a snuffle from just outside the dining room along from reception - I crept over there - there was a middle-aged man slumped in a chair. He looked just a tiny bit, well, dead really. I felt on his neck for a pulse and was reassured that there was one. I then noticed a rucksack next to him so he must have just arrived, realised there was no-one on reception, found a chair and fallen asleep. Or maybe it was Barry and he'd had enough.
I started to worry - this was already more tightly timed than I wanted, I couldn't check out or pay for my transfer, plus I didn't know if my cab had come.
As Adele continued to squawk, I went round to the other side of the reception to see if I could say hello from the other side. No joy.
What would Jesus do? I thought. Jesus would have got up earlier and taken the bus.
My eyes fell on a post-it note; I grabbed a nearby pen and wrote them a note explaining the situation. I stuck it onto the sleeve with the dodgy key-card in, along with 25 EUR cash which I had forgotten I had on me.
I walked outside and there was a cab a few hundred yards up the road. A gruff, skinny greying man was leaning against the car.
'Hello - are you for Helen?
'Yes but where is voucher?'
'There is no-one on reception, so I don't have a voucher'.
He rolled his eyes and huffed and puffed, 'waiting here', he commanded, then stormed towards to the hotel.
Two minutes later he stormed back again - 'There nobody is there', he retorted. I raise my eyebrows, saying nothing.
He proceeded to make some frantic phone calls - I didn't understand a word but I don't think they were social calls.
Begrudgingly and voucher-less, he drove me to the airport. On arrival, I thanked him warmly, apologised that there was no voucher, and gave him a crisp £10 note I had in my wallet - 'go and change this to Euros and buy something nice' - his expression changed completely - 'thank you - is good flight' - and we parted.
Riga airport consisted of queue after queue. If I see a long queue, I usually join it, just to see what it leads to.
I'd checked in online, reluctantly as ever, then had to join a queue to drop Purple, my fairly new travelly rucksack who is too soft to go in with the solid, rugged big bags so had to go in the oversized baggage bit along with a plethora of pushchairs, surfboards, a cello, even some dogs and cats.
The next queue was for security - when it was my turn, the young security man said, 'do you speak English?'
'Well yes, rather well, I like to think. I write it too; in fact, I'm writing a travel blog which is being read by at least three unconnected people. Would you like to read it?'
Realising this wasn't the time, the security people had unearthed my suncream which I had failed to move into my checked bag, so it was confiscated. This was less embarrassing than in Estonia in 2018 when I'd failed to move my penknife from my day-bag to my checked bag, in front of the entire Guide group.
The next queue was for tap-water. A couple were faffing with the water machine and couldn't seem to get it to work. I turned around to the lady behind me - 'You look miserable, are you Latvian?' - 'Yes', she sullenly replied; though her expression changed when we got to the front and I managed to get the machine to work. She pointed at the couple who had been faffing with the water machine and said, 'I think maybe they were idiots'. We giggled.
The penultimate queue was immigration and it moved slowly to the point that I was worried that I would actually miss the flight - on arrival at the front, the border official looked as though she had just finished her Gold Award at Guides and was moving up to Rangers next September.
'Helen?'
'Yes please'
'To London?'
'I hope so' - I smiled, she didn't smile.
'Next please', she shouted over my shoulder as she handed me my freshly stamped passport and dismissed me through the wooden door.
In the final Latvian queue of my life, I found myself in front of the couple who had been behind me at immigration when we arrived on Tuesday! They proudly told me that they have been to 161 countries. This was impressive, but seemed a little implausible. But they went on to tell me that they are in the club for people who have been to more than 100 countries - I've checked and there's even a badge available. It later transpired that this 161 includes all sorts of islands and dependencies which are usually part of other countries, so the true number is 109, which is still quite impressive. They told me that they also went to Lithuania this week - 'so did I', I retorted.
The flight was uneventful - I was desperate to sleep, having had about 10 minutes, so tried to fashion a bed out of my coat and the spare seat next to me, without much success. I have a cosy neck pillow somewhere - I haven't seen it since I was in Serbia in May - I think it might still be in Serbia; not helpful.
The last queue of the journey was for the e-gates, which never let me through despite having a funky passport with a magic chip. I tried three times - 'Seek Assistance' it said, and I turned round - a kindly young man in a turban directed me to another queue - actual Sikh assistance, I thought.
At Gatwick, I jumped onto a London Bridge bound train, then a Plumstead bound train, then walked home. I couldn't help noticing that there's a new chicken shop in the high street.
Farewell friends, thanks for sharing the adventure with me. Until next time.
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