Sunday Morning Worship

Dear Friends,

I confess my trip to Crete was not born of a long and deep-seated desire to see Greece. Rather, in my wanderings around Riga, I'd found a travel agent I'd really come to like in my neighborhood who told me about the opportunity to see the island. The price seemed right and my yearning to visit a new country could this way be fulfilled. There are few places I would not go.

Little did I know I would land in the heart of what could be a set stand-in for MTV's Spring Break Open Beach Party. The author of my travel guide suggested that those looking for a good time (definition: a time not burdened with the pangs of conscience and memory), should come to Hersonisos. But next time, he wrote, you may want to consider visiting Crete.

Harsh. I couldn't disagree with his assessment, but I did feel compelled to rise above it. With my water bottle in hand and Nikes on my feet, I set out to find the beauty surrounding me -- beyond the T-shirt stands and bawdy disco techs.

I succeeded, I suppose. I know this because each time I wandered away into natural coves and pastures or surrounding small villages, the more obnoxious the sights and smells of my adopted neighborhood became upon return. The more odious the frazzle.

In Matala, I swam in the surf around the "hippie caves."

Outside of the ruins of Gortyna, I wandered into an old-fashioned kafeneio and drank (nearly ate) a tiny cup of Greek coffee in the midst of old men playing cards and shifting around their worry beads on strands of leather.

Taking the recommendation of a travel guide, I ate an exquisite olive-laden dinner of bread, stuffed mushrooms and rabbit in a place simply called Krete. "We locals go there," she told me. This was confirmed when, as I was eating, a man of about forty hopped off his little motorcycle, darkened the opened doorway and bellowed, "Yanni!" in good Ricky Ricardo form. The owner responded with what I guessed to be something like, "I have just the dish for you, my friend!"

North of Hersonisos, I watched two kri-kri playfully head butt each other on a narrow cliff.

I had a staring contest with a forlorn kitty perched atop an abandoned rooftop. (I won, for the record.)

I passed so closely to the living quarters of the locals (perhaps to their chagrin) that I heard an old Greek man pass gas from his hind quarters, his flatulence ricocheting through the hills like Zeus' thunder. He didn't see me, though.

But by far the most memorable experience off-the-beaten-path occurred Sunday morning. Earlier in the week I had stumbled onto the ruins of a second-century Christian basilica on a peninsula overlooking the Sea of Crete. It was haunting in the moonlight, but I vowed to return sometime in the morning.

Sunday I did. I went for church. Don't know if my experience constituted as "church"; I was neither surrounded by four church walls, nor was I absorbed in the body of a congregation. I was alone. I carried my God Calling devotional book and a long-sleeved J-Crew t-shirt.

When I arrived I sat down on the remains of one of the walls, no more than three feet off the ground. The October sun was warm, so I took off my shirt. I leaned back. Closed my eyes -- but not for long. Eyes-shut reverence may be a great way to block commotion, but here I yearned to connect to the natural churn of the water some ten yards below and the hazel blur of the horizon beyond.

I sang a couple youth-group stand-bys: "God of Wonders" and "Sanctuary." How vividly did the image of me being the sanctuary emerge in lieu of any physical bastion or edifice.

I prayed, and by that, I mean I listened.

Responding to the urge to stand (an urge strongly suppressed in too many good churches), I stood and began to slowly circulate around the small rim of the peninsula. A path had been laid out in spite of the dusting of broken glass and moss. Though my meanderings were not carried out in a maze, I thought of the traditions of maze-walking for spiritual enlightenment found both in ancient Celtic and Native American religious traditions.

I thought of the Nigerian proverb, When you pray, move your feet.

Somewhere on the trek, I dug the simple line-picture of an ictus in the sandy soil with my big toe.

I remembered my own experience in youth group when leaders Brad and Christine led us students, blindly and furtively, to a place of safety and cover in the darkened basement of our church building just as early Christians might have done in the fields and furrows now in my eye-shot.

I sang "The Lord's Prayer" and "Amazing Grace." Slowly I returned to my seat.

Planted again, I recited the Prayer of Thanksgiving ingrained in my mind from years of Presbyterian services in Jacksonville. It's a good prayer. I get it now. Something about the "long sought us" line always used to make my friend Allison and I exchange glances and laugh. I smiled at the thought.

I read from God Calling. A little scripture.

Moments later, walking away, I collected offering by picking up as many bottles and wrappers and orphaned bags as my arms could carry. Moving back down the steps, I sang through my own rendition of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again," trying not to let my fingers slide over any of of the sharp edges.

No sooner had I deposited the rubbish in a can did a tin voice from a ply wood booth call out to me, "Hey buddy, how bout an afternoon boat trip? Weather's right!" I smiled, and imagined if his offer would have involved donuts and coffee, I may have taken him up.

Was I moved? You bet. Did I want to be? Absolutely. Perhaps expectation is among the greatest key ingredients to seeking the Divine, a God who has "so long sought us."

In spite of my "thin place" of solitude and meditation that morning, the absence of warm-bodied, if overly-perfumed, persons sitting beside me in worship left me feeling a little divested. (And, no, by now, I'd already put my shirt back on.) I recounted the minor annoyances that had sprung up in and around the church-work I'd done the last six years. Like tiny grains of sand in a mighty wind, the little granules had not hampered the progress, but at best, had caused me to rub my eyes and refocus.

Looking back, I am humbled to see that some of the tiny grains of sand had been kicked up even by me on what had been a relatively smooth and level path.

This day, no one was around to engage me at all.

Freedom, and isolation.

Maybe what God is teaching me -- maybe what he taught me that morning -- is a lesson in balance. Of finding good soil between the sea and the rocky coasts. Of engaging in Christian fellowship as rigorously as in Christian worship. Of basking alone in sunlit presence without a glimmering guilty thought of selfishness.

The bread is meant to be broken together. That is clear.

But the wine, like blood, like Spirit, is found running within.

Yours,

Tim

And a few more...

