Song Festival

"The celebration of song is the core of our nation's spiritual reactor, and it is also a battery in which the spiritual power of our people is stored. We find such a togetherness that, in listening to others, each of us can hear an echo of the voice in our heart."

- Vaira Vike-Freiberga, President of Latvia 1999-2007

Dear Friends,

Early on in my time in Latvia, I was told -- nay, warned -- that Latvia is the land that sings. The caveat proved to be true in every way, and whether or not it was meant to be prophetic, for me the admonition was self-fulfilling.

The opportunity to sing in Latvia felt a little like coming home. My inner choir boy, for years silently residing within, repressed and nearly mute, quickly zipped up his choir robe and joined the chorus. Two actually. Jaunais Rigas Viru Koris, or Riga's Young Mens Chorus from my school, which rehearsed on Wednesday afternoons. (I was the oldest young man.) And then on Thursday evenings, the eclectic Martinkoris, founded by a Latvian man named Martin living in Germany years ago. Although Martin still sings in the choir, the current director is a vivacious young woman, aptly named Marta. Most of the twenty-five singers are ex-patriots, or hyphenated Latvians, as I liked to think of them: British-Latvian, Canadian-Latvian, and so on.

Singing in Latvia did what singing does everywhere: bring people together. Draw individuals out from their solitary selves and into something greater. Music: the big tub of crunchy peanut butter in the sky, uniting people in a sticky sweetness. I genuinely loved my two Latvian choirs and the people who comprised them. Sopranos, altos, tenors, basses. Even the nuts.

But there was one teeny-weenie little Baltic-country-sized problem: the language. Those crazy Latvians insisted on singing in their own language. The audacity!

And that was the question I fielded most when people learned I was singing in choirs. What about the language? See, I'm a big believer in the Alcoholics Anonymous principle: fake it till you make it. And that's exactly what I did. I faked it. And listened really, really carefully.

Sources said I made progress, too. Wee 7th grade Maris who stood beside me in the Viru chorus turned to me one day this spring and said, "When you're singing, I can't hear your accent. Pure Latvian!" Gold star for Fakesmanship.

Most of the year's rehearsals were spent gearing up for the National Song Festival, or Dziesmu Svetki, that takes place in Latvia every four or five years. Several song books contained the reportoire of songs, some ancient and traditional dainas, others more contemporary. Many dealt with national themes, such as the powerful "Saule, Perkons, Daugava," or "Sun, Thunder, Daugava" (the river that runs through Latvia), that greatly contributed to the momentum of the national awakening and push for freedom in the early 90s. Or, the stately "Varoni Gaidiet!" ("Wait For a Hero") composed by the renowned Imants Kalnins, which dramatically falls from fortissimo to piano mid-way through the piece, like a stone dropping from a skyscraper.

Many songs were about nature, with titles like "Fast, Fast River Flow" and "Behind the Mountain Smoke is Smoking." ("Rocky Mountain High" anyone?) Other songs were written to celebrate the very act of singing. Take "Song to Song" or the frank "Born Singing, Growing Singing." One of my personal favorites, "Labvakar, Sievas Mate," or "Good Evening, Mother-in-Law," defied all categorizing, with its playfully plaintive timbre.

Often in Martinkoris, I would make quick pencil notes in the margins of my songbooks, gathering the bits of translation tossed to me by my fellow tenors like so many tennis balls being fired from a volleying machine.

"Tim, this one is called 'Beyond the Hills are Tall Mountains,'" said Gregors, an affably cranky German-Latvian.

"And it's all pretty much about sex!" spewed Fils, an Australian-Latvian teddy bear.

"Well..." Gregors was bound and determined to take the higher road. "You see, it's about a girl getting taken away to get married. And she's crying because she doesn't want to be married. And the boy says, 'Cry or don't cry, I won't take you anyway.'"

"SEX!" cried Fils. Two portly altos turned around in their seats.

Atis, always the diplomat, would turn and say, "Don't even try to understand these, Tim. We've heard these songs since we were on our mothers' teat."

Then, there was the seemingly innocuous tune by the name of "Rigas Torna Gala Zile," a song about a finch singing atop the Riga Tower. What could be sexual about that?

"This line is 'You sing between roses, I sing between the girls,'" waxed Gregors.

"'If you don't sing nice, I'll get the boy to eat your feather,'" continued Fils.

The closest translation the guys could give me for "Lokatiesi, Mezu Gali" was simply, "Sex."

"This one is about looking for love," said Gregors.

"Chick hunting," clarified Fils.

With each passing translation, I was beginning to feel more and more like a pupil in my Postmodern American Poetry class in college. My singing professors were only too eager to offer their interpretations. I decided against inquiring further about "Mazs Bij Teva Novadinis," or "Small is My Father's Farm."

My most memorable, shall we say, lyrical singing experience, was also my most embarrassing. With the approaching May 2 skate, or audition -- yes, each choir who wants to sing in the summer festival must pass the audition, a mounting song festival fever was spreading faster than a bottle of spilt vodka. Tempers were running short. Attendance at rehearsals was being taken. Dramatics ensued. When our conductor asked me to sing the solo in one of our three pieces the day before auditions, I was certain the fever had even affected fair Marta.

The name of the piece is "Saule Brida Rudzu Lauku," a contemporary composition with swirling piano-driven accompaniment supporting the Coplandesque melody above it. The song flows like milk and honey; it had been my favorite since we'd first sung it. When I heard it, the wallpaper of my mind switched to crisp, golden leaves floating on a swiftly ebbing stream.

Up until this point, in our rehearsals, one of two sopranos had sung the solo the few times we'd run the song in its entirety. I really had no idea why Marta had chosen me: a. I'm male. b. I'm not Latvian. When she announced I'd be singing the solo, a wave of astonishment swept the chorus followed by a few cheers and smiles. "Thank you," I said in English. "And today I'll be singing the solo in Spanish." More laughter now. Laughter: the original Valium.

