Urban Stories: A Fairy in a Bluish Purple Smock

© Marta Podniece 'Autumn in Riga'

She starts her day always the same way: by sweeping yellow leaves into bigger and smaller piles, swearing on guys that throw cigarette butts on the ground instead of throwing them in the bin and she's always there - welcoming random people on their way to work, being a psychotherapist while listening to the petulant stories of grannies of how much the old bones hurt and that the medicine has become way too expensive, greeting the postman who's trying to enter the blockhouse but apparently forgotten the entry code as he stays at the front too long, probably thinking. This everyday ritual hasn't changed at all, at least for the last 20 years. It might be very possible that the prisoners inhabiting the cells of this Blockhouse Paradise have changed, the kids of them have already grown up, but she's still there - sweeping the streets and washing the stairways of the blockhouse with chlorine (so the smell is worse than in a public swimming pool). So invisible and at the same time regular she is. She's like a thing that belongs to this particular Blockhouse Paradise, even more than the actual prisoners of the inhabited cells. She's like a clock of existence. She's like a painting on a wall in a famous museum (which is admired through the centuries, yet nobody cares to bother, as long as it is there and nobody has taken it away). She is an icon of this live Museum of Cells, where behind the closed doors people tend to quarrel, love, cook dinners and oversleep working hours. It seems to be a way of being a part of a randomly formed social group, though unintentionally.

Her bluish purple smock does not change colors either (color of royalty, wealth and wisdom) as the years pass by and it is an integral part of this urban museum icon, of her being. And her face is a face of an angel in a Forgotten World filled with degenerates, drug addicts, young families and old couples, homeless cats and sometimes dogs, living inside or nearby this particular Blockhouse Paradise, living in a space that has no signs of high culture, with not a single building that would evoke high appreciation or amazement, not a single positive vibe around... maybe that's why these districts are called the 'sleeping' residential complexes... and there are many of them, having many of these urban fairies in bluish purple smocks sweeping around the magic dust.

Forever Young. Forever Drunk. [Вечно молодой, вечно пьяный]

© Alexander Drozdov/AFP/Getty Images

While I'm checking the daily dose of emails confirming or rejecting the hostel bookings on an ordinary working day and hoping to proceed with fighting my BA thesis when a spare moment arrives, two backpackers come in to check-in their pre-booked hostel beds. 

Olga and Irina. They came to celebrate. It's yet another year and another birthday. This is a special one despite the fact that Riga greets them with snow, so white and so unbearable.

They say they never buy a return ticket, just in case if the city's charm gets them too far and the desire to enjoy the beauty of the place is so vigorous that there's no chance to resist it.

They come from the city of lions and bridges. The city that is all covered up in historical fairy-tales and beauty, having both features in a great amount. [St. Petersbourg]

They speak about the famous white nights and the bridges that tend to split and merge back time to time. That's all about the weirdly astounded bridge thing, as they say. If you stay on the wrong side of the bridge after a great party it just means that you had a great party. Indeed! Now you need to use your creativity to figure out where you're going to spend the rest of the night. The tourists even if just innocently watching this phenomenal bridge splitting activity might get themselves into a trouble for the same reason for being on the wrong side of the bridge.

The economic tendencies are uniquely precise and appropriately portraying the global stability crash, also in Russia. The workforce is experiencing massive dismissals from full-time and part-time positions. Same goes for pubs that are decreasing in space and numbers, as they say.

They consider themselves workaholics. For already 3 years they're earning money by writing BA and Master thesis and reports for lazy students. They work together and they succeed. One of them states that if the spring season was very productive by doing this stuff, they can afford a pretty easy living afterwards that includes expanding of horizons away from home city walls, like now. Seems like it's worth it. However, the present economic tendencies have also influenced their unique method of earning income, since the nation's financial capacity has become less impressive than it used to be.

They passionately approach the subject of existing subcultures in their city, when I ask, excited to describe the curious features of subcultures that they are also part of. The Roofers is one of them. Roofers are those living on the roofs or at least enjoying some late night beers there once in a while. However, even roofers are experiencing hard times, since the owners of houses that apparently have roofs have started to close more and more doors to those numerous Roofers' paradises. That's a shame! Maybe those house owners want to keep the king-size happiness of being on the roof for themselves? Nevertheless, there are still some unlocked roofs left and if needed you can always get directions how to get there.

Meanwhile they continue to celebrate. To celebrate their silent moments of happiness of being in a big city, drinking beer hidden in gloves, smiling and telling jokes, inviting to come for a visit, to visit the city of lions, pretty bridges and just great people. I'm smiling along [for those... forever young and forever drunk].

The Son of a Flower Lady

© Marta Podniece

He came to the big city of opportunities from the countryside. He was easy-going, warm and open-minded [Hello, world! I'm Yours!] and he was shining. He was shining whenever she smiled, laughed or looked his way. 

But they were just friends and there were certain circumstances. Recently she was left by someone, she was heart-broken. He haven't yet even started the complicated game called 'relationship'. That was it. It between them, and there were flowers.

They always met after school. They went wandering the well-known streets of the neighborhood for hours, passing familiar places like the crappy little shops where you can buy cheap beer and cigarettes, even if you're under age of 18 [and they were], fast-growing supermarkets and the public green zones filled with mines of frozen dog shit. It was winter 2004. It was a cold winter. But they met anyway. Always on the same meeting spot, with always the same flowers. Roses. They were both looking for the meaning of life or what makes sense. They both were dreamers. They both were lovers of beauty. Both somewhat out-casted. The king and queen of the out-casted teens. 

The day of high-school graduation came. She could hardly speak when he appeared to greet her with the biggest rose she ever saw in her out-casted life. It was a bit wilted and seared but so white like his feelings for her - a bit seared yet sincere and untouched.

Years passed by. They met again in a different city. They both were students now. They both were so brave and so passionate about this life with no regrets. They partied a lot. They had a great amount of boyfriends and girlfriends. They did crazy things and did not plan much ahead. They went on night walks and danced on small charming bridges of small charming towns with sounds of imaginary music and plentiful amount of emptied bottles of cheap wine. Meanwhile the wind was blowing heart-shaped clouds under the painted sky. They shared big plans to change the world and make it a better place. Bob Sinclair and Junior Jack together. It's all about the love generation in a stupid disco. Flowers remained. Silent and untouched.

His dream was to become a DJ, to wear the big headphones and hear the scratch of vinyl plates while mixing Summer Jam with the blues of the 60-ties... and seeing happy people. The dancing people... whole night long. People dancing on small charming bridges of imaginary towns and real-time dance floors. He did it. Despite the global economic crisis and depressing prognosis he enjoyed the imaginary Bed of Roses in new colors, and he still does.