Passage

Parliament. Stockholm. Friday evening, February 22

"So You Begin"

initially you gasp as oxygen

becomes scarce it's not that

you refuse to believe what

you read on the screen: you cannot

so you reread

your mind seeks to right this thing

this sudden aberration you've

been trained to look for solutions

but there is only blindness now

so you grapple

your instinct is to fight but
your hands are tied as tightly
with the common fabric from
which your memories are cut

so you confront

you reluctantly try on the

news like a woolen sweater

too snug it burns it scratches

what it cannot conceal

so you stretch

this is the nature of the flood
that gives way:
you have no choice but to
surrender to the swirling deep

so you swim
so you pray

so you light a candle on the table
next to the white paper angel
against the vase of yellow tulips
you prop up her photograph

the one where she stands
strong as a western rose
chin cocked, feet planted
face firm, regal, resolute

so you begin




"The Passage"

I buried her somewhere
between the parliament building
and the cathedral tower

the one with the large
clock whose hands swept
in silence, indolently

sun shone that day
in stockholm and with a hat
the air was warm enough

guards changed positions
as expected, as planned
with pomp and splendour

crowd that had gathered
stood deferentially, snapping
pictures, readjusting handbags

they too had gathered to watch
this exchange, this choreography
they too had come for the passage

and still if they would have known her
as I did they would have put down
their cameras, lowered their heads

they too would have struggled
to see for the tears in their eyes
as the trumpeter began to play

Skoll! Stockholm Satisfies

Not far from the Parliament building where we watched the changing of the guards. Off in the distance of the left-hand side of the photo, you can see the Grand Hotel where the Nobel winners stay every year. This weekend, the hotel was flying several flags, including the US flag, indicating some of the weekend guests were Americans.

Dear Friends,

"Going to Stockholm in the winter? Oh, you are sickedelic," Inga uttered from behind the wheel of her mini-van, making a sharp turn off of Bruninieku iela. "But I was young once too... and crazy."

Is there anything we can bring you? we inquired.

"Yes," Inga responded. "My passport, my wallet, my purse..."

The memory of Inga's sole experience in Stockholm is unfortunately tainted with the reality of a traveler's worst fear: leaving behind one's purse or wallet, which is to say leaving a sizable piece of oneself. Inga accidentally left her identification on a seat in a Stockholm bus years ago. An easy mistake. We've all been there at one time or another, afflicted by that common bug known as Travel Sickedelia.

Against our urgings not to, Inga insisted on delivering Ali and me to the meager Riga ferry terminal off of Eksporta iela to board the boat that would carry us to Stockholm. The ferry was to disembark at 5:30 p.m., but we noticed that passengers could board as soon as 3:30, giving plenty of time to visit one of the copious bars aboard ship, Inga noted. My neighbor Daniel had warned that the hydro-excursions to and from Riga and Stockholm (along with additional routes to and from Helsinki and Tallinn) are unabashed booze cruises: floating parties on water. "If your neighbors are loud in the night, go get the police on board and tell them. They'll take care of it for you. Just don't go back to your room right away," Daniel advised. "Visit the lounge."

There's something mystical about traveling by boat (booze cruise or not), especially at night, and as the M/S Regina Baltica pittered its way out into the dark Daugava River at dusk, I considered the dream of such a large vessel (admittedly a small large vessel like this one) floating on water. It's a marvel that, in my mind, is equal to the improbability of flight and every bit as extraordinary. With a capacity to carry 1,000, I'd guess the ferry was only half-full of passengers, half of whom were half drunk, all of whom were in some way anxious about the 17 hour excursion ahead.

The interior of the ship was like a three-star hotel, the kind of place that offers the "luxury of a spa" which in reality invariably turns out to be a windowless room, imperceptibly warmer than the rest of the space, open for two hours a night on weekends, requiring a special key for admittance. I suppose I was spoiled by the excessive grandeur of an Alaskan Carnival cruise three years ago (my only other longer-term cruising experience) which sought to fulfill every natural need and unnatural desire and then some. Everything gold on this Baltic ship was not only gilded, but finger-printed and rusty. Carpets resembled patterns and colors akin to the shag at the local bowling alley. Windows requiring more than Windex to give way to a view were plentiful in public spaces, but as we were meandering away from the breathtaking spiraling skyline of Riga through the industrial, coal processing section of the city, there wasn't anything to be seen that would be found in a coffee table book of photography.

