Trash, and Other Domestic Nuances

Dear Friends,

On the average, how many times a day do you think about your trash? Okay, silly question. I never thought much about it either until, after about a week in Riga, it occurred to me that I needed to do something with the trash bag in my kitchen. I had kept my eyes open for dumpsters in the courtyard, but had found none. I had been meaning to ask Inga what to do but simply hadn't remembered. Luckily, one day she remembered to tell me.

"Oh, Teem, I've been meaning to tell you about your trash," she said. "On all days except Monday, you may take your trash out to the sidewalk at 7:30 in the morning or 6:30 in the evening."

"Oh, okay. So I just leave it there?"

"No, you wait with it."

I paused, wait with the trash?

Inga read me well. "Yes," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling. "You wait and it gets picked up by truck. There will be many people. You vill see."

In their book, The Englishman Abroad, Hugh and Pauline Massingham penned a profound point: "The ideal traveler, in fact, is not a man who goes out to teach, but a man who goes out to learn. He is a person who, in his most censorious moments ... can look at himself and realize he is equally funny." Preparing for this trip, I kept thinking of myself as the Teacher. All of my Fulbright documentation made mention of Teacher Exchange. The card in my pocket boasts the words "International Teacher" in 16-point font. The word Teacher has been embedded at the core of my identity for nearly six years now.

Funny, how little thought, all in all, I'd given to the forgettable hat packed in my suitcase bearing the name "Learner." Oh, I had no preconceived notions about changing the world or anything through my teaching. I'm painfully aware I don't know it all. My travels have taught me that America is not the end-all, be-all. I have been overly-sensitized to the knowledge that humility must serve as the foundation of all discourse and interaction. After all, I am and will always be a guest here. I understand the role of diplomat and play it fairly well.

What I didn't know is that door keys come in about eight different shapes and sizes... and at least twice as many personalities.

I didn't know that sometimes pigeons fly out of the entry halls of apartments (like mine) when the door has been left ajar. Pigeons fly out of anywhere, in fact, and a newspaper under one's arm begins to serve a purpose greater than solely being a source recounting the day's events.

I didn't know that leather shoes expand so much and so quickly from prolonged exposure to rain.

And, I didn't know that taking photos in the market is not always looked favorably upon by the locals.

Today after school, I decided to visit the market a block away from my home. I've been there at least four times already. The fresh fruit and baked goods are out of this world. Though the place is usually bustling with people, the workers in the stands I had visited had been nothing short of angelic. They seem to speak the language of Englat that I have been perfecting. I wanted

to capture a few photographic memories of the market, so I whisked my camera as subtly as I could over my shoulder. (Wouldn't want to look like a tourist who'd likely have his 35mm fastened to his belt buckle or somewhere obvious and intrusive like that!)

In the market, I walked toward my favorite fruit stand. Funny how quickly habits and routines are formed -- most quickly, perhaps, among the most basic and ordinary tasks of daily life, like food gathering. The women at the fruit stand had always been kind. Of all of the many fruit stands, I felt as if they truly enjoyed me patronizing theirs. Today, then, I stopped caddy corner of the stand and removed my camera. Turned it on, aimed, and fired. Memory good as made! Memory, suddenly, dashed by the sound of a gravelly holler. When I turned, I saw the words -- must have been Russian -- were coming from a boorish, unkempt old fellow who was emerging from the stand -- my stand. Taken aback, at first I thought (oh, what fools these mortals be! ) that maybe he was offering to take a picture of me in the stand.

Nope.

The fellow traipsed toward me. What I had read about Latvians being strict observers of personal space immediately trespassed right out of my mind. This guy was getting up-close and personal. He looked like Jack Nicholson emerging on a Sunday morning with a bad hang-over. Lots of whiskers. Pronounced deficit in the teeth department. The shouting carried on. Quick as an antelope about to be devoured by a lion, my senses informed me that today was not the day to shop at my favorite fruit stand. I offered a meager "sorry" and walked away. Jack continued to yell, mocking my "sorry" and offering an array of jumbled observations about "that United States of America."

Readers, believe me: I wasn't even wearing my red, white, and blue flag lapel pin.

According to travel expert and writer Craig Storti (whose regaling address to us Fulbrighters in DC will be long-remembered), this was the classic case of a Type I cultural incident, depicted as follows:

1. We expect other people to behave like we do, but they don't.

2. Thus, a cultural incident occurs.

3. We react (with anger, worry, etc.)

4. This causes us to try to avoid the local culture.

True, it's people like Fruit Bully Jack -- and I've brushed against a few like him, but only a few -- that make you want to slither home after work, cover up in bed with Tolstoy and a nice, warm cup of vodka. But staying in bed with Tolstoy is not for me. Plus, the orange hue of my bedroom walls and curtains would have me reeling in no time.

My apartment is really great -- and really bright. My friend told me about a classic old movie shown every New Years in Latvia about a Russian man who goes home to what he believes is his apartment in his city yet becomes outraged when a woman enters in. After finding a strange man in her apartment, an argument ensues over whose place it really is. The man is mistaken, but his transgressions must be forgiven since the woman's apartment, in fact, is exactly like his in a city that is exactly like his and on and on... Even the furniture is identical. The man simply took a wrong turn on the train. A classic case of Communism wreaking havoc on everything right down to the curtains.

My apartment, on the other hand, seems to be fairly unique. Orange bedroom. Yellow kitchen. No proof to support it, but I wonder if the painters or designers of this place dolled it up so brightly just because they could.

And the variety of improvements keeps getting better. Last week, Inga called to say she had a different TV for me -- one a size bigger. She wondered if she and her friend could deliver it that evening.

At the designated time, the pair arrived with new TV in tow. The man graciously set it up while Inga wrestled with the vexatious instruction manual. Getting frustrated, she muttered "Latvian and Russian, but no English, so..." She looked at me, as if to say, you're off the hook, Tim. Secretly, I rejoiced that my monolingual self would not have to bother with the process of installation.

After a short while, the pictures started coming through on the television. Remote in hand, Inga walked me through the channels. "Only two English channels," she said. "BBC and the music... but after midnight, old American movies come on. And then there's also the Adult entertainment. I don't know what language, but who really cares, right?" Her eyes twinkled.

If only I could switch languages at a given time like my TV.

Alas, as it turns out, waiting with one's garbage requires no language skills whatsoever.

I've been approaching my Trash Time differently lately. You see, I am a Learner.

I really believe good things can come from rubble. Wouldn't it be something if romance blossomed over last week's banana peels and pork rinds?

So, where did you meet her? The office? At a bar?

No, the sidewalk. Beside the bags.

Ah, yes. Was your first date over dinner?

Nope, over garbage.

Of course. So, is she your type?

Eh, well. A little trashy... but a great conversationalist.

She have some interesting hobbies?

Don't know, but she sure does have some exotic junk in her trunk.

You don't say! Good looking, huh?

Oh, yes! Great waste. And a sweet circular file.

So, she could really be the one?

Rubbish! You know I don't believe in love at first sight.

Pshh, another one of your disposable relationships...

Yours,

Tim