"Timothy, He; Timothy, I"

He arrived on the southern side of Creete,
now called Gortyna, when his ship wrecked in 59 AD.
I arrived in Gortyna on a large chartered bus
this morning, October 24, 2007.

He came with Paul, his teacher.
I came with Susan, my tourguide.

He arrived wet and worn, and happy to be alive.
I arrived well-rested but also happy.

He carried whatever he could salvage,
perhaps a gospel scroll.
I carried my Lonely Planet traveler guide
printed on white paper and bound.

He wore sandals.
I wore Nikes.

His mother, Eunice, and his grandmother, Lois,
were known for their great faith.
My mother, Janet, and my grandmother,
Wilma, are known the same way.

Eventually, he moved on to Rome.
Friday, I fly to Athens.

Timothy, he.
Timothy, I.

Followers, belivers.
Both of us.



"e-Myth"

I passed the handsome couple around two.
Silently they sat at a street cafe
together and separate.
His head was turned toward his hands
from which glowed a familiar light.
Her slender fingers emerging from her long sleeves
devoured a mobile phone like so many crabs
feasting on a sandy carcas freshly awash on the shore.

Three hours later, or maybe four, I found them again,
bodies cut and pasted now to a park bench.
Their backs were turned toward the sea.
And still, he poked a pad with a thin inkless pen;
the silver box she held caught a ray of sunlight.
The glare caused me to look away.

He may know how the Dow closed today.
She may have seen the photos of her second cousin's baby daughter.
He may have confirmed his tee time for Saturday.
She may rest easier knowing that she did indeed lock the front door.

But did they see way the setting sun over Greece tonight transformed
the clouds into purple and crimson hues to match the anemones flowering on the hillside?

I walked into my small room tonight and stepped out onto the balcony,
a phone's throw away from the sea.
Moments later, as I reached for the light, I thought of that couple
off somewhere in a little room no doubt like mine
in which electronic orgasms may lead to the conception of modern-day
Minotaur:
half man, half megabyte.

And the two of them all-the-while unknowingly logging off
as if it were any other night.



"Minoan History in Three Parts, Concluded with A Moral"

The windows of the Queen's palace
overlooking the Mesara Plain were always blocked.
Not because she did not want to see out, but
because she did not want others to see in.

Minoan people never built harbors;
they set sail from and returned to the sandy shores,
already in existence.

Unlike Egyptians who built walls and
constructed inward, Minoans found the center
of the space, and planned and built outward.

People, let us:
1. expose our humanity freely
2. use what's made available
3. work from the inside out



"Twenty Meter Trot"

I walked up to the man and said, "Sir, pardon me,
can you tell me which way to the grocery?"

"Yes, young man, I'll tell you today.
You gotta walk 20 meters and go this way."

I stepped up to the lady, with apples in hand,
and said, "How do I get to the post office, mam?"

"Go out this door and turn to the left.
Walk 20 meters and... you'll figure out the rest."

Posts in the mail and ready to go,
the bus I needed but my map didn't show.

"Kalimera, my friend! Do you know where the bus is?"
"Twenty meters over there. Adio! There 'tis!"

Some day far from now when this life has ended
Earthly toils and travels thereby suspended

I'll reach the pearly gates and say to St. Peter,
"You don't have to tell me -- I'll be with the Lord in about 20 meters."

Cretan Lines (No Rhymes)

Dear Friends,

Have pen. Will write.

Enjoy,
Tim


"From Her Eyes"

Two statues stand at the entrance of IL PORTO: Greek Cuisine and International

Would it have been so much trouble
for the maker to cover me up completely?

Here I stand, as I have stood for so long
one arm up, one arm down,
one breast covered in swadling gowns,
the other exposed for any twerp to touch.
I've become The Perfect Photo-op.

And you, over there all this time
standing so proudly and coy
so seemingly indifferent about the fact that
your right arm, the one on which you lean,
is missing from the elbow down.

Standing there with your chiseled abdomen
and jutting chin, always pointed my way
so proud of the solitary leaf that hovers
between your legs for no apparent reason.

I'll have you know that I used to wonder
what was to be found under that leaf,
but not anymore. Frankly, I'm just bitter
that you got the foliage and I stand here
bare as a branch in winter.

Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever know the real me
beneath my stoney surface, behind my steady eyes



"Fishing (Sea of Crete)"

The rock on which I sit protrudes above the Sea of Crete such that
the waves coming toward it break beside and beneath it, not on it.

This is convenient for me.
Today, I prefer my sea water dry.

Because I am in Greece and I happen to have a pen and notepad,
I will sit on this rock until I have successfully wrangled a metaphor to fit it.

Something fresh.
New idea.

I will chase that idea to the rocky depths below me if I have to,
just the way I'd go in after my camera or sunglasses, for example.

I will wrestle it and clasp that slippery thought with both hands and
drag it to the surface, never minding the way I may be perceived by passers-by.

And, if called for, I'll resuscitate that deflated metaphor, mouth to mouth. I will be the hero; I don't mind.

And yet --

Is there anything to be said about the sea that hasn't already been said?

Does anyone else have a better word to accompany "wave" than rolling or crashing?

Have all of the rock metaphors been spent, the last one handed out to Paul Simon sometime in the 1960s?

Still, I sit, rock on rock.
Waiting for that idea to protrude
just above the Sea of Crete.

Greek To Me

Dear Friends,

I've shed my sweaters and scarf for Capri pants and sandals and traded my Lats for Euros. Fall Break is here and I have landed in Hersonisos, along the northeastern side of the island of Crete. It's approximately thirty minutes from Iraklio, the capital.

On the way to the airport, Inga said, "So, you've finally decided to leave this terrible country. Geezus."

"Oh, I kind of like it actually," I told her.

"Teem, you are naive. You vill see."

As we hugged goodbye, I recalled how Inga, on the night of my arrival in Riga two months ago, had informed me that she would be my "Latvian mother." I reminded her of it.

"And, you are my angel. I will be here to catch you next week. Atta!"

