Except for the colour of her hair, there was nothing remotely sunny about the woman selling tickets at Tukums station. I gave her a smile, said good afternoon, and asked for two single tickets in slightly halting Latvian. She didn't make eye contact until I'd finished. "Three lats fifty," she barked, tutting as I fumbled in my pocket to give her the right change.
I went outside, and stood in a puddle.