That's okay, though, because who sits inside for take-off anyway? We stood on the windy deck until the unseemly Hansa Banka building disappeared into the distance and more water and less land stood before us. Soon darkness fell on us like a blanket, which is just what would have been required to stand outside any longer, so we found our way into the smoggy indoors. It's true, nearly everyone seemed to be smoking, having misinterpreted the infamous line "one if by land, two if by sea," mistakenly applying it to cigarette consumption. The smoke was a miserable sidekick for every star-gazing, country-kicking, oxygen-breathing Midwestern boy on board. (Count: one.)

But better things rolled on ahead: a delightful dinner of salmon (when on sea, eat seafood) in a cozy, smoke-free corner of the ship's clumsy but striving restaurant, a glass of Merlot, and a warm dessert drink composed of Vanna Tallinna, Estonia's slightly more feeble rendition of Latvia's Black Balzams, and ensuing conversation. The ingredients of a good night at sea. By the time we paid for our dinner and stood up from the table -- food was not included in the price tag of our journey, which cost 111 LVL ($200) per person, round trip -- I could hardly catch my balance. Sure, the drinks were good, but it didn't take long to discern that the root cause of my uprooted walking was linked to the rollicking waves on the sea below us.

"Whee!" we cooed, like schoolchildren or cheap drunks at a Friday happy hour. We made our way back to our small cabin. No folded towels from the kingdom of animalia, no chocolate-covered strawberries awaited us. Our little closet of a room was at once spartan and perfect: really, who could ask for anything more than clean linens, dry towels, and a little shelf of a bed reserved just for you? I fell asleep counting my blessings, specifically in relation to not having to fly this trip -- no passport checks, no arriving two hours before departure, no cramped knees, and on and on.

I fell asleep at least ten times that night, rocking like wooden chair in a twister. A little bit frightened. A lot invigorated. A little bit country. A lot rock n' roll.

Emerging from the complete darkness of a windowless cabin, Saturday morning ushered in vistas galore. The water of the Baltic, now calm and as blue as the sky, complemented the islands of Sweden on which the coverings of coniferous forests softened the jagged outlets of rock. Picturesque and colorful homes appeared among the trees as brightly and naturally as berries tucked into the crannies of a bush. Needless to say, Stockholm made a good first impression.

"Enjoy the Utopian-ness of it all," one friend wished me before going, not without a hint of warning in his voice. Stockholm calls itself the Capital of Scandinavia -- an audacious claim, yes, but based on my short visits here and yon, an accurate one. The cost of living and visiting is high -- but thanks to the gracious welcome of Glenn and Kathy, American PhDs and Fulbrighters from Riga, now spending the remainder of Glenn's sabbatical in Stockholm, I was largely unhindered by the prices of things. No hotel cost: Glenn and Kathy's spare room in the Wenner-Gren center, a conceptually terrific and well-executed living complex for international scholars, was perfect. Though we snacked out and about the town, Kathy's home-cooked meal -- Miss you, Mom! -- moose stew on rice, simmering in an apple cider broth, complimented by Princess torte and Easter semlor from Annika's bakery made for mouth-watering meals that were easy on the wallet and extra good on the belly.

Stockholm is largely comprised of waterways and winding roads -- and much to the surprise of anyone who's come from Latvia or Illinois -- hills! The architecture of Stockholm, while not dissimilar from that of Riga -- after all, the cities aren't that far apart in age -- pales in comparison to the Art Noveau exquisiteness of Riga. But the city, in other ways, bumps Riga right off the map. For starters, it's clean. (If I saw any graffiti at all, I don't remember it.) It's healthy. (I was beginning to think joggers didn't exist in Europe.) It's tourist-friendly. (Was that a random, just-because smile the middle-aged woman stepping off the timely city bus gave me?) In fact, it's friendly for all. (Beeping crosswalks, textured sidewalks and ramps make Stockholm a leader among its European counterparts in terms of handicapped accessibility. Riga's uneven puddle pavement is enough to make anyone feel handicapped. And while Stockholm has recycling down to a science, Riga is still learning about dumpsters.)

Do I sound critical? Forgive me. It's just that there was sunshine in Stockholm. There was so much joy in visiting Kathy and Glenn whose personalities and lifestyles can only be described as sunny and warm. And there was the feeling -- I've been saying this all year -- I could fall in love with this city, too.