So, I have a week in Crete. Who knows what I'll catch. Nothing infectious, I hope... Eh, you know what I mean. I'm part of a large chartered tour; I'm pretty sure I'm the only English speaker. Of the group, two older women and a granddaughter are staying in my hotel, The Palmera Beach.

Tonight I walked the main strip. I stopped for a gyro and Coke in "The Peach Pit." (Beverly Hills 90210, anyone?) I had planned to take the food to the seaside but the throbbing Salt 'n Peppa song lured me into sitting and staying for awhile. I guess this was my first time falling for the Sirens' song.

This place is thumping. The night is alive, even though there seem to be relatively few tourists. I can only imagine how packed this city must be in peak season. I am trying to draw upon my limited knowledge of the Greek alphabet which I sort of learned in college. Truthfully, I'd love to have some Sigma Pi brothers here. The climate's ripe for carousing. And, literary review, of course.

My indispensable Lonely Planet traveler's guide refers to Hersonisos as the place for "frantic, non-Greek fun." I trust more evocative and authentic sites lie ahead, so I plan to take advantage of day trips.

My fifteen minutes of Internet access are swiftly waning. It's getting late, and before I go to sleep, I want to try on my bed sheets. Want to be prepared in case I stumble onto a Toga party.

Yours,

Tim

Teachable Moment

Secret to successful Saturday afternoon grading: a macchiato in the warmth of my favorite neighborhood coffee shop.

Dear Friends,

I've often heard it said that good teachers have many talents; among them are begging, borrowing, and stealing.

Hmm. Hard to imagine those words appearing on a collegiate teacher-training rubric. "Teacher candidate displays excellence in the area of stealing."

The sentiment holds true, though, at least for me. The past two weeks my "Conversational English" students and I have been engaging in a study of words. I gave my students a document created by a master teacher who just so happens to be my mother; both sides of the page contain the question, "What kinds of feelings come with these words?" There are nearly 100 words on each side, but one side contains words that derive positive emotions (weekend, joy, peaceful) and the other contains words that connote negative emotions or images (evict, disrespect, riot).

My students and I read each column in unison and paused to describe the emotions or experiences attached to these words. Only a handful of words required further explanation. Although I'd used this exercise with my English students back home, I was curious to see how non-native speakers would connect. Overall, the activity resonated with the students.

As we finished, I told them to hang on to their papers for a couple of reasons. First, they may come in handy as a resource as they write for their other English teachers. "But, most of all," I said, "I want you to try something. Next time you're having a 'side B' kind of day, pull out this paper. Go lock yourself in the bathroom or something and simply read side A to yourself. Now, will this take away your problems? No. But, you may see your problems in a different way. When you try it, let me know if it worked for you! All you'll have to say to me is, 'It worked.'"

It was one of those quasi-inspirational, over-arching statements we teachers make. We believe in what we're saying, yes, but we expect only a small percentage of the students to actually remember what we've suggested, let alone try the prescribed method or experiment.

For part two of the lesson on words, I shared with my students the book, Thank You, Mr. Falker, by Patricia Pollaco. Carol Kilver, then-assistant principal of Turner who had a hand in hiring me, gave me the book back in 2001. I've shared it with students ever since. Naturally, it made the cut to travel with me to Latvia.

You must read the story for yourself, but in a nutshell, the author recalls her early school days as a struggling reader and target of bullying and the impact of one dynamic teacher, Mr. Falker.

Following our reading, a mock press conference was held as four students stepped up to "be" the characters and the rest of the class acted as questioning reporters. Using a stapler as a microphone (borrow!) I played the part of the facilitator. The students were able to step into others' shoes -- and others' language! -- and really feel the impact of words.

We discussed, then, the validity of the old familiar adage, Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

Many of my students are lively and engaging young people in and outside of the classroom, I would say. Most of them are confident English speakers -- at least confident enough to try without being petrified of making a few mistakes. I have over 250 students, and I see most of them only once a week in class. Certain personalities, of course, leave immediate impressions, and Zane, a 10th grader, sitting quietly in the back row, struck me as perhaps the most bashful student of them all.

That's why I was surprised to see her at the initial Speech Team meeting a couple of weeks ago. Zane and her older sister signed up to work together on a duet. This week, I met with them for the first time. Zane walked into the classroom with her eyes down. Her long, brown hair covered almost the whole of her face. When I greeted her, her voice was little more than a whisper.

What is going on here? I thought. Who put this girl up for coming to Speech?

The profession of teaching, like the profession of theft, I'd imagine, is full of surprises. The minute Zane began reading the Bradbury script in front of her, she was a different girl. Articulate and animated. Already assuming the role of her character on the first read-through.

After our forty minute rehearsal, just as Zane and her sister were about to walk out the door, Zane stopped. She reached into her handbag and gently lifted a folded paper -- the words sheet from Conversational English. She looked at me and said in a small voice, "It worked."

I left Riga State Gymnasium No. 1 a very proud and rich man that afternoon. A man who, some six years ago, unknowingly answered a calling to teach and ushered in a world of blessings... blessings that the likes of Bradbury, Kilver and J. Chipman have known for some time.

Blessings that cannot be begged, borrowed, or stolen. Only shared.

Yours,
Tim

Ambassador's Speech

Dear Friends,

Tuesday, I accepted an invitation to attend U.S. Ambassador Catherine Todd Bailey's speech in the University of Latvia's large hall just down the street from my school on Raina Boulevard in Riga. Her speech was entitled "Preserving Our Common Values," and she spoke before a packed and receptive audience.

Ambassador Bailey's speech had already generated a good degree of controversy even before it was delivered.

Latvia has existed in some form for centuries -- to give you an idea, the city of Riga celebrated its 800th birthday in 2001 -- but the ideological concepts and realities of freedom and democracy are still new to the country that only regained its independence from Soviet occupation as recently as the early nineties. In that regard, Latvia is a young nation, still struggling to gain a foothold not only in the European Union, of which it has been a member since 2004, but also in the global arena. Corruption, largely in the form of nepotism, as I understand it, still exists in "blatant ways," as one acquaintance put it. The matrix of corruption is so deep-ceded and complex that apparently some of the newly-elected governmental officials don't understand it -- and don't know what to make of it.

