Returning to Riga

Riga doesn’t change much. The skyline is still tangled in spires and Soviet leftovers, and the Daugava river still cuts through it all like an old scar. But every time I come back, I realize that maybe it’s me who’s changing.

Riga still has grit. A weird kind of charm buried under grime. Beautiful decay and brutal history all playing out beneath crumbling facades and that eternal Baltic mist. And of course, the locals are just as grumpy as usual. One day, I will succeed in my mission to make at least one of them smile.

Skyline of Riga.

And yet, the city feels slicker than a decade ago. The Art Nouveau buildings have been scrubbed clean and there’s a hip café where there used to be a crumbling booth selling lukewarm pirogi. Some of the ghosts have been exorcised, while others have just moved upstairs.

Urban shortcut.

The Depeche Mode Bar was a highlight and the nearby Republika turned out to be fun with three livebands doing their worst black pagan metal. I roamed through the hipster quarters in the north, discovering the brewpub Labietis.

As usual, the gems are hidden outside the main tourist trail. The city may be wearing new clothes, but it has’t forgotten who it is.