I sailed through the first verse, just me and the piano, without a hitch. Having the sopranos and altos back me on the second was comforting, and the third verse was sung by the whole choir, or "grupa," one of my favorite Latvian words. The fourth verse was probably the prettiest. As I sang the solo, the choir built a swelling foundation of harmony on the "u" vowel sound.

What happened on the fourth verse, however, can really only be best described verbally, but since I'm bound by the media of print, allow me to attempt an explanation. The first two words of the fourth verse are "Saules meita" or "sun's daughter." And, as I sang them the first time -- confident from the success of the former three verses -- I really put my heart into it. "Saules meita..." I sang, and on and on. Not even losing heart or stopping when I heard a few random snickers in the bass section.

As soon as I finished the verse, Gregors elbowed me a fairly-hefty blow to the arm.

"May-ta!" he whisper-yelled. "Not my-ta! My-ta means shit!"

Mr. No-Hyphenated American Boy Singer had deftly woven the poetic "daughter of the sun" into "daughter of shit." Or, more precisely, as I later learned, "daughter of carrion."

Call me Son of Roadkill.

Believe you me, I did my homework that night before bed. I uttered the Latvian word "meita" (my favorite Latvian word, might I mention) 100 times before turning off the light. My practice paid off the next day at auditions. Though I was too preoccupied to notice, apparently the panel of judges each in his or her own unique way reacted to my, ahem, interpretation of the solo. They had never heard a male sing it before. Moreover, they had never heard an American male, complete with his American accent, sing it before.

Turns out Marta knew what she was doing when she asked me to sing the solo. It wasn't my sublime voice (but okay, she must not have thought I was that bad), it was more the statement made by me singing it. On one hand, it's not every day an outsider comes to little Latvia and wants to take part in the singing. On the other, my singing the solo represented the diversity of our little ex-patriot choir (the only one like it in all of the country), and the richness of an increasingly diverse and globally minded Latvia.

My friend and fellow tenor Atis and I were recounting the audition some weeks later. "You sang your solo so beautiful, with beautiful accent," he said. "We had the judges by the balls."

********

On Saturday, July 12, I sang in the Closing Concert of the 24th Latvian National Song Festival. There were 12,000 singers in the concert. Over 30,000 people attended the concert in a large outdoor arena, nestled in the tall pines of Mezaparks just outside of Riga. My brother, Andrew, sister-in-law, Alicia, and uncle, Jim, were among those in the audience.

The first nationwide celebration of Latvian singing was held in 1873. Song festivals continued throughout the fifty years of occupation. Even though the music was heavily regulated by the Soviet regime, Latvians still managed to slide in a few national songs, and when they couldn't, songs permitted by the Soviet authorities took on new, underground meanings. Over 20,000 singers took part in the 1990 Song Festival, in the dawn of the movement toward independence.

The assertion that music has carried the culture, customs, and souls of Latvian people over the years cannot be overestimated. I learned that one singer in this year's festival, an elderly man, has sung in every festival since 1948, three year's after the USSR's occupation of Latvia.

This year's closing concert began just after 9:00 p.m. A threatening downpour earlier in the afternoon had given way to a setting sun and billowy, clouds that moved across the big sky in a heavenly decrescendo. The official concert ended just before 1:00 a.m., but the singing in the arena, on the #11 tram cars, and in the city streets carried well into the morning light.

I came to Latvia knowing nothing of the tradition of music festivals. Little did I know that 2008 would be another year of Song. Little did I know that I would be able to take part in such a grandiose coda, an exquisite finale. The billboards and posters throughout Riga reiterated this simple truth: "Dziesmu ir specs" ("Music is power").

Yours,

Tim

For more information about the Latvian Song Festival, visit the official website http://www.dziesmusvetki2008.lv/.

View footage and hear a song, "Gaismas Pils" ("Castle of Light") on YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8tJCv8hwb0&feature=related

Sweet Dot

Dear Friends,

An American traveler was backpacking his way through Europe. He was somewhere in Ukraine one day, not quite sure where, and needed to stop to ask for the nearest toilet. Being an erudite young man (and wanting to hold at bay the familiar prototype of the ignorant American traveler), using Ukrainian, he stopped to ask two old men for some direction. "Where is the nearest toilet?" he inquired in his best Ukrainian. The two men said nothing. I'll try another language, thought the young man. "Pardon me, where is the nearest toilet?" This time in Russian. Only vacant stares from the old men. The young man had studied German in college, so in his clearest Deutsch, he tried again, "Where is the nearest toilet, please?" Visages unmoved, the old men only continued to stare. Neither spoke a word. One more desperate attempt from the young traveler (this time in English -- for what could he do?) proved futile. Frustrated, the young man wandered on his way.

When the boy was out of sight, one old man turned to the other and said, "Quite impressive what young people know these days." The other nodded slowly one time as a sheepish grin spread across his weathered face. The strand of grass he'd been chewing fell to the ground. "Yes it is," he agreed. "But look how far it got 'im."

I've walked a road or two in that backpacker's shoes. I know something of the sweet balm of a toilet in view, and I've tasted the frustration of muddled language caught in my throat. I've faced my fair share of blank stares. I guess at this point in the journey, it's fair to raise the question, How far has it all gotten me?

The short answer is to the Czech Republic via Ukraine.

Eleven days ago I boarded the Ecolines bus headed from Riga to Lviv, Ukraine. The twenty hour drive came to a happy finale in the warm welcome of my friend Liliya and her husband Nazar. Liliya and I were chorus mates and friends at Illinois College where she studied in 1998 and 1999. Both Dr. Liliya and Dr. Nazar are university professors in Lviv these days; he, in fact, is a former Fulbright professor. Under their thoughtful tuteledge, I found Lviv to be a vibrant, beautiful city: another easy addition to my growing list of "Best-Kept Secret Wonderful Cities in the World; or Cities Americans Would Expect to be Gray, Glum, and Ugly But That's Only Because We Like Shiny Places Like Branson."