One only needs to scratch the shadowy surface of Soviet credo to obtain a glint of understanding of the nature and magnitude of the problems Latvia faces today -- not to mention a reason for the ongoing scepticism and distrust of government.

It seems, though, the tenuous relationship between Latvian government and Latvian people is not unfounded. A lot of the derision boils down to money and living: individuals in the government have; others, have not. It seems the general notion among the hoi polloi is that those elected as public servants seem to be much more adept at self-serving. Furthermore, as I can attest, the living in Latvia is not inexpensive. (Remember, for every Lat I spend, two dollars vanish from my bank account.) National inflation is at an all-time high. One colleague and friend made it clear for me when he put it this way: Latvia's membership in the EU brought about European prices but not European wages.

Like Americans, Latvians are seeking more and more education and advanced degrees but even with diplomas in hand, many professionals here continue to be egregiously underpaid. Something's gotta give. If nothing else, Ambassador Bailey's speech brought to light, if in broad terms, a growing problem I've heard Latvians talking about since I arrived.

Bailey commenced her speech by drawing upon the commonalities and close friendship between the United States and Latvia. She cited the recent visits of both President Bush and Samuel Alito as indications of continued American interest in Latvia. She recalled the United States' "non-recognition" of Soviet domination in Latvia and highlighted both the US and Latvia's current membership in the United Nations. On a grander scale, she raised both countries as champions of freedom, all the while setting the stage for the crux of her message -- a question: in light of a recent pattern of events "inconsistent with the values" of freedom, will Latvia continue the hard work of preserving its freedom or will it "slide back" to resembling countries that have not reformed? While America has been and shall remain a close "friend," the choice to maintain freedom, she concluded, can only be made by Latvians.

Just as I turned my head to gage the reactions of the audience at what seemed to be a rather vituperative, "us versus them" comparison, I was pleased when Bailey brought her speech back to center by saying, "Americans are not perfect in this area" -- substitute governmental corruption, scandal, defending democracy and personal freedoms and the like -- "and we know it." Citing President Bush's second inaugural address, Bailey intoned the "two-way street" of democracy must be "chosen and defended by citizens."

In her closing remarks, I appreciated the comparison Bailey drew between the constitutions of both Latvia and the United Sates. Although separated in time of origin by over 130 years, each contains simple but clear references to "the people" in the first line. Will Latvians support a government rooted in corruption or will the people demand a government that "serves all the people -- not just some of them"? Bailey's speech offered no answers; it posed only questions -- which was precisely the point.

And the ripples are being felt. Today people gathered in Old Riga to show concern for the condition of the current government (or certain facets of the government). One colleague told me the crowd was 2,000 persons strong. Another Latvian friend told me that the fallout of Bailey's speech has been all over the papers the last two days. As the Latvian Prime Minister prepares for a visit to the US, I will be curious to see how he is greeted (and by whom) upon his arrival. It seems the reaction of the Latvian governmental heads to Bailey's speech here in Riga will significantly play a part in Prime Minister Kalvitis' upcoming reception in Washington.

"The price of freedom is eternal vigilance." -Thomas Jefferson



Yours,
Tim






After the speech, with fellow American Fulbrighters.

Compendium: Solitude

Flower in the middle of a vacant street in Ventspils.

Dear Friends,

When I think of solitude, I remember the title of one of my third grade teacher and consummate musician's records, Solo; Not Alone.

I think of my favorite Duke Ellington tune that begins with the line, "In my solitude, you haunt me with reveries of days gone by."

When I think about solitude, I recall the words from one of Rev. Calitis' recent sermons: "We need to stop congratulating ourselves, and start loving ourselves... as God loves us." In my solitude I allow myself to be me. Stripped of my public persona, in my solitude, I must face my total self. In that space, I learn to love who I am.

I think about Henry David Thoreau's timeless manifesto: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

And, I remember those timeless words of sweet, sweet comfort from Hebrews: "Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."

In your solitude or in the midst of commotion, I invite you to take a couple minutes to respond to this post with your thoughts on solitude. Share a quote, an anecdote, or song lyrics. Offer a poem or pose a question.

I look forward to reading our collected wisdom.

Yours,

Tim

Remember, you do not have to open a "google" e-mail account to respond. Using your current e-mail address and a password of your choosing will enable you to post your comments.

Hair Apparent

Hair Under Wraps: Still smiling after two hours of Ultimate Frisbee in Uzvara Park.

Dear Friends,

In the summer of 2004, my family and I vacationed in Hawaii. I have many fond memories of that trip, but one of my happiest involves something I didn't witness but only heard about when I arrived late to the breakfast table one morning and found my brother and mom laughing uncontrollably. The cause of their cachinnation: my father. When the server had placed the basket of sweet rolls and biscuits on the table, Dad had enthusiastically responded by saying, "Thanks! We'll eat these!"

Apparently, the half-asleep busboy kind of paused, squinted his eyes in confusion or surprise, and lingered a second before walking back to his station, shaking his head. Mom and Andrew exchanged looks: No duh! Of course we'll eat these! What else would we do with them, take them home in our pockets as souvenirs?

Enthusiasm, as it turns out, is Dad's modus operandi. Happiness -- nay, joy -- is his way of life. Tim, is your dad always that happy? friends used to ask. Yes. So, sure, he was stating the obvious when he proudly proclaimed his gastronomic intentions before his wife, son, and that bewildered Hawaiian busboy, but knowing Dad, what he really meant was, "Here I am in Hawaii with the people I love, it's a gorgeous Sunday morning, and you know what? I am going to eat this bread and enjoy every last crumb!!"

This story came to mind Saturday afternoon when I strolled up to Sapnis ("Dreams"), a hair salon on Terbatas a couple blocks from my flat. I felt it was time to get a haircut -- my first in Latvia. You see, back home, I'd grown quite accustomed to Linds, who had become a sort of a Hair Therapist. Just before I left, she'd given me one of the best darn haircuts I've ever had, and well, quite frankly, I wasn't sure if I was ready for the touch of another.

