Reaching Latvia from Mumbai is not the sort of journey that happens in a single leap. There are no direct flights between the two cities, and the trip requires a little patience and a willingness to embrace the long route north. My own journey took me first from Mumbai to Istanbul and then onward to Riga, Latvia’s capital. Somewhere between the humid bustle of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport and the calm Baltic skies above Riga, it felt as though I had crossed not just continents but moods. When the plane finally descended over patches of forest and winding rivers, the first thing that struck me about Latvia was the light — soft, pale and almost dreamy. It was close to nine in the evening, yet the sun still lingered on the horizon, casting a gentle glow over the land.
Stepping out of Riga International Airport, the air felt crisp in a way that immediately reminded me I was far from home. A cool breeze carried the faint scent of pine and the Baltic Sea. Compared to the restless rhythm of Mumbai, everything here felt unhurried. Even the taxi ride into the city seemed quiet. As we drove along broad roads lined with trees, the driver pointed toward the Daugava River and told me, in broken English, that summer days in Latvia stretch long into the evening. “You will not sleep early here,” he laughed.
Riga has the curious ability to feel both grand and intimate at the same time. On my first morning, I wandered through the cobbled streets of the Old Town, where church spires rise above pastel-coloured buildings and narrow lanes seem to twist without warning. The city’s history is written in its architecture. Gothic churches stand beside medieval warehouses, and small cafés spill onto quiet squares. Near Dome Square, I stopped at a modest bakery for coffee and a warm pastry whose Latvian name I struggled to pronounce. The elderly woman behind the counter smiled patiently at my attempt and corrected me gently. That small exchange — her laughter and my embarrassment — felt like the real beginning of my Latvian journey.
One cannot walk through Riga without noticing its remarkable Art Nouveau architecture. Entire streets are lined with buildings decorated with elaborate sculptures, ornate balconies and swirling patterns that seem almost theatrical. Alberta Street, in particular, is a showcase of this style. I spent nearly an hour simply wandering there, pausing every few steps to look up. At one point, a young Latvian student noticed me photographing the same building repeatedly. “You are not the first,” he joked. “Even we locals still look up.”
Yet Latvia’s charm extends far beyond its capital. A short train journey took me to Sigulda, a small town nestled within Gauja National Park, often described as the “Switzerland of Latvia.” The landscape opened into forests, rolling hills and quiet rivers that seemed untouched by hurry. I rented a bicycle near the station and followed a winding trail through the countryside. The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles, and the only sounds were the occasional rustle of leaves and distant birds. From the ruins of an old medieval castle overlooking the valley, the view stretched across miles of green wilderness.
Travel often becomes memorable because of chance encounters. In a small café in Sigulda, I ended up sharing a table with a middle-aged schoolteacher named Andris. When he discovered I was from India, his curiosity immediately surfaced. He asked about cricket, Bollywood and whether Indian summers were really as hot as people say. In return, he told me about Latvia’s winters, when daylight shrinks to just a few hours and the entire countryside disappears under snow. “That is why summer feels like a festival,” he said, smiling toward the green valley outside the window.
Back in Riga, the evenings quickly became my favourite part of the day. The city slows gently after sunset. Street musicians appear in corners of the Old Town, couples walk across stone bridges, and the Daugava River reflects the golden glow of the skyline. One night, while strolling along the riverbank, I came across a group of teenagers playing guitar and singing softly in Latvian. I could not understand the lyrics, yet the melody carried a quiet melancholy that felt strangely familiar.
Food in Latvia brings its own discoveries. The cuisine is hearty and deeply connected to the land and sea. I tasted dense slices of dark rye bread, smoked fish from the Baltic coast and simple potato dishes that seemed perfectly suited to the cool climate. In a cosy restaurant with wooden interiors that reminded me of a mountain lodge, a waiter proudly explained that the soup I had ordered followed a recipe passed down through generations. Meals here feel less like hurried consumption and more like small rituals.
What stayed with me most, however, was Latvia’s quietness. It is not a country that overwhelms visitors with spectacle. Instead, it invites you to slow down — to walk a little longer, to sit quietly in a square, to watch the light shift across old buildings. There is a calm rhythm here that gradually seeps into the traveller.
On my final morning, I woke early and returned to the Old Town before the streets filled with tourists. The cobblestones were still damp from a light drizzle during the night. A few shopkeepers were opening their doors, and church bells echoed softly through the empty lanes. I stopped again at the same bakery where my journey had begun. The elderly woman recognised me instantly and said with a smile, “Back again?”
I nodded, ordered the same pastry and sat by the window watching the city wake up. Travel often promises dramatic experiences, but sometimes its most lasting memories are quiet ones — a friendly conversation, a peaceful landscape, a familiar smile in a distant land. Latvia, reached through a long journey from Mumbai and a change of planes along the way, offered exactly those moments.