Another familiar, recurring theme in my travels is that it's the people that make the places; not the other way around. A friend is worth more than a shelf full of travel books. This is not shocking news, I know, but I firmly stand by it. And, yep, it was at a dinner party in Ukraine I heard the quip I retold above. It was also at the same party I met Linda, a fellow American Fulbrighter. Like me, she's preparing to pack her bags, sorting out stuff both tangible and intangible: what to take, what to pitch, what to pass along. This is all part of the mourning process. "I'm grieving," Linda admitted.

Good grief will take up a good corner or two of my big suitcase. Good thing it doesn't weight anything; the penalty for overweight luggage is growing more expensive by the day.

Rev. Calitis at St. Saviours in Riga says we should measure love by its elasticity. I'll give you a moment to absorb the profundity of that statement... In that sense, after a year abroad, my heart is sized to fill a XXXL. (Insert joke here, non-American readers.) This year has shown me that my heart and my head are capable of carrying more than I ever thought possible.

It's not that I was looking to fill the space inside either. I wasn't running from an emptiness of any sort. Nothing was broken back home. I didn't come to Europe to mend a shattered heart like Elizabeth Gilbert, who chronicles her year abroad in the #1 New York Times Bestseller, Eat Pray Love. I read her book recently, and it's obvious in the midst of all of that eating, praying, and loving, and traveling, she honed her gifts as a writer. Gilbert's narrative non-fiction (known as particularism, for all of you English majors out there) is compelling and fluid. Much like her voluble contemporaries Anne Lamott and David Sedaris, Gilbert's prose is tell-all with flair. Okay, so I didn't really need to know about her first night in bed with her boyfriend, but if the voice of the book is my friend (which I've been primed to believe it is), I'm obliged to listen and to peek a little bit.

Gilbert set out on her journey -- first to Italy -- to flee the falling shrapnel of a couple broken relationships. Forgive me for spoiling the ending, but I think it will come as no surprise to you that in the end, she finds love again. Different, but again.

As I've revisited my earlier writings on this blog and in my private journal, I too keep finding love. Traces of grace. No, oceans of grace. And such love. It's a cinch to sniff out the meaning from the fluff, the honesty from the wordiness, the road from the wilderness. It's no wonder that we only sense The Plan in retrospect. Yes, objects in the rearview mirror are closer than they appear.

I didn't leave home, like Friedrich Engels, for moral reasons. I didn't feel stifled. (That's right: Engels, as in Engels and Marx. No summer reading list is complete without The Communist Manifesto!) In his scholarly introduction to the Manifesto, Gareth Stedman Jones writes of Engels' youth, "It was also his first chance to get away from his small-town upbringing and savour life in a large city free from the moral surveillance of elders." You might know I laughed out loud when I read this. A good hearty youth group leader guffaw.

These days I'm savouring life in Vojkovice, Czech Republic, a stone's throw away from the Slovak border. But you'd have to throw that stone pretty high because the mountains surrounding this village would present a formidable obstacle. I'm staying with Ali and her parents in their summer cottage. My upstairs room in the converted attic is paneled floor to ceiling. If I stand on the balcony and reach just far enough, I might be able to pick a red cherry off the nearby branches. In this bucolic setting I'm doing a lot of what I like to do: eat, pray, love.

And just a word about the eating. Czechs have this marvelous phrase for dessert: sladka tecka. Literally in English it means "sweet dot." If dinner is a sentence -- or, here, more like a paragraph when the wines, cheeses, appetizers, and aperitifs are taken into consideration -- If dinner is a sentence, then dessert is the sweet dot at the end. A period to please the pallet. A full stop of fulfillment.

I expect this last month to be sprinkled with sweet dots. I am looking for them; I am collecting them. Rereading Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis, I encountered the magnificent line from Abraham Joshua Heschel: "I did not ask for success, I asked for wonder." That's all any one of us could ask for. That, and a handful of sweet dots.

Yours,
Tim

The Polite-Aggressive Days of Summer

Dear Friends,

Paul Theroux begins his essays on traveling through the Pacific with these unexpected words: "Writing is hell." Surprising words coming from a writer. He goes on, "Especially in Hawaii, where it tends to turn paradise into purgatory." I'm not going to go as far as claiming the same thing for me in Riga. In spite of the ongoing days of sunshine -- we're going on two weeks of no rain! -- and the fact that darkness only counts for about four hours of the 24, the water in the Gulf of Riga remains chilly. I have yet to see surfboards strapped on to the tops of the Maseratis that speed through the city streets. And only a few souls in the city are stepping out in flip-flops. (And you can bet they're tourists.)

Though the seasonal swell of tourists is apparent here in Riga, I recently read tourism in Latvia is down 4% compared to this time last year -- another crack in Latvia's fragile existence. (For comparison, Hawaii's tourism industry continues to rise like a Haleakala wave, having crested well over the $1 billion mark.)

This morning on our walk to the indoor pool, I asked my friend Andris about the shrinking number of visitors in Latvia. "Well, that's easy to understand," he reported, naming the handful of Fulbrighters preparing for take-off like me. "Out of the 100 tourists we have here, there are about four of you leaving. You see, tourism is falling 4%."

Like many of the Latvians I've met, Andris maintains a great sense of humor about his country and his place in it: he'll be the first to joke about Latvia's small size (physically, the size of West Virginia) and the interconnected nature of its inhabitants, yet he'll be the first to defend the country's honor. Proving just how small a population of 2.25 million really is, consider this: when Andris broke his arm boxing five years ago, he was attended to by the highly-lauded Latvian surgeon, Dr. Valdis Zatlers. Due to questionable treatments from previous surgeons, Dr. Zatlers graciously performed Andris's surgery for free. Today, Dr. Zatlers is the president of Latvia. He met with George Bush just under a month ago in Washington, DC.

In spite of the integrated island feel, Latvia isn't Hawaii after all, and though it would be an egregiously false stretch to define my present days here as purgatorial, I can say the urge to sit in my (sunny, yes) apartment, at the reworked Singer sewing table that is my desk, on the stripped wooden chair, in the corner of my living room and write has ever so slightly been diminished. I'm finding Summertime to be a full-time job.