My mirror told me otherwise. Unless I had intentions of growing the groundwork for a very fine and flowing Euro-Mullet -- you may laugh, but I jest not. The mullet is alive and well and dwelling among us -- it was high time to do something.

So I did. As I opened the door to Sapnis, I was greeted by a falling broomstick and a gaggling woman. The broomstick was slender and green. The woman was not. She was built like Joe Montana with the face of Bea Arthur. Thinking perhaps I should move along to the next salon, before I could turn around, blond Bea took me in her arms and escorted me around what turned out to be a patch of wet concrete just beyond the threshold. I must have said "thank you" or something because she immediately picked up on my English language and began thanking me profusely. She led me to a small couch, sat me down, offered me a cup of coffee and told me Anna could take me in fifteen minutes.

I caught my breath.

A Brief History of My Hair flashed before my eyes. My first official haircut came from a neighbor lady who lived in the subdivision where I was born. Maybe I was four. I have no memory of the event but can only envision the photographs of it in the family album.

Flash forward a few years when I had two barbers, back-to-back, each named Gary. A good name for a barber, I think. I remember the second Gary quite well, in fact. He was a man's man's barber. His shop, in downtown Jacksonville, was a short walk from Dad's office. The shop smelled like Old, very old, Spice blended with the wafting aromas of smoke and Miller Lite from the surrounding taverns. A haircut with Gary lasted fifteen minutes. No more. No less. The cut was always the same. There were no surprises. Andrew and I each left the barber shop with one stick of Wrigley's Spearmint gum (our prize for enduring the extremely coarse neck brush and potent baby powder, I believed) and shorter, slicked, and parted hair, still wet as the ocean. Gary's haircuts were timeless, I suppose. Cuts that unsuspecting men and boys have been wearing for centuries. A good, ol' Schuyler County cut, Grandpa would say.

Somewhere in my middle school years, my family transferred to a salon where my parents would book back-to-back haircuts for all four of us. Gone were the days of barbers. Enter in stylists. As I recall, every third Tuesday was haircut day. Somewhere in high school, I grew weary of the "family hair plan" and shared stylist. So I rebelled. I switched to a different stylist on Tuesdays.

In college, haircuts happened spontaneously -- from a girlfriend or a guy on the floor having recently returned from the army. Life was carefree and each cut brought with it the air of delicious uncertainty. But, somewhere in my late college days, I think, I encountered Linds and fell into the mature routine and happy familiarity of her cuts. Leaving her in August was sorrowful. I felt condemned to suffer a series of bad Baltic hair days. I'm not going to lie. She'd seen me through bowl-cuts and buzz-cuts and break-ups, the good, the bad, the shaggy, and a host of other coiffure crises.

Meeting Anna, then, in Riga, brought with it all of the usual first-cut feelings. My nerves were jarred. Was my hair clean enough? Thick enough? Too American? When was the last time I conditioned? Would we hit it off in conversation? Would we be able to converse at all? Was I to make the first move? What about her touch? Would I leave a new man with a new do or ambivalently mussed and unfussed?

Anna turned out to be lovely. A real professional. She led me back to the sink and faucet where I received The Most Gentle wash of all time. I don't know about you, but when I wash my hair, I really wash my hair. I dig in with my finger tips, I swirl around that hair, I show the scalp who's boss. Anna's wash was like being tickled by a peacock feather held by Mother Teresa. Just picture it! I had to stifle my laughter. Better this, I thought, than the alternative, for out the corner of my eye I saw Bea watching enviously from behind her desk.

Emerging from the wash, Anna led me to her chair. She asked me what I wanted. I showed her with my hands and so many words. We engrossed in a quick game of charades and well, before I knew it, the haircut had ended just as sweetly as it had begun. Anna even blow-dried my shortened locks. When I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, I didn't mind that I resembled Cosmo Kramer's younger brother. The cut was a good one, I could tell.

Deep below my hair follicles, however, a familiar sentiment was brewing. My heart, as it so often has in Latvia, was welling with... what? Gratitude? Gladness? Enthusiasm?

I knew what I wanted to say... Hold it in, Timmy. Hold it in! I told myself. Don't let it out! Be cool, be cool...

Oh, but the urge was powerful. I couldn't suppress the feeling, the words...

As Anna drew back the cloak and I watched my severed hair tumble down to the floor in slow motion, standing to my feet, I looked Anna right in the eyes and said, "Thanks, Anna! I will always remember my first Latvian haircut!"

Dad, I think you know the feeling.

As they say, the hair doesn't fall far from the head.

Yours,
Tim

P.S. Linds, keep your scissors sharpened, because I'm coming back next summer. Anna is only a temporary fling.

Voila!

Happy hair and a happy man at the National Opera House

before the production of Madame Butterfly Saturday night.

Trams-action

Protocol for Passengers on the Trams

What Should Be Done (or What I Know Now):

Purchase ticket for tram for 30 Santims from the driver. Proceed to automated ticket machine. Insert ticket for stamp. Sit and enjoy the ride.

What I Did:

Purchased ticket for tram from the driver for 30 Santims. Sat and prepared to enjoy the ride.

What Sometimes Happens:

An official walks around the tram car to verify that each rider's ticket has been stamped.

What Happened:

An official walked around the tram to make sure that each rider's ticket had been stamped. There were seven riders on the tram. My ticket was unstamped.

What Was Said:

This becomes nebulous. I understood nothing spoken. I only understood the book that the official extracted from his back pocket, in which he impassively began to write. Further exchange of words became futile.

What I Received:

A citation... twenty times the size of the tram ticket.

What It Says:

I don't know.

What I Had To Do:

Sign my name and pay two Lats... six times the price of the original ticket.

What I Felt:

Dumbfounded and bamboozled.

What I Do Now:

Stamp my tram ticket immediately.