Two museums enhanced the time in Stockholm. A Friday excursion to the Vasamuseet (Vasa Museum), the only must-see on Glenn and Kathy's list of suggestions, left me feeling blessedly small and young and land-locked. The museum itself was literally constructed around the Vasa -- the beautifully constructed warship that unfortunately went the way of the Titanic long before the Titanic, in 1628. For three hundred years the ship was preserved in the muddy bottoms and relatively salt-free waters of the Baltic, only to be salvaged in 1961. The work of preservation is on-going, and I had the feeling I was stepping into a living, breathing workspace -- a far cry from the stale air of so many museums.

On Saturday, the Historiska museet (Museum of National Antiquities) whisked us away back to the good ol' days of prehistory. We viewed an ancient bowl, simple and chaste in design, who's common name, skoll, gave rise to the hearty word of "cheers" still used in modern day Sweden. A stunning "Gold Room" exhibit touted the gold and silver riches of the Middle Ages. We marveled over Elizabeth's jewelled reliquary, constructed to contain her skull. In spite of her short and regal life, Elizabeth of Hungary did good for humanity, including establishing a hospital in Marburg, Germany. She was canonized in 1235.

Of particular interest to me was the Vikings exhibit which gave special consideration to the people's intermingled conversion of traditional faith to Christianity, from Thor to God. (Also of note, contrary to popular belief, Viking helmets did not often include horns.) Finally, we toured the current temporary exhibition detailing the life and death of Otzi the Iceman, the five thousand year old man whose body was recovered in the Alps in 1991. We saw more than you'd ever want to see of the old fellow, right down to his underwear. Only thing missing was Otzi himself, who now rests comfortably in his museum home in Italy. Not a bad place to retire.

Having said our farewells to Glenn and Kathy and, at least for the time being, to Stockholm, back on the boat Ali and I watched the county shrink in the growing distance. How do you know which way to look when standing on the deck of a boat? Watch the scenery gliding by on one side for a minute or two and turn around only to discover the other side looks completely different.

In the darkness, we wandered back inside of the boat that was even rustier and smokier and chintzier than the last one. Just before 11:00 p.m., we decided to check out the commencement of DJ Sly's "awesome" dance party. On the hour, as promised, Mr. Sly himself clicked off the jukebox song (Donny Osmond's technicolor rendition of "Any Dream Will Do"), flipped the switch on the miniature mirror ball, and unleashed a pulsating medley of dance music, unbeknownst to either of us. Smoke wafted in from the small casino room, where I couldn't help but notice the machine titled "I.C. Money" was blinking the brightest. It's proselytizing efforts were not in vain; a fleet of would-be sailors darkened the already dim corridor, swaying with the tide.

Stockholm may be shiny, but Riga, after all, is home.

Yours,

Tim

Conversions: Three Epistles

Son of Man on the run: I actually had the camera on and pointed in just the right direction on this sunny early September day as I was walking past the Russian Orthodox Cathedral. Wonder where the painting was going.

Dear Friends,

The second week of January was the first week back at school. The bitter coldness that had swept over Riga the final few days of my parents' New Years visit had given way to warmer weather and sunshine. (Real Rigans claim that the forthcoming endless hours of summer sunshine more than make up for winter's enduring darkness.) It was a Monday, and I was on my lunch break which on Mondays extends from 11:20 to 1:45 -- don't hate me, rest of the working world! Having gotten used to such luxury this year, I'm afraid my thirty-minute "duty free" interlude known as the "lunch hour" will jar me next year when I return to my classroom in Illinois. I picture myself gracefully placing my napkin on my lap or peppering my scoop of mashed potatoes just in time for the bell to ring and with it bring a bungling bunch of eighth graders back into my life like a motley army of so many rascals released from the lunchroom trenches.

On this particular Monday, I wandered the streets of Old Riga as one ought to: aimlessly. I spent too much time in Janis Roze bookshop and too much money in the record store. (Some habits die hard.) I popped in a terrific little cafe and made a lunch out of warm barley and Greek salad, cappuccino and coffee cake. I watched people passing by. Some carried shopping bags. Too many carried mobile phones attached to their heads as you might hold an icepack on a bruise. A girl in her twenties sailed by on her bicycle, her scruffy dog close behind her. To sum up the feeling I had in countable black letters printed in 12-point font is almost to betray the magnitude of the emotion or thought that surfaced that day and resurfaces from time to time as I walk down the street, or eat, or am alone with myself almost anywhere: I can't believe I live here in Riga. Don't let this experience end yet!

Walking back to school with the Freedom Monument before me and the azure sky above, I inhaled deeply, and as a reflex, in words barely audible, I exhaled, "Oh God! Paldies!" ("Thank you!")