Take yesterday, for instance. I awoke at the ungodly hour of quarter past nine, put my church clothes on and trotted to the Anglican church with some friends. We shared an outdoor luncheon following worship in the Art Noveau section of Riga. (Any place to avoid the tourists!) Now, the first commandment of European dining is Your server will not be rushed, the beautiful flip-side of this being, Neither will you. A table is your table until next Tuesday, for all anyone cares. This is lovely, of course, and perfectly conducive to a slow-eater like me. But the slowness of yesterday's lunch nearly put a major dent in our afternoon plans, the ones of utmost importance: Ultimate Frisbee.

We arrived at the frisbee game in the park across the river just in time to substitute in for a few weary players and proceeded to play a total of three games. Sure, the playing is always fun: the competition is friendly and the motion is just enough to make you feel breathless, which is to say, "athletic." But there's always time to catch your breath. The three games are interspersed with cushy breaks, though it's probably more apt to say just the opposite: the games are really the half-time breaks in conversation.

Conversation! Nothing against the opportunities for conversation at home, but tell me, where in the States would you find fifteen people from approximately eight countries gathered to fling a plastic disk in the shadow of a Soviet victory monument? Forget about the monument (most Latvians have). What grounds me like a frisbee caught in a wind rush is the richness and diversity and common ground found in any given conversation abroad. I know I will miss this aspect, just as a friend who spent a year outside of the States told me one of the saddest parts of her return was being at parties stateside and hearing only one language spoken, as opposed to the shockingly seamless gliding in and out and between several languages by any number of gathered chatterers in Europe.

Of course, the ability to fluently converse in what has become the world's lingua franca doesn't hurt my chances of communicating (though I do envy those who can switch from one language to another as effortlessly as flicking a light switch). And I will say that it is rare to find myself in a conversation of "mixed" speakers that reaches the depths of a conversation spoken solely in English -- American English.

"Tim, what are you doing now that school is out?" That from Katri, a Finn, and fellow frisbee thrower. We were sitting in the grass between games, stretching and relaxing, with Latvian Janis and Liechtensteiner Barbara.

I've always bemoaned the observation that everyone in the world seems to know nearly everything about the field of education -- about teaching -- because everyone has been to school. This kernel of knowledge carried by those who have only sat on the student's side of the desk crumbles like chalk dust when examined from the vantage point of one who's stood on the other side. A former student does not a teacher make.

Everyone may know (or think she knows) something about a teacher's life nine months of the year, but what really trips people up -- what really must be gray -- is what the heck teachers do with their three months off. For many, the mystery is as pronounced and unresolved and fascinating as the Shroud of Turin. Come June, teachers sail off into the Bermuda Triangle, only to return at the ding of the first bell in September.

I have faced and fielded the "what are you doing this summer" question for seven years now. I can't fault people for asking, you know. I realize, to most of the working world, summertime is as elusive and far gone as braces, bubble gum, and pigtails. And I understand that the general population doesn't understand, in the words of my inimitable cooperating teacher, that a teacher's year is twelve months rolled into nine.

When she asked me the question, Katri was only trying to make conversation.

"Well, I'm relaxing here a few weeks," I responded. "But I'm heading out of Riga for awhile in a week or so... Ukraine, Czech Republic..."

"Oh, that's nice." That was Janis. He's a journalist. He and the others looked at me as if I were about to announce the results of the Euro Vision contest. Part anticipation; part dread.

"And, so in the mean time I'm just reading and exercising..."

Barbara from Lichtenstein, an architect, gurgled tribally.

"Swimming... choir practices... drinking lots of coffee and wine--"

"SHUT UP!" Katri burst. She's a professional translator. Her Finnish frustration coming to a head, in English in this case.

We all laughed, but I saw new glimmers of contemptuous disdain in their toiling eyes when again we resumed play.

I've come to like this Frisbee crew. There's Sherwin from California, the youngest-looking forty year old I know, who organizes the games. His love for frisbee is only out rivaled by his love for his wife; when he married Karina a few years ago, each wedding guest received a printed frisbee, commemorating the union.

There's Egils, a Latvian-American, who's my age. He's one of the best players on the field, and actually thought to base one of his original plays off of me. When he gets the frisbee (which he's good at), I run as fast as I can toward the end zone (which I'm good at), and he bellows, "Tiiiimmmmm!" He throws; I catch. Usually. This play has become known as "The Tim."

Baiba from Riga is one of my favorite players. When she runs, she prances like an animated Santa reindeer preparing for take-off, but don't be deceived by her lithe composure. The girl can wrangle a frisbee out of a man's hands like no other. Last week, when our team was broaching a panicky state of hopelessness (the other team was up 7-2), we decided team cheers would be in order. Putting our hands in the circle, Baiba suggested we shout, "Polite Aggressive!" just as you might utter, "Goooooooo Team!" so it really came out sounding like, "Poooliiiiiiiiite Aggressive!!" Yeah, probably not going to be adopted by the National Cheerleading Federation.

But, you know what? That mantra, that mindset, those words -- polite aggressive -- whatever they meant, were just right for us. Collectively, we tightened our shoe laces, wiped our sweaty brows, threw some more weight into our high-fives and butt-slaps, and... maybe won the game.

I don't remember now.

**********

I've been given this year in Latvia. God knows why -- guess He's always known -- but I'm only beginning to see. To see the game plans in retrospect. The patterns. The pick-ups of hope and tosses of faith.

I've got a week or so here now, before the blissful storm of bus stops and old friends, boats and familial visitors commences. There's hardly anything on my calendar this week: an opera, a movie, a dinner or two. Paradise.

But across the small box devoted to June 2 (today), I've scribbled the words "Polite Aggressive." Yep, that's how I'm going to spend these first few days of summer. Aggressive leisure which, if done right, should lead to quiet reflection.

And when the barista brings me my tab -- that is, if she brings me my tab -- you bet I'll be as polite as can be.

