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