I've worshipped with Japanese Christians in Tokyo, French Catholics in Montpellier, and most recently endured divine dysentery discomfort among Latvian Lutherans in August. (Clearly, the reason for my churning stomach had much more to do with an overdose of brown bread than with the Spirit's moving.) With or because of friends and former lovers, I've suffered through fundamentalist Christian services close to my home which have left me shaken and fearful in the face of unquestioned certainty and unconcealed wrath at the fingertips of those gathered for worship, those who fall into the same religious category as myself. These experiences have been more foreign to me than any travel I've done outside of the United States and have been the closest encounters I've had with religious extremism, if not terrorism.

But the prayer I uttered that Monday, as far as I can recall, is the first time I've prayed in a language other than my own. It's among the truest prayers I've known.

*****

It was probably over a decade ago I read a short meditation by a writer who suggested the truly happy person can find artwork in the swirling colors in the kitchen sink water while doing the dishes. Moreover, an act as banal as washing dishes, the writer purported, can become an oblatory act of worship.

What kind of nut...? I must have thought to myself after reading such schlock. I was a teenager then, oohed and awed by the grandiose, the meretricious, the Big Ideas, the excitingly transparent. Dishwater was dishwater.

I'm aware now, as a twenty-something, gingerly eyeing the approaching goalpost of thirty, that either my aesthetic tastes have tremendously degenerated over the years or I'm seeing more and more clarity in the murky dishwater of life. If not beauty.

Les Miserables was playing recently in Riga. A live production, sung in Latvian. I went to see it, halfway anticipating to be unmoved by an otherwise sublime storyline and musical production. This is no way to approach a night of theater, but as it turned out, my suspicions were fulfilled. (I get so much more out of the French Revolution when it's presented to me in English.) The show didn't leave much of a lasting impression at all.

But if I wouldn't have seen the show, I probably wouldn't have been able to recall the amount of melodies and lyrics I did. And without that recollection, I wouldn't have been able to sing bars and measures from nearly each of the show's songs the next day at the soup kitchen with Rihards, the greasy-headed, unkempt, young live-in grounds keeper at St. Saviours. My hands wet with suds and soup grime, Rihards leaning theatrically against the counter like a tenor, towel draped over his shoulder, the two of us belted out those familiar Les Mis strands, like two long-lost, drunken sailors, or as Latvian Javert and American Jean Val Jean, cordial and contented, having reconciled their years of differences. The raggedy band of bag people slurping soup in the next room must have been exchanging glances, wondering what they had done in the last week to deserve such abuse.

*****

This morning my alarm woke me at 8:15. Had fallen asleep the night before humming tunes from Aida and reading Paul Theroux, nodding off a few pages beyond this gem: "The greatest travel always contains within it the seeds of a spiritual quest, or else what's the point?" The man speaks my language. At the sound of the alarm, I faced that great philosophical question each man must face at such an hour on a Sunday morning: To rise or not to rise? I rose. I rose to follow the simple plan I had ordained the night before: dress for the gym, stop in Martin's Bakery on the corner, go to the gym and work-out, devour Martin's pastries and walk to church. Worth waking up for, no?

What I hadn't planned for was the dusting of snow on the ground, still falling actually, as I stepped out the corridor into the ordinary paved courtyard of cars and cats. I hadn't anticipated the friendly woman working behind the counter in the bakery who greeted me with surprising warmth, with whom I corresponded solely in Latvian (the greatest of small joys and achievements), and who wished me a good day as I walked out the door. I hadn't expected the absolute stillness of a snowy Sunday morning in a city still asleep, still hung over, maybe, and blurry eyed.

I was the only person at the gym at 9:00. Though the doors were open, the lights were on, and tub-thumping music was blaring at a volume to awaken Lazarus, the treadmills were not plugged in. After a moment's search, I found the strip with the long cord that fit the plug and so I inserted it into the wall, instigating a symphonious cacophony of electric beeps and bleats and whistles from the standing row of revitalized machines. After man and machines were sufficiently warmed up, I hopped on the second mill and started treading.

The great thing about running indoors at Atletika is the fact that the machines are situated in the huge corner windows on the third floor. Whether this arrangement was a ploy to attract running subscribers looking for a good view or outdoor passerbyers potentially looking for a fitness home, the lay-out works for me. The proximity to the outside world doesn't make me feel bottled up or caged in; on the contrary I feel invigorated by the motion on the streets below me.

