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Tuesday, December 1, 2009


Under the giant square gramophone tent ceiling the rain can be heard quietly if at all. For across the latvian piazza, above the little round tables for two or four, stands a small stage where a pair of muicians ply their trade. A soothing jazzy duet of tenor sax and joanna. The beer is a good robust nutty quality that makes the best brown ale. It's taste lingers on the tongue and olfactories through the bites of potato pancake and slightly salted salmon filet. Background of leftover carnival bulbs that remind me of christmas and a pleasant chatter-murmur of human speech deep in a delightful evening out. Regular rounded brick pavers twist and turn drawing patterns amongst the feet of chairs and man. Surrounding us stand late nineteenth century creamy erections with the occasional rowan chestnutty pepperpot style roof. The waitresses bustle. The patrons drink with gusto and eat with grace. The drinks are poured. The music is played. The aromas grip your being with a certain amount of pleasure on their part and yours. There is a nagging, growing suspicion that this evening will undoubtedly end. Yet that matters not. For there are always more nights to be raptured in Riga.

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