It was with an insanely good latte in hand that I stepped out onto the uneven cobblestones to begin exploring Riga's Old Town. I couldn't have picked a better day: August 21st was the 810th anniversary of this beleagured city, which meant music, markets and performances everywhere. My favourite moment though, happened within five minutes of receiving my coffee. Ducking under a narrow archway into a hidden courtyard, I was stopped dead by a women's choir, their intricate harmonies wafting out an upper window of a church. I perched on a post and listened as their director worked with them to tighten a particularly difficult section, in awe of the resonating sound.
A family entered the courtyard from the other side, the woman's face lighting up as she raised a hand to stay her husband. The daughter mumbled something in another language, but I clearly understood she thought it was a recording.
"No," I quietly murmured, "it's real. They're practicing."
Just as I said it, the director stopped the song and issued instructions. The girl's eyes widened; her mother smiled at me.
"I get goose tingles." she said in halting English, plucking at her arms to illustrate her point.
Me too.
We stood in silence for a time, the soaring notes washing over us. Then we smiled at each other, and walked our separate ways.
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