Yours,

Tim

It's not all fun and games. Here's me a few moments after crossing the finishline of the Riga Marathon. Like the majority of participants, I ran the 5K portion of the race. There were over 4,500 runners from the around the world -- quite a jump from the 800 or so who ran last year. Good news for a slightly sagging tourism market.

Last Bell: Live from Bayside High

Dear Friends,

Byron once described school as both a "palace and prison." I've often described Rigas Valsts 1. gimnazija, my school in Riga, as a Saved By The Bell school, after the hit teeny-bopper television sitcom that entertained a generation of us on weekday afternoons nearly two decades ago.

Those of you close to my age will instantly picture what I'm talking about: the six leading characters immersed in the playfully swirling drama of high school life -- in and out of the Drama Club. The kind of drama that gets neatly wrapped by the end of the thirty minute time slot. The kind of drama (who can forget Zack and Kelly's heart-wrenching last dance to Michael Bolton's "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?") that ropes you in, even as you pretend to roll your eyes and resist the attraction.

Those of you older than me -- or younger, gulp-- who have no recollections of Saved By The Bell may need to do some research.

My school is so much like Bayside High -- Baltic Bayside High. It has nearly all of the ingredients. Artistic hand-painted signs dangle from the rafters of the foyer. Potted, flowering plants brighten every window sill. And, several flocks of Kelly Kapowskis dance in the talent shows on Friday nights and compete in the Science Bowls on Saturday morning.

Idyllic though my year in this school was, I don't aim to suggest the people I met are anything less than simply complex, multi-faceted people like you and me. My rosy-colored glasses did not block all reality, and yet some areas -- some sights -- shall remain magically theatrical, too good to be true. Stranger than fiction. What I witnessed was people thriving, not in a perfect world, but in a setting that was darn near close.

And still some questions remain suspect. For example, why is it there's always light shining through the open windows, even on a cloudy day? How come the "few" never seem to spoil it for the "many"? And, why in the world does it always seem like students spend more time hanging out in the hallways or walking in and out the open doors than they are sitting in class?

I. Meet Preppy and Slater

Class rings are one of the many traditions at Riga First. Unlike in the States, every senior (or 12th former) gets one. Back home, there are as many varieties and combinations for rings as there are fingers to wear them. Here, each senior wears an identical ring: silver and chaste, bearing the facade of the school and its initials RV1G.

The international teacher is also honored each year with a ring. A few days after Christmas break, two senior guys knocked on the door of my classroom. Teaching only 10th and 11th graders, I only recognized these two from the hallway where I had casually observed them. Both of them were leaders. Popular. "Preppy" stood tall, curly blond hair, slender, handsome, possessing that rare chemical compound that men of all ages strive for but only few can claim, the one that tells you, I'll be the first to break the rules and the first to break your heart, baby, but you'll forgive me completely when you see how sorry I look. The thing is, he really is sorry. He's not a jerk. He's just smooth -- the All Around Good Guy -- and the model for his peers. What we all would be, given his genetics.

His comrade, "Slater," is shorter and squatter, longish dark hair, and though he shares a good portion of his buddy's charm, he is cast as the co-star and he's okay with it. Even from the side of the stage, this character is anything but dull. Even more than his leader-of-the-pack sidekick, we appreciate the realness this guy offers. This particular dude is an avid American football fan, and loves to pick-up a conversation about it with me in the halls. He doesn't seem to mind that I only warm the bench listening while he scores the conversational touchdowns. If this guy were in America, he'd be a quarterback.

"Hi Tim." This is the tall one, Preppy. He is standing with his hands behind his back. "We have something for you!"

I knew this was coming, and I willingly oblige the role of the gracious recipient.

Slater is standing beside Preppy. Each of them smiling like Prince Harry.

"We just wanted you to know how happy we are to have you here this year. And we wish we could be in your class." Spoken in utter sincerity, as only a teenager can.

"So, as a token of our thanks, we'd like to present you with this!"

Preppy hands me a matchbox. It's wrapped in beige paper. A brown ribbon is tied in a bow around it. Inside is the ring.

Thanking them, I elbow Slater and say, "Man, it almost looks like you wrapped this yourself!"

"Well," Slater says, almost blushing, eyeing his feet. "I did!"

II. "Hey, hey, hey! What is going on here?"

The week before Christmas, I took my classes into the Aula (main hall) to sing Christmas carols around the grand piano. For the students, I had prepared lyrics sheets. My music was compiled in a black binder. As if following the directions in a script, the students sang their hearts out. To my mind, "Jingle Bell Rock" never sounded so rockin'.

At the lunch break, I left the song sheets and my music on top of the piano. I locked the doors to the large hall and as is customary in the school, returned the key to the woman in the small office just inside the front doors. When I returned from lunch, I was surprised to find the hall's doors unlocked and a handful of students milling around inside. It was a 12th form class, preparing for a small Christmas play. Students pulled costumes and props out of large boxes. Two boys were running a rope to hold a curtain across their makeshift stage.

Back at the piano, I found my music was gone. Stolen! was my immediate reaction. I glanced across the spanning room at the happy thespian elves, unpacking their treasures. No, surely not...

Copying more song sheets was not a problem, but what I couldn't do without were my notes. My natural ear only takes me so far on the keyboard; I needed keys, I needed harmonies! I had ten minutes to class, so I started asking around. The students in my midst were as kind as could be put claimed to know nothing of the Mystery of the Missing Melodies.

"Maybe I could make an announcement over the speaker system?" one girl suggested. In the entire first semester, I had heard a voice on the loud speakers no more than a half-dozen times -- a blissful departure from the familiar hallway noise pollution of schools back home.

I responded ambivalently and went to tend to my class. Sure enough, a few minutes later, an announcement came across the speakers. I couldn't make out all of the words, but I heard my name and location.

"Excuse me, Teacher Tim," said one of my students, approaching the piano. "I just heard you've misplaced your maps."

Maps?!

"Well, I can't seem to find my music. It was just there an hour ago... I don't know about any maps."