Yours,

AA Nr. 038557

Note to Readers (especially my mother): While the incident depicted above is completely accurate and truthful, the photographs were recreated purely for effect using the criminal's own Kodak digital camera in the comfort of his home. The ankle bracelets strictly prohibit further travel.

Take the Ones on Top

Dear Friends,

So, there I was dancing with my students to "I'm Too Sexy" in front of the packed audience in the school gymnasium...

I've always dreamt of opening a letter with that line!

Now that I have your attention, let me fill in the gaps for you. Don't worry, I haven't crossed any professional lines... I've only mangled a few dance steps.

In Latvia, it's traditional for tenth-graders to introduce themselves to each other and to the rest of the school. I should note that, theoretically, tenth grade in Latvia is equivalent to the American concept of "freshmen" since ninth grade is still considered to be a part of the pre-intermediate schooling. For a school housing so many erudite and ambitious young scholars, I was expecting an evening of speeches and dais formalities. As I was leaving school Thursday afternoon, however, and passed one of my most enthusiastic 10th formers wearing a horse-head mask, I deduced the flavor of the evening's introductions would be a little less formal and a little more colorful.

I walked with Student Horse Head down the hall where we arrived at a small corridor in which his classmates (fifteen or so, in all) were practicing their introduction -- a dance to the illustrious nineties composition, "I'm Too Sexy." (Two side notes: apparently the song's artist, Right Said Fred, has been no stranger to performing in Riga over the last few years. Also, you'll recall the line "I'm too sexy for my cat...", yes? I still have yet to understand why my pupil was masquerading as a horse. Perhaps feline facades are in short supply in Riga.) When the cluster of students -- each from the highly competitive International Baccalaureate (IB) class -- saw me, one of them had the bright idea to ask me to join their introductory dance. The group energetically concurred and when I announced I'd join them, they released a whooping cheer.

"You'll be the jewel of our performance, Tim!" Horsehead whinnied.

At 5:30 p.m. I arrived back at school wearing my overcoat and tie in lieu of a scarf as instructed, for -- surprise! -- both items were to be shed during the song. (It's not dance these days, you know, it's choreography!) The air in the gym was vibrant as each 10th grade class introduced themselves through dance and outlandish costumes looking something like the sartorial crosses between Dennis Rodman and The Cisco Kid.

While Americans may think of a "10th grade class" as the entire class of 10th graders, here "10th grade class" means a portion... think of it as a homeroomesque group of thirty or so whose members share a similar schedule all three years of intermediate high school. While some of the students have attended Riga State No. 1 for years now, other students have only just transferred from other schools. It's vital, therefore, that the respective groups of students gel, and this introductory activity is a great way to do so.

Personally, my feelings about my involvement in the the evening were mixed. Teachers, you'll know what I mean... I was honored to be invited to partake in the festivities by my students (even if the invitation came straight from the horse's mouth) but on the other hand, I could just envision the headlines in the Fulbright Monthly Gazette: American Teacher Sent Home After Dancing in School. (The negotiable quality of my moves would only be a minor detail, mentioned in fine print.) Being an educator who firmly believes good education springs from the root of meaningful, supportive human connection, I laced up my shoes, buttoned my coat and stepped onto the dance floor.

The end result? Well, the students and other teachers in the gym seemed to love it. My tenth-graders were thrilled and began to chant "IB! IB!" as we exited the makeshift stage. My colleague and great friend, Marta, unbeknownst to me, captured the performance on her camera. (Don't bother checking YouTube; it won't be there... I hope.) It was great to see all of my students, though, in action -- some of them doing J-ette caliber routines -- and get this: girls and guys! Forgive the generality, but a lot of guys here seem to be into dance and not once have I heard young men snicker or make fun of dance or those who dance. Think Triopia High School in the Bradbury days. Refreshingly, there are no school sports at Riga State No. 1, but if there were, you'd no doubt find the quarterbacks dancing and singing (and doing so intentionally). If nothing else, they'd be sitting supportively and appreciatively in the audience. This is one of those little things I really appreciate about Latvian culture: the art of dance has not been over-sexed. Its soul has not been sold to MTV and in no way has dancing been deemed "girly."

Following the performances, the 10th grade classes were led around school on a wild goose chase scavenger hunt by members of the 12th grade classes. And, so you can see how the cycle continues and will continue; in two years it will be these 10th graders literally showing the incoming 10th graders the way around school.

*****

Friday, my day without classes, was Inter-

national Teachers Day -- another cause for celebration. You can see the sign that was suspended in the entry hall of the school. The last class period of the day was used as a time for students to thank their teachers with song and speech. Every teacher was given a box of candies and a hand-painted card. I missed this small festivity, though, because I decided to take up an offer to visit Ventspils on Latvia's western coast with Kathi, a German student-teacher who just finished her stint at Riga State No. 1. (While I hated to miss the Teachers' Day ceremony, I was advised by other colleagues not to miss the chance to see Ventspils in the autumn.) I am pleased with my decision. We traversed the three hour trip to Ventspills on a bus (tickets were approximately $7 one way). The city, much smaller than Riga, is a popular destination for Latvians. It's an old port city and oil refineries still line the waterways. The city is also chock full of historical connections thanks to the port. I was delighted to see for myself the place where Latvian conquerors under the direction of Duke Jakob Kettler set out to establish colonies in The Gambia and Tobago islands some 300 years ago.

I want to note here that some members of my church recently retraced Duke Jakob's steps and in one eventful swoop, visited The Gambia, Tobago Islands and New York City before returning to Latvia. The troupe captured their experience on film which I saw in its premiere a month ago. Unlike many other European conquerors of the time, it is interesting to note that Duke Jakob and his men established contracts between themselves and the native peoples in each land. The gentle spirit of Latvian people that I notice today is seemingly deeply embedded and historically rooted.

In Ventspils, then, Kathi and I took in a wonderfully modern historical museum constructed out of and on top of the ancient Ventspils castle. My favorite part of the journey was walking along the Baltic Sea -- warmer now in October than it was in August -- with my fellow day tripper.

