Update: Wed 23:55

Wednesday, 28 September

The restaurant was very busy when I went down for breakfast -- largely on account of me going down at something close to a normal breakfast time (a little after 8) rather than, um, later than that -- so I had the pick of the table just as you walk in. Fair enough, it's closest to the food.

There was the usual, in this sort of hotel, nonsense where getting up to get something else to eat results in anything that looks slightly finished being swiped from your table. I should get a (terribly wittily worded) card suggesting that plates left on the table are expected to be re-used, those left on the floor can be taken away for cleaning. Help save the environment!

Anyway, as I sat there minding my own business with a bit of a queue behind me for the coffee machines I felt someone brush my hair. As the chanteuse in the current Russia/Baltic hit parade song puts it ever so eloquently (and repeatedly): what the fuck? I turned round and a fat middle aged bloke in a maroon and blue check shirt was ambling out from the restaurant towards reception. Some fat bloke has just touched my hair! What the fuck? Loca People is the track you're looking for, by Sak Noel.

I was slightly taken aback by this. I'm pretty comfortable with who I am and have no objection to a bit of hair fondling over breakfast but I am a bit old school in some regards and I do, at least, like to know your name (even if I can't pronounce it properly) before we get intimate.

I ruminating on this violation: there was a queue of people at the coffee machines, perhaps there wasn't much room and the guy lost his balance (though there wasn't much pressure put on my head); perhaps the guy wasn't aware of what he was doing? -- when five minutes later I get a brush on my head again again the fat lad is coming past back into the restaurant. What the fuck? This can't be a mistake, does it count as sexual assault? Perhaps that's pushing it a bit. I'm too shocked to move and watch as he wanders about then sets himself up at a table by the window. Breakfast is over!

When I head out to nip round town later, by coincidence (as he couldn't have seen me march out of the lifts across the lobby) the fat lad is pulling his luggage behind him through the front door. No strange looks, no interaction at all. Not even a thank you very much. Very bizarre.

I trot round Riga which does have some fine buildings and, from the looks of the restaurants and bars, a less sophisticated night out to be had than in Tallinn, say.

The woman on reception had said that their car park didn't like motorcycles and, true to form, I couldn't get out. A man was called on to do the honours.

Today had a run up to Kolka, the tip of the peninsula. I was hoping the coast road might have a pleasant enough view of the coast but that was foolish and naive. Whilst it runs very close (100m) from the coast there is an almost unbroken line of trees blocking the way. Almost certainly these are preventing the sea from eroding the sands away so I've no complaints -- although the result was quite dull.

Enlivened by Kolka having a bit of beach and some choppy waves in the breeze. And a parking ticket tucked into the bungee cords holding my tank bag on when I got back. So I had a coffee and an ice cream to make the 1Lat/h parking cost seem worth while. The Latvian Lat is a rare beastie, it buying more than the UK pound, in fact, buying 1.22 GBP. There can't be too many currencies with more buying power per unit than the GBP.

Then down here to Liepaja -- chosen for no particular reason -- with an equally dull ride that was, for whatever reason, rather chilly despite being 15C. There were no single rooms (EUR26) but they've given me this suite for EUR31 (I think its EUR31, they've charged me in Lats) where I have two TVs! A personal record. I've only changed the menu settings and retuned on the one, so far.

Currently at lat/long: n56 30.540 e21 0.720

Liva Hotel, Liepaja, Latvia