Sly Bells and Silent Slovakian Nights

Dear Friends,

A week ago, I set out on a melodiously grand adventure: a choir trip to Bratislava, Slovakia with my school's Jaunais Rīgas Vīru Koris, or New Riga Men's Choir.

I almost didn't go. Let's just say the reason could be classified as intestinal/gastronomic. Tuesday I was chained to the bathroom.

"Teem, I heard you were sick with the diarrheas. So, I bring you medicines."

That, from Dr. Inga, officially known as The Best Landlady in the Baltic Lands. Inga made her house call as promised with the following instructions: "You mix this powder with half cup of water, but the taste" -- she grimaced here -- "is ogly. It's terrible. But, it vill stop your diarrheas and vomits."

Love her.

"You vill ride on bus for thirty some hours with the high school boys?? Geezus. I wish you luck. But with this medicines, it is good."

And good it was. With a bulging suitcase and stable bowels (ha, or was it the other way around!) I boarded the grand charter Wednesday morning. I didn't want to miss this trip. One Wednesday afternoon in September, at the urging of a student, I attended a choir practice in my school's aula or grand hall. The directors welcomed me with opened, conductorial arms. Iveta, the head director, speaks no English, but we are able to communicate on a base level in German. I should say she puts up with my fragmented Germanish, like a patient Angela Merkel speaking with Mork. On the eve of my very first rehearsal, she invited me to come to Bratislava in December. I voraciously agreed.

Since then, my Wednesday afternoons have been filled with choral music. Now, the choir is composed mainly of students from my school -- but there are students from other schools as well, and a handful of alumni return. The choir literature claims that "friends" of the school sing in the ensemble as well. That would be me -- the oldest young "friend" of the bunch. Still, at the age of 28, I blend in well enough. When I told one of the singers that I was teaching for the year at the school, he looked at me, unable to conceal his surprise, and said in perfect Lat-British English, "You're a teach-uh?!"

My first rehearsal I introduced myself to the other second tenors in the back row.

"Labdien. I'm Tim," I said, shaking hands.

"Janis."

"Hi, Tim."

"Sveiki, Janis."

"Tim."

"Janis."

Popular name among second tenors.

The Janises and the other guys in the group are great; many of them are my students. I believe every teacher should put himself in a situation like this from time to time, where the usual teacher-student roles are flip-flopped like the notes in a capriccio. Knowing that I don't speak the language, many of the guys are eager to point me to the proper measure or page or glance over their shoulders to make sure this American interloper isn't completely bumbling and lost. They look after me. The guys take their music seriously, and I smile sometimes as I watch them singing so intentionally yet so youthfully, some of them straining to hit the higher notes like baby birds with a slight case of lock-jaw reaching for food.

I remember those days when it was possible to wake-up a first alto in the morning and go to sleep a tenor. And there's no camaraderie like that found in a choir to see you through the pubescent changes or otherwise. I discovered I'd missed the sensation. Over six years since my days with the Illinois College Concert Choir and even longer since high school chorus, both integral phases of my formative years. Joining this chorus has plopped this fish back into the stream.

Familiar as the old choral waters may be, there have been plenty of surprises along the way. Like two weeks ago, when Iveta called me down to sing the English verse of Agnestig's "Stilla natt" ("Silent Night") as a solo. My palms were sweaty, smiling though I was, but with the chorus backing me, I sang with pride. What a rush! The director only smiled when I botched some of the English words. Eh, dees langueege is new to me, what can I say.

I recalled this pleasant memory as our big bus rolled through eastern Europe. Our first stop on Wednesday was in Lithuania (new country No. 1). Through squinted, sleepy eyes, out of the bus windows I saw Warsaw, Poland (new country No. 2). And finally, Thursday morning we arrived in Slovakia (new country No. 3).

The city of Bratislava is terrific. The terrain is hilly and perched at the highest zenith of them all is the old castle and fortress walls that stand over the old city. Watching the congeries of spirited humanity moving among the Christmas market while enjoying a lunch of halusky, Slovakia's traditional food of dumplings and sheep cheese, I knew in my heart (as I've stated before) that I could fall in love with this city.

Friday morning, as a competing choir in the 2. Medzinárodný festival adventnej a vianočnej hudby or 2nd International Festival of Advent and Christmas Music, we performed our five piece repertoire in the exquisite Hall of Mirrors inside of the Primates Palace. Later that evening, we performed again in a concert inside the St. Jesuits Cathedral. We opened with pieces by Latvian composers, Andrejs Jurjanu's powerful "Gods Dievam angstiba" and Raimonds Pauls' demure "Mate Saule". Franz Biebl's "Ave Maria (Angelus Domini)" moved us to the finale of "Silent Night." The other two soloists and I moved to the front of the cathedral, while the chorus and director remained in the balcony. The first soloist sang in Latvian, then I, in English, and finally, with the chorus moving pianissimo on an a capella hum, the final soloist -- a sixth grader -- sang his verse in Slovakian, his soprano tones cascading clearly and sweetly enough to melt your heart.

Of course, many of the highlights of the Slovakian excursion occurred away from the risers. These guys like to sing -- that's why they're in choir -- and they will sing anywhere. Walking down the street. On the trolley bus. And among the host of Latvian folk songs, I found "White Christmas" to be among their favorites. Their spontaneous renditions were quite good, but I nearly laughed each time I heard them sing "to hear sleigh -- pronounced sly -- bells in the snow." Oh, I didn't have the heart to correct them. In addition to the beautiful music, I was completely regaled by the idea of animated, wily bells moving furtively over heaps of snow. Anyway, those dern "ei" / "ie" combinations drive all of us English speakers batty.

A special surprise came Saturday morning when Antons, a first tenor and one of my students, said, "Hey Tim, you going to Vienna with us today?" A day trip to Vienna was scheduled for Sunday; perhaps I'd missed the announcement of the change in plans. Travelling as a non-speaker with native speakers one becomes accustomed to surprises rather like an unsuspecting child whose parent announces one morning, "Today I'm taking you to the zoo." The parent could have been planning this for days or minutes, but to the child, who had no thought of tomorrow yesterday, the idea seems splendid and outrageously surprising.

"Of course I'm going to Vienna!" I replied. I like this childlike aspect of travel: I've come to expect nothing and anticipate anything. Like diarrhea, which happens. But usually the surprises come in the form of priceless rewards, like revisiting one of the greatest cities on earth on a sunny Saturday afternoon with your students who call you "Teacher Timmy" and translate for you and ask you to pose with them in pictures and give you pocket-sized Latvian lessons, small enough to fit into a stanza of "Silent Night."

Yours,

Tim

Outside of the Vienna Opera House