When we visited the diminutive orthodox cathedral, the woman at the door, her white hair contrasting starkly with her traditional black dresses, offered Kathi and me an over-stuffed plastic bag of apples from the trees growing in the yard. We obliged gratefully.

*****

This morning during worship at St. Saviour I thought of this generous woman and the apples she gave us when Pastor Calitis, preaching on Luke 17:5-10 ("mustard seed faith," etc.) said that we should not expect thanks and praise for our good works. Doing good work is right because it's right and good -- and that is reward in and of itself. But, he said with a grin, God knows our desires and gives us "apples and treats" along the way, at just the right times. What a handsome image: God as gardener at a roadside stand -- or old Orthodox woman -- handing out apples along the way.

*****

I've previously noted that after 11:00 p.m. (or 23:00... I'm still trying to accustom myself to military time), more programs in English come on the television. Weeks ago, I was up late and came across the 1965 film, A Patch of Blue, in which Sidney Poitier befriends the blind and hapless Shelley Winters. In one scene, he takes her grocery shopping in an attempt to acclimate her to the common experiences of everyday life. When he sends her off to pick out some pieces of fruit -- were they apples or oranges? -- not able to see, she takes the pieces from the bottom of the slanted pile thus causing a mini-volcanic spill as the ones on top topple downward. Poitier is swift to come to her rescue and offers this profound advice: Next time, take the ones on top.

The longer I'm here the more and more apples in the forms of opportunities, invitations, and introductions fall into my lap. These are treats indeed, and I'm finding the need to prioritize the ones even on top.

You know, you've come a long way with me. Not only in my heart, but in making it to this point in my rather long and disjointed scrawling.

Paldies! ("Thank you!")

This week, no matter what decisions you face, I hope you'll choose the ones on top. Watch our for falling apples. And talking horses.

Yours,

Tim

Why I'm Resting Well

Riga at sunset, as seen from the other side of the River Daugava.

Dear Friends,

In June, my mother (who also happens to be my department head at school) and I flew to Cleveland for a weekend of Fulbright Teacher Exchange orientation. We almost didn't go. Flights were so terribly delayed in Springfield that by the time we actually had the chance to take off, considering the chunk of time we'd miss in Cleveland, I was ready to throw in the towel and catch up on the meeting over the Internet. Mom persuaded me to go. We had an impromptu overnight in Chicago and after no more than four hours of sleep, we were boarding the plane to Cleveland.

On one of the flights I remember telling her that I wondered if I'd truly relax -- truly be at ease -- until next summer, after the whole exchange experience would be over and I'd again find myself back in the Land of 62650.

I must have been overwhelmed and haggard at that moment. Truth is, I'm quite relaxed here and have been for some time. I've made friends. I really like my flat. I have a job to do and I like doing it. I'm comfortable. I know my way around... most of the time. The Latvian or Russian chatter in the shops doesn't unnerve me as it did at first. In fact, I hardly notice it. A little bit of confusion between myself and the check-out girl (or the shop door -- do I push or pull?) does not activate an internal emergency response. I've learned to roll with it. I've learned the value of a smile.

A few other factors of life in Latvia make me smile and have decidedly set my mind at ease:

• No car! I haven't felt this free since I was fifteen years old (and I'm sure my fifteen-year-old self at times felt anything but free). I never think about car payments, gasoline, maintenance, where to park. The shackles of searching for the perfect song or NPR piece on the radio are abated. I've been reduced to traveling by foot... and have been released of the confining seatbelts of the automotive life.

• No answering machine/voice mail! Like in Jacksonville, I have both a mobile phone and a landline. It's not common, so it seems, to have an activated message recording device here, and while I initially thought I'd miss it, I don't at all. If I miss a call -- you'll never believe it -- I miss a call! Turns out, the world does go on. If I don't want to take a call, I don't. And there's no "call me back" message weighing on my shoulders.

• No credit card! Latvia primarily operates as a cash-based society. While I use my debit card to withdrawal cash, my credit cards haven't left the pockets of my wallet for over a month. I'm avoiding fees. I'm not consumed with paying the bills. I'm limiting my spending to the money that I have in my pocket at the moment. So, Dad, this is what you've been trying to tell me all these years. Guess what? You were right.

As for sleep, the only thing that has kept me up at night is the childlike excitement about what the next day will bring. With a host of new experiences, I've felt very much attuned to myself and the world around me. I expend a lot of energy in a day, for which I'm grateful. Of course, the byproduct of such living by day is the necessity of good rest by night.

And, baby, can I sleep! Do I! Praise God for my wailing alarm clock.

My sleep is deep and good; my dreams are vivid. People ask me if I've been homesick, and unless I've missed something, the answer is no. But at night, my mind typically rolls the home scenes like an on-going movie mini-series. To my knowledge, nothing "Latvian" has colored my dreams. The places and people I dream about are red, white, and blue. (Don't freak out, but chances are, you, Good Reader, have been there!) I'll leave the analysis of my dream state up to the experts among you. Would Freud say I'm compensating for the unfamiliarity of my waking existence by visualizing "all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces" as I sleep? If you think he'd say something about my mother, I'd rather not hear it.

Forget Freud. Let's talk about another F-dude: Father. Heavenly, that is. Just as my physical and emotional being has been shaken and refined, so too has my faith life. In lieu of routine and the array of bounties and banes of daily life at home, here in Riga I've fallen back on my faith in ways new... and in old ways hitherto forgotten. My life has been blessed indeed. The term "smooth sailing" seems apt. What is it, though, that spurs our human need for the Divine in moments or months of significant change?

My first night in Riga -- a surreal experience as I look back on it now -- I made the zealous vow to journal and pray (write a prayer, that is) every night. A few weeks into it, I'm averaging maybe five nights a week. I'm okay with that. Sometimes, as I reach for the light, my silent prayer is simply this: God, you've shown me your love today. You've been so good to allow me to be so active and alive. So, you'll understand why I'm so tired...

