August 14, 1998, Friday

The hotel furnished a buffet breakfast, which was good. At those breakfasts I made a Dagwood sandwich and when nobody was looking slipped it into my fanny bag. In addition to the sandwich I pocketed a couple of hard boiled eggs. At noon this was my lunch. Every little bit counts.

At 10:00 a.m. I was picked up for the city tour. The best place to view the city as we were driven around was from the upper floor of a double decker. As I was the only one taking the tour, the guide, a young women who spoke English fairly well, sat across from me and gave me a personal one on one running account of the city’s highlights and history. Riga was an important land and sea trade route. It had the usual historic buildings, some of which go back to the thirteenth century.

There were many empty factory buildings, a legacy of the communist failure—a state run economy where many people were paid for not working. There was still a 33 percent unemployment rate.

On the elevator I had met folks from all the surrounding countries—Swedes, Norwegians, Swiss, Danes, Japanese, and Latvian. Most could speak a little English. One friendly woman was from Ireland. She was traveling alone but found herself a boy friend.

In the afternoon I visited the central market, next to the bus station. It was mind boggling. There were five or six buildings selling meat, produce and fish. Outside booths were selling cigarettes, tapes and watches. There was also a line of women, usually older, each holding hangers of used clothing they were trying to turn into a little cash. They would stand for hours hoping against hope someone would buy. There were many poor people in the countri9es once under the control of community Russia. Everywhere there were plants that had been state operated now closed and standing empty. The rebuilding of an economy was bound to take time. The older people left on the sidelines would have to make out the best way they could in the meantime.