We sang. I played, even though my holiday mood was fizzling faster than a chestnut on an open fire. In fact, "Chestnuts" sounded shoddy, because someone had taken my music! I was convinced of it now. This is what I get for smiling before Christmas! The students are too comfortable with me. They don't see me as Teacher but as an Exotic Pet, a Big English Buddy, an Outsider.

My thoughts surprised me.

The end of the class, another student (unknown to me) approached me in the hallway and stopped me in my frantic search.

"Excuse me, Tim, I understand you lost your passport. Have you found it?"

Criminy, I have to learn Latvian! What in the world did that announcement say??

I explained. I smiled as usual. But under the surface, I boiled.

The next lesson started and again I was faking it at the piano, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hi, Teacher Tim." Again, a student I did not know. "I am very sorry about your music."

Finally, my music! Oh, this better be good, my boy!

He continued. "I came in here at lunch time and saw you had left your music."

And... so??

"I didn't want the notes to get lost, so I moved them to your mailbox in the teachers' room."

My mailbox! The only place in the school I hadn't thought of!

"I'm really sorry, though," handing me the black binder.

I patted him on the arm and sighed. I thanked him for his care and kindness.

And this is how an astonished Uncle Scrooge got his groove back.

III. "I like school... It's a good way to kill time between weekends."

RV1G is a happy place, just like Bayside High. Once you're in, you don't want to leave. Take Hoffrats, for instance. After retiring from a distinguished career of teaching physics, he decided to stay on at the school. Some teachers, when they retire, land on beaches or mountains or in green woods. Not Hoffrats. He landed in the copy room.

The copy room is open daily until 1:00 p.m. If you're looking to make a copy after the hour of one, forget about it, baby. Come back tomorrow. But no one complains because... no one has to make her own copies. Simply drop your document off on the desk, attach a post-it note with directions, and Hoffrats will have your stack of whites and blacks ready and waiting for you, hot off the Canon.

Now, Hoffrats doesn't speak much English, and I don't speak a whole lot of Latvian. I was especially verbally challenged at the start of the year. No matter, though! Hoffrats and I got along beautifully and understood each other on a deep level, really. More so than a good numbere of the married couples I know. Using only a few words of Latvilish. Here is a common conversation in those early days:

"Labdien (Good Day), Hoffrats!"

"Hi."

"Man ludzu (May I please) twenty five copies."

"One-side?"

"Ja (yes)."

"Labi (okay)."

And when I came to pick up my stack...

"Paldies (thank you), Hoffrats!"

"Please."

I should note that, like bitte in German, ludzu in Latvian means both "please" and "you're welcome." When Hoffrats told me "please," I knew he meant "you're welcome," but on some particularly busy days, when Hoffrats had grown weary like the rest of us, I imagined I heard in his tired voice, "Please, boy! For crying out loud, learn the language! Please!"

IV. "Screech"

Things happen when they happen at the school. The atmosphere is relaxed and stands in stark contrast to the hyper-attention-deficit bastions of American education.

Anticipating traveling over spring break, I remember going in to see the assistant principal sometime in mid-January to inquire about the dates of the spring vacation.

"School break...hmm," she said, rummaging for her calendar. "Let's see if break has been scheduled yet..."

The take-it-easy pace was maddening for me at first. I'm long sense recovered. Inga says, "Work is not rabbit. It is not jumping away." The same can be said of life, to a degree.

So, when I didn't meet with my two new second semester classes until the middle of the second semester, I wasn't surprised and I wasn't bothered.

"Timmy," said one enthusiastic girl, my new student. "I'm so happy to finally be in your class. I was always wondering who is this always-smiling, weird guy walking around. Now I know!"

V. "I'm so excited! I'm ... so... scared!"

Work may not be jumping anywhere, but the end of the school year came quicker than a hare descending into its hole.

Students offered me heartfelt outpourings these last days: cards, cakes, maps, candies, socks, mittens, framed photographs, even a plastic yellow banana protector. Even a bottle of champagne.

I offered them Dr. Seuss and "You've Got a Friend" on the piano. For this song, I don't require any music. I shared my address and in lieu of "Good Bye," bellowed "See you in Illinois!"

The year's end is bittersweet every year. A businesswoman once told me that teachers are fortunate because they get bookends: every year has a definite opening and a definite closing.

What filled the space between the bookends for me this year was essentially no different than any other year. I guess I shouldn't be surprised to discover I wasn't a different kind of teacher here in Latvia than I am at home; if anything, I'm more myself than I've ever been.

And yet being who I am and where I am -- and knowing that once this second bookend is set on the shelf, it will not be removed -- this school year's closing was altogether unique.

In a culture full of traditions and ceremonies, it felt natural, even necessary, to take part in today's "Last Bell" event. At 2:00, the junior class was lining the double stairways to the second floor of the school building. Each student rang a small golden bell, and when the uniformed school band began to play "When The Saints Go Marching In," the seniors, decked to the nines, arm-in-arm, began to ascend the stairs, heading toward the grand hall.

The ceremony lasted just over an hour. It wasn't graduation. Graduation takes place in July.

Like each class in the school, the seniors are divided into seven smaller classes -- each thirty-person strong. After introductions and words from the principal, each class performed a song for the audience. From what I could make of the lyrics and the audience's reactions, the songs were mostly humorous "swan songs" -- tongue-in-cheek, harmless digs on the headmaster, for example. After the students had sung, it was time for the teachers to share a song. I played the piano. From my perch on the bench, as the teachers bounced and swayed to the roving tune, and as the students rose to their feet clapping to the beat, I noticed there were no parents in the room at all. No video cameras either. This was a living, shared moment between the students and teachers: partners in education. It brought to mind the famed Faculty Follies or reverent Baccalaureates of my high school days, where for an hour or so, students saw teachers as truly human, and teachers saw students as something divine.

After the ceremony, following the headmaster who carried and rang a large brass bell, the crowd moved outdoors and down the street to pose for the annual senior photograph in front of the Freedom Monument.

