Impossible is Nothing

Dear Friends,

The sunlight streaming through my bedroom window this morning was just enough light to inspire me to put on my running shorts, my Passavant 10K shirt, and lace up my Nikes in preparation for a morning run. In Jacksonville, running had been a staple and a favorite pastime. The last two weeks in Riga, my running shoes haven't seen the light of day. It's not for lack of time that I haven't run; frankly, the morning sit-ups and stretches, compounded by lots of walking, have felt to be more than enough exercise.

As I set out on my run, my body felt recovered from a late night of dancing and socializing in Riga's Old Town. Some of you read the Washington Post article published this summer, entitled "Riga: The Curtain Rises," that coined the city as "Europe's newest party spot." Having dabbled in the nightlife offerings of Madrid, Barcelona, and Prague, in recent years, what I experienced last night in Riga, in terms of night activity, indeed registers on the ranks of Places with Happening Nightlife though on a smaller scale. (The population of Riga is just over 700,000.)

At 9:00 last night, I met a colleague's daughter, her boyfriend and work friend at the Freedom Monument (pictured above), a common meeting place and marker between the city center where I live and work and the Old Town just beyond. We began our evening at a place called "Cuba" across from the Riga Dome Cathedral, where we enjoyed a drink on the outdoor veranda. After a warm day, the temperatures had dropped in the evening and the air was chilly. Blankets provided by the establishment proved to be welcome additions to the sweaters and jeans we were wearing.

If I had to guess, I'd say the majority of patrons at "Cuba" were local. Or at least they blended in. (Ironically, isn't that what we tourists always yearn for? "Take me somewhere where the natives play! Get me off the beaten, touristy path!") Walking to the club, we passed several raucous parties -- mostly male (go figure), mostly British (by the sound of the songs they were singing), definitely intoxicated.

"Eh, all these stag parties, all the time," one fellow in my troupe noted with chagrin.

Riga may well be coming Europe's newest party place -- the relatively cheap prices for bawdy entertainment and food and drink lure hoards of European bachelor parties whose participants, like overgrown children in pointed party hats, parade ostentatiously through the streets wearing outlandish costumes or brightly colored shirts bearing the emblems of their beloved sports teams -- but the name, and the reality, come with a cost.

The Old Town of Riga, especially, is hopelessly charming. Walking through the winding, narrow streets in the daytime, you can almost hear the collected histories whispering. But, last night, crossing into the Old Town, just past McDonalds, I turned into George Bailey, in his stupor, jointly mesmerized and sickened by the flashing lights and disco music doing its best to persuade people into the dens of dancing and debauchery.

What had become of my lovely, quaint Bedford Falls? I wondered, naively assuming ownership in the condition of my adopted hometown.

One of my comrades had an idea to combat the lewd behavior of the city's macho visitors. "I know, let's go to London and demolish their city! Show 'em what it's like!"

"Yea," responded his buddy. "But the British women -- ech!" He stuck out his tongue in offense.

The issue of the resounding nightlife in Riga seems to me to be one key to a glimpse of the city's present condition. An inevitable growing pang, perhaps. Touting Riga as a worthwhile tourist destination is a healthy thing for the city, and as a tourist, I can vouch: this is a great place to see! Economically, visitors of all kinds are a boon to the city. But, with visitors, comes the curse and threat of impending loss of authenticity, loss of essence, and loss of control.

Our band of night owls moved on to another establishment after a while, whose name I can't recall, but the atmosphere inside was commendable. Good lighting, good drinks, no smoke, good crowd, and a pulsing dance floor. (I especially enjoyed moving to Us3's jazzy "Cantaloop" and MC Hammer's magnum opus "U Can't Touch This." Ah, some songs will live on in infamy on both sides of the Atlantic.) I was thrilled to be in the company of young professional people... witty and funny and who weren't afraid to do the running man. The night was a thrill.

I recalled the music and the conversation today as I ran through a couple of the parks not far from my school. In four of the city's central parks, an Adidas sponsored campaign, painted the company's ubiquitous three white lines onto the wide sidewalks as a means to offer folks a route to jog. Each park hosts a sign that shows the courses, along with Adidas' symbol, some words in Latvian and in English, the phrase, "Impossible is Nothing," a pithy maxim inspiring us to get out, run, and get fit! If anything, it was a new, maybe unintentional twist, on the more common English phrase, "Nothing is Impossible."

In the two weeks I've been here, I've seen only two people intentionally running. In other words, by their dress and dripping sweat, I knew they were not simply trying to catch the tram. Today, I was certainly the only one utilizing the three white-lined courses in the parks flanking the Freedom Monument, which was erected between the World Wars as a symbol to Latvia's freedom, at last. But the freedom which it represented was not to be long-lived, as the country came under Soviet occupation and remained that way for fifty years or so.

Before leaving Jacksonville, a friend who had visited Riga this year told me that for years the Freedom Monument was nicknamed the Travel Agency, because any Latvian that was caught visiting (let alone laying flowers at) the Freedom Monument could certainly expect a free trip to Siberia. One source expressed surprise that the Soviets didn't remove the monument, or Milda, as "she" has come to be known. Perhaps the destined wrath of the local people was enough to stop them from attempting an extraction.

Slowing down to a walk, I passed several granite monuments in one of the parks, bearing the names of those (few) people who died fighting for Latvia's independence in the early nineties. I recalled what one acquaintance told me about the five Soviet rules that Latvians were obliged to follow up until that time: 1. Don't think. 2. If you think, don't speak. 3. If you speak, don't write. 4. If you write, don't sign your name. 5. If you sign your name, don't be surprised.

The Soviet past is well-remembered and oft-discussed. (For example, people my age can clearly remember growing up in those days.) I've already gathered many stories and observations and anecdotes about those times, yet I know I only conceptualize the tip of the iceberg. The country is free, now, yes. But fledgling. Young, in a sense, even in its old age. Some would gladly go back to the times when you knew who you were, you knew your limitations, you knew there would be food and free medicine and medical care. You knew so much for certain, even as you knew you couldn't go anywhere, physically and metaphorically.

As I sat basking in the few moments of direct sunlight there in the park, catching my breath and stretching, I pondered my scraps of limited observations about the beauties and the incongruous kinks in this place where I've gladly landed. Lines from the poet Rumi came to mind: Keep going, though there's no where to get to. Don't try to see through the distances. We don't know where we are going or where we will end up, any of us, but considering freedom and the steps so many have taken toward freedom, I felt the warming sensation that probably, there is somewhere to get to.

I stood up on my feet and ran home.

Yours,
Tim