I prefer to complete my prayer in writing, though, before turning off the light. In doing so, I make meaning of what I'm doing and who I'm becoming here. I connect on a higher, more intimate level with the on-going great needs among those I know and love. There is subversive solidarity in prayer. There is great contentment in maintaining an active prayer life.

Of several spiritual guideposts kept close at hand, God Calling continues to be a clarion source of guidance and inspiration. Here's an excerpt from September 26:

"Yes, come for rest. But stay for rest, too. Stop all feverish haste and be calm and untroubled. Come unto Me, not only for petitions to be granted but for nearness to Me. Be sure of My Help, be conscious of My Presence, and wait until My Rest fills your soul. Rest knows no fear. Rest knows no want. Rest is strong, sure. The rest of soft glades and peacefully flowing rivers, of strong immovable hills. Rest, and all you need to gain this rest is to come to Me. So come."

Sunlight as seen through a window in the sanctuary of St. Savior Church.

Yours... by day and by night,

Tim

Trams-portation

Dear Friends,

This afternoon Ali and I spent some time in Mezaparks, a sizable chunk of natural land some fifteen minutes outside the city of Riga by tram. Temperatures reached into the lower seventies today, and the sunshine made it seem even warmer. In the park, I strolled down wooded paths along the lakefront and lay a while in the September grass. I watched two swans scoop for food while dozens of gulls flew overhead. It felt good to breathe in the air, and after a few hours, I felt "expanded," a term I've heard used by a couple of Latvian friends to describe the rejuvenating spirit induced by a little time in the natural world.

Still in my happy delirium, I made my way back to the entrance of the park in the waning sunlight. To commemorate the afternoon, I purchased an enormous cloud of cotton candy. Couples strolled by holding hands. Children carried balloons. Teenagers on roller blades or bicycles whizzed by on the way to the tram stop. When the tram arrived to carry us back to the city, I was relieved to find a fairly open car with plenty of seats. I sat my newly-expanded self down into an open chair and exhaled. Ah, life!

Alas, my spatial bliss was short-lived. Peering down the tracks toward the next stop, I could see what appeared to be from a distance a flock of large, waddling hens. As the tram moved closer, I could see there was a flock indeed, but a flock of a different species entirely: old women.

"What the..." I whispered, feeling a precursory twang of claustrophobia.

"Ah," said Ali. "There's a cemetery up there."

In addition to Latvia being a land of singing and flowers and poetry, I'd also heard it referred to as a "Cemetery Culture." I knew that a large per centage of the Latvian population was comprised of aging people, or "pensioners." And, with the abundance of flowers -- I haven't proven this yet, but my hypothesis is that for every McDonald's in Riga there are at least thirteen flower stands -- I imagined laying flowers at the gravestones of loved ones would be common practice among the people.

It's one thing to imagine and another thing to see. You remember the first time you saw a picture of Niagara Falls, probably in your parents' World Book Encyclopedia? Impressive, wasn't it. Fascinating. Then, remember the first time you actually saw the cascading waterfalls in real life? No comparison.

Today I got drenched. And bruised.

Prophetically, the tram came to a stop at the small station where the women were accumulated. The exteriors of these creatures were well camouflaged and if not for their deliberate, rapid motion, these ladies would have blended in completely with the natural flora of the light brown-bricked buildings behind them. The tufts of hair on their heads came in all colors and varieties -- fire-engine red and mother-of-pearl, seemingly the most common -- but, their hair only came in one length: short. Nearly each wore some form of earth-toned polyester. A scarf was fastened unyieldingly around each woman's neck or head. Each carried one of two things: a cane of some sort and (more foreboding for me) a handbag. Gathering their belongings, as dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, these women began to move with unheralded speed.

You see, the herd was preparing for a stampede.

When the tram came to a complete stop, the driver, as Moses, parted the doors and in came the ladies, preceded only by a stifling aroma of Geritol, antithrombotic creams, and pre-war Chanel. A fire-alarm emergency evacuation at an AARP convention couldn't compare to the intensity with which the women moved. Before I even had the chance to stand up and offer my seat, several dames vied for it and lumbered toward me. I have the feeling that if I would have lingered one second longer, I would have been a dismembered American, carried off in assorted handbags. The women pushed and shoved and elbowed and growled... and yet managed to carry on their independent, cordial conversations. What a feat!

The brute force of the women en masse backed me up against the wall. If not for a child already on her lap, I might have had no choice but to plop down onto the young mother's lap beside me and pick up a conversation. Like a contortionist rag doll I was thrust back and forth until...

Stasis.

I felt something. Behind me.

On the back of my bare lower legs.

Something prickly.

Woolen stockings.

And then, my upper thighs came into contact with a generously proportioned gluteus maximus belonging to the stockinged-clad leader-of-the-pack behind me. Paralysis ensued. All motion was completely involuntary. The tightly constricted small boa that was her hair burrowed into the space between my shoulders. She was the hot-rod; I, her sham.

I was doing an unwarranted back shimmy-shake with Granny Olga on the Geriatric Love Train.

What could I do? I tried to find my inner happy place but my trembling happy place had been squashed like a pancake under the heel of an orthopedic slipper.

With each rattle and turn of the tram car, I deflected another left hook or upper cut from one of Granny's cronies. "Almost home, almost home," I soothed myself. I tried to picture these women as the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders... just... older. And wider. Nothing worked and nothing spelled relief until I resuscitated my deflated self on the sidewalk of Brivibas (or "Freedom").

*****

Upon his eightieth birthday, Grandpa told me this: "You know, when I was your age, I thought people my age should be pushed off the face of the earth." Insert the dramatic pause. "Obviously, now, I've changed my mind."

Grandpa, no one can tell it like you can, but I'll tell you this: The people you spoke of haven't fallen off the face of the earth. They've only gone to Latvia.

They say one should never complain about growing old, for "it's a privilege denied to many." I can see that. But, you'll understand if I travel by foot the next few days, won't you?

Blame it on my youth.

Yours,

Tim