You could argue the future is scary, but on a proud day like this, with the warm breeze stirring, even Class President Jessie Spano could exhale completely.

VI. Curtain Call

Saved By The Bell ended when the kids graduated from high school. Officially, my teaching job at RV1G concluded today, though I know my memories of the time in this school with such multi-dimensional, wildly welcoming, and wacky people will certainly be unpacked and reviewed in syndication for months to come.

For as every good TV commencement speaker knows, "Commencement comes from the word commence, which means beginning."

Yours,

Tim

Long Weekends

Spring 2008: Pictures and Poems

Spring is beautiful in Sevilla, Spain

Especially when you're with lovely Miss Lane

The Tower behind us lies in repose

But traversing the city is best with one who knows

Standing before the Plaza de Toros

Just like the old time fighting heroes

Inside the crowd was large and full

But I loved every minute, and that's no bull

And here leans silly old Teacher Tim

Maybe this is how he stays so slim

In front of the old tobacco factory wall

He smoked his pen, ink and all

A few weeks later in Istanbul

The sights and sounds were wonderful

Mosques and minarets in every view

Most notably the one shown here, famously Blue

And, oh, the breathtaking Hagia Sophia

If you're beside it now, I wish I could be ya'

Inside the mosaics glimmered pristine

Hip-hip-hooray to all things Byzantine!

Traveling with friends was quite a coup

This was our balcony, with the Bosphorous in view

Here you see Inga and Whit busy a plannin'

I prefer to use maps simply for fannin'

Who, might you say, is this striking model?

None other than my college friend now in Newcastle.

I call her Jagila, though some call her doctor

Whatever her title, I enjoyed playing photographer

On Saturday we went to a med school formal

The food and drinks were pretty much normal

But I must tell you that I was simply plumb shocked

When the music started playing, those docs really rocked

It was jolly fine to be in this English place

Even though the language barrier I had to face

En route to the airport, I was sad to leave

But not many days later I would receive...

A great big hug from a certain best friend

Who flew to Riga with a few days to spend

Elizabeth arrived in color, fashion and flair

And rivaled the blossoms bursting everywhere

From Paris, France to the "Paris of the East"

Came along the fellow who some call "the Beast"

After just a few days, Andrew became a fast friend

Way to go, Elizabeth, this dude's a ten!

Some traditions are carried from one country to the next

And singing with Elizabeth must be one of the best

When we started out we were about the same height

But size doesn't matter: this girl's got might!

*****

Guests have all gone, and the laundry is done

Plenty of time now to go soak up the sun

As the days grow warmer and finer and longer

These ties that bind only grow stronger

Yours,

Tim

Sinai

"The Opening of Eyes"

That day I saw beneath dark clouds

The passing light over the water

And I heard the voice of the world speak out

I knew then as I have before

Life is no passing memory of what has been

Nor the remaining pages of a great book

Waiting to be read

It is the opening of eyes long closed

It is the vision of far off things

Seen for the silence they hold

It is the heart after years of secret conversing

Speaking out loud in the clear air

It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees

Before the lit bush

It is the man throwing away his shoes

As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished

Opened at last

Fallen in love

With solid ground

-David Whyte

Dear Friends,

The hike to the top of Mount Sinai takes approximately two and a half hours, but the journey to the mountain from Sharm El Sheikh is much longer. It is also the most arduous part of the journey. The tour bus pulled out of the Al Baston hotel at 9:20 p.m. and made the usual stops at the other inns and resorts. Along the way, the scenery is familiar: oasis-like resorts, as beautiful and green as an artificial house plant, and about as real, juxtaposed against the dry, dusty barren natural land of greater Egypt.

Our bus stopped close to the mountains about 2:00 a.m. The sky was dark and the air was cool. The first stop was (guesses, anyone?) a gift shop, specializing in religious icons. I made like John Knox and only did a quick circle in and out of the shop. My aim was more fitness than acquisition, though for many of my journeymen, the late night bus ride had whet their appetites for purchasing. Settling for a couple faded photographic postcards from a docile vendor outside of the shop, I decided my own weight would be enough to carry up the mountain. I could leave the holy skating rink artwork on the shelves for the next sucker.

At 3:30 a.m. we arrived at the foot of Mt. Sinai. You would have guessed we were preparing to enter Six Flags. To the right of the open parking lot, an eatery complete with outdoor tables. A blinking ATM flashed caddy corner of the restaurant. To the left, a long row of ramshackle stands whose employees were clearly unfazed by the late/early hour. They worked the crowds like carousel barkers. One man, clad in a red and white checkered head scarf, soiled by the elements, clearly had two goals: to sell souvenirs and to obtain breakfast. Since the majority of tourists were not only carrying cash but also boxed breakfasts, he succeeded on both accounts. I zipped up my coat collar and nudged my rear, performing a compulsory wallet-check. Watching the swirl of humanity around me, buying, bargaining, and avoiding, I wondered if perhaps I was witnessing signs of a 21st century plague in the form of an invasion of plastic trinkets, small statuettes, "authentic" woven carpets, and gilded water pipes. All prices negotiable.

There must have been four hundred of us standing there, different races, different languages, different intentions, and several times we were reshuffled like so many playing cards into various lines. The swollen line ebbed and flowed to an archway detector. Judging by the size of the crowd and the casual, clipped organization of the security guards, getting the body of people through the bag search and metal detector before sunrise would be a feat on par with walking a begrudging camel through the eye of a needle. Good thing I didn't have any needles. As the very last to go through, Ali and I were approved, and thus began our trek up at the rear.

I couldn't help but wonder as I began to wander: under these circumstances, could a modern-day Moses ever keep an appointment with God atop the mountain? If not for the line at security, the heckling of the shopkeepers could be enough to deter him. Good thing God is patient.

The first stretch of the climb was not a climb at all. We walked a sandy path around St. Catherine's monastery, silent and sleeping. Though the light was already starting to break in the night sky, I found my "torch" (the British term for flashlight that I've come to embrace) to be essential for gaging steps and illuminating semi-hidden stones. There were so many stones. Countless billions, in fact, that left the impression and quantitative awe I had experienced two days earlier diving among the over-crowded schools of tropical fish in the limpid waters of the Red Sea. Suddenly the multitude of tourists didn't seem so great.

