The little clock by the Victory Monument showed seven degrees. Meltwater rained from rooftops, the pavements were brown and gravelly with salt, cars splashed through beer-coloured puddles in the middle of the road. By mid-afternoon the town centre was deserted. I slipped and slid round Castle Park, tried to find the football ground, then waited for the train with pizza and a beer in the town's swankiest hotel. "Ludzu, lielu Cesu," I asked the waitress in my best Latvian accent. "That's four thirty," she replied in flawless English.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sunday in Cēsis
The little clock by the Victory Monument showed seven degrees. Meltwater rained from rooftops, the pavements were brown and gravelly with salt, cars splashed through beer-coloured puddles in the middle of the road. By mid-afternoon the town centre was deserted. I slipped and slid round Castle Park, tried to find the football ground, then waited for the train with pizza and a beer in the town's swankiest hotel. "Ludzu, lielu Cesu," I asked the waitress in my best Latvian accent. "That's four thirty," she replied in flawless English.
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