The ascent came subtly. It was only after a good half-hour that I paused to catch my breath and a glimpse that I realized we had been climbing. What had begun as a relatively smooth path was now uphill and blissfully unpaved. I liked it that way. Save the smooth sidewalks and painted curbs for Disneyland. With each step, I felt a small pang or point from a stone beneath my feet. My toes were appropriately beginning to rub the sides of my boots. But again the slight physical discomfort felt right, felt good. You can't hail a taxi on a march to Zion.

But you could hail a camel on the way up and down Sinai. Like zig-zagged paper cut-outs, strings of black camels climbed horizontal paths against the dark blue backdrop of the sky, unaffected by the weary tourists on their backs. Camels are quiet animals, maybe because they could never vocally compete with their drivers. "Camel? You want camel?" The mantra was repeated in at least ten languages at every turn of the trail.

Along the way there were other people, of course, but there was the sense of autonomy and independence. To me, the ascent felt private, and solemn, and reverent. Until I reached what was probably the half-way point, the route was relatively free of traffic jams. Slowing to a standstill behind a long chain of camels, Ali and I came upon an argument ensuring twenty-five steps ahead of us.

"You said it would not cost..."

"But I'm the camel man! I'm the camel man!"

The words flew like sand, unable to settle on anything but more sand. An unhappy woman had apparently found her match: The Stubborn, The Proud, The Extraordinary Camel Man!

As the yelling escalated, the camel directly in front of us began to pee. A strong yellow Niagara of urine fell an inch from my feet. Clearly this camel had a bladder of Old Testament proportions.

Trapped between camels and a wet place, I looked at Ali with a look of uncertainty.

Taking the lead, she shook her head and said, "Okay, let's go!" With unbridled determination, Ali whizzed around the whizzing camel, among the small herd of its peers, between the shouting woman and The Camel Man, and with only a moment's delay, I followed.

Beyond the commotion, I regained my composure. I tried to pray as I walked, I yearned to recite something sacred, to sing a great hymn, but in the silence and dawning light, the only thing I could hear were lyrics to "The Butterfly Song," arguably the most popular tune at the Presbyterian First Timers Camp each June in central Illinois. (It's my hypothesis that the engaging hand motions contribute to the popularity.)

If I were a butterfly

I'd thank you, Lord, for giving me wings

And if I were a robin in a tree

I'd thank you, Lord, that I could sing

If I were a fish in the sea

I'd wiggle my tail and giggle with glee

But I just thank you, Father, for making me me.

Now this is what you call good, solid mountaintop theology. The more I attempted to banish the tune from the head, the more the sing-songy song sang on. I'm not kidding. I was just finishing the verse about the "fuzzy, wuzzy bear" when we reached the stairs.

Known as the Siket Sayidna Musa, the 3,750 "steps of penitence" tell you you're getting close to the top. But "close" is a relative word, especially at 5:15 in the morning. For me the steps instigated a race to the finish line; for the first time I viewed myself as a runner, competing with the other climbers for the best view at the top. The feeling was not necessarily welcome, but the adrenaline was useful. After over two hours of walking and a sleepless night, I had that familiar "morning after" church lock-in feeling, like a stranger from outer space or the non-denominational congregation up the road has entered your head and is controlling your every movement. With the sky getting lighter by the minute, I mustered up the energy to sprint (again, relative term) and passed a good number of fellow pilgrims on the way.

Speed does not come naturally to me. I'm Presbyterian.

I was aroused by the sound of cheering at the 7,495 foot high peak as individuals came together with their groups. It was the Nigerians, clad in stocking caps and gloves, doing the cheering. They hugged each other, the men high-fived. As I took my place on a rocky perch not far from the small boarded up chapel on top of the mountain, I watched the ethnic waves of fellow sojourners parade before me like athletes in an Olympic parade.

After the Nigerians came the Brits, looking spry and outdoorsy in their Northface apparel. "Say, Tom, Love! Won't you be a dear and stop for a photo?" called one woman.

The Spanish came next, like so many explorers. Dressed impeccably. Voluble. The women's hair had clearly inflated with each upward step, though still maintained that fresh from the salon shapeliness. They chattered rapidly and loudly. The men looked worn. One brandished a Spanish flag.

Always on the look out, my Ameri-dar located only two Americans: a father and daughter, clearly immersed in the heat of a Sinai sunrise argument.

"Dad, I told you I'm not in the right mood for a picture." The teenager wore loop earrings and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Well, that's obvious!" responded the exasperated father.

I edged away from the people and found a lonesome ledge, ready made for sitting. Having completely sweat through all of my layers, the wind at the top blew cool against my wet, salty skin. I zipped up my coat and tried to soak in the vastness of this rocky terrain. It was the color of paper bags and tree bark. It was the photograph from the inside back cover of your black and gold Revised Standard Version, the one you always assumed to be so old and distant, the sky impossibly blue. It was barren and unforgiving -- with the blessed absence of fences and rails, there were ten thousand ways and places to fall to your death -- and yet there was a magnanimous appeal. There was the sense of baptism by perspiration and air and light. The sun rose in splendor but without fanfare. I hear the sun rises there, that way, every day.

Scholars debate which mountain is the giving place of those famous laws, from God to the Israelites. Some say it's Mount Serbal, others Mount Catherine. I'm sure the sunrise looks just as grand from any one of those high places.

What did I take from this Sinai experience?

A sore toe, rubbed raw by the inside of my Goodyear boot.

Some pictures, some notes in a small yellow notebook. A smattering of memories.

A sense of Moreness, and I'm not even exactly sure of what that means. Maybe something fuzzy, wuzzy like a blurred image of God, sensed more than seen.

Maybe a sort of awakening, a "vision of far off things."

Yours,

Tim

Unique

Clocking in as the 638th person to strike this pose in one day.