Snowfall added to the commotion below this morning. Latvia is a nation of paradoxes -- is that not true of any nation? -- and one of the most evident examples of cultural old marrying cultural new is the sight of elderly women sweeping the sidewalks with brown twig brooms wearing neon green or yellow vests. Something old, something new.

The woman on the sidewalks below me was equipped and attired just so. From my side of the glass, I watched her haphazardly cleaning the snow covered bricks below. There was no pattern to her work; no methodology to speak of. In fact, her movements were just as imprecise as her legs were were wobbly. She shifted small piles of snow from the sidewalk (pro) directly into the gutter -- right on the spot an on-comer crossing the street would step before reaching the sidewalk (con). She zipped around -- speed not too shabby for a babushka -- depositing snowflakes here and there. Like a well-meaning child lending an ardent hand to her snow-shoveling father, she cleaned and cleared irrelevant places, places where no one would step any way: the top of a window well, the outlying bricks at the base of the building. Maybe she was having fun.

Running in place from my omniscient perch indoors, I watched her make dark paths leading nowhere and somewhere out of the snow. I remembered the wise words of my high school cross country coach: It may seem obvious, but remember the shortest route between any points is always the straightest. Running races is about speed and direction after all.

I thought poetically but not flippantly about the paths that have led me to Riga. Never one to be impressed with speed and lacking an eye for short-cuts, I believe the route here has been anything but linear. I have no doubt that God has a plan for my life and yours, but God's method of directing seems to be rather like the sweeping woman on the street. The good Lord gives us one brush stroke at a time, it seems. May seem whimsical, inefficient at best. But looking behind me, I see nothing but a paved road, clear as wet stones covered in footsteps, like traces of life in melting snow.

Yours,

Tim

I Am the Right Cuckoo

Private (Belly) Dancer? Not exactly. Sue's Indian Raja has become a personal favorite in Old Riga. And really it's all about the food. Okay, the dancing is nice... but the food is extraordinary.

Dear Friends,

Who knew that paying the monthly rent could be so much fun. I would pay Inga any amount of money just for the feeling I have walking out of her flat toward the beginning of each month. Pockets lighter, as my heart, I can't believe I landed in Inga's house, under Inga's care.

"So, Teem, you've now been here five months. Geezus!" she noted, walking me to her door the other day.

"I know, Inga. Where does the time go? I'm not ready to leave yet!" I said.

"You have become like old furniture," she said, smiling. "But soon you may be ready to leave this stupid, ogly country and get back to..." -- here, her eyes glazed over -- "America. So nice there."

Inga's self-depreciative humor spills over into her feelings about Latvia. As a couple, Inga and Latvia work a lot like Ralph and Alice: hollow threats and sharp-tongued responses, underscored by patience and a unique brand of deep and abiding love, that is humor. The relationship just works. And though she talks of leaving her country someday, her eyes inform that she's here to stay. How would Latvia function without her? Furthermore, where would vagabond Americans like me stay?

Inga's American sons: Matthew (from Idaho) is interning at an anti-corruption agency; Whit (from Baltimore) is a Fulbright scholar of music and politics; and of course you know me, the first-born. This shot was taken at a recent pizza party in my apartment.

It is said faith is the conviction of things unseen. Living away from home, one is never short of new things to see. While Riga has proven to be a feast for the eyes, there are plenty of things that my brain can't seem to wrap itself around. That's where faith steps in.

Take public bathrooms, for example. Why is the light switch always on the outside of the restroom? Clearly the man who designed this was never the target of junior high school bullying or sophomoric pranks.

What about the corner of Brivibas and Bruninieku streets where pedestrians crossing in all directions get the green-light at the same time? Wouldn't it be smarter for a city constantly belabored by traffic jams to consistently allow traffic to keep moving at least one way at all times?

And is it really necessary I take my passport to the post office every time I get a package? Does anyone really read the small treatise I fill out in exchange for the parcel awaiting me?

A few weeks ago The King's Singers came to Riga, and I had the pleasure of attending their concert in the National Opera House. The sextet performed a myriad of pieces from Baroque to Billy Joel, but the number that resonated most with me was a contemporary piece by Hungarian composer George Ligeti: Four Nonsense Madrigals. The first movement, entitled "The cuckoo in the pear tree," depicts the tragic tale of a young prodigal cuckoo (formerly having taken to flight in search of bluer skies) returning to his home nest only to discover, much to his chagrin, that his father no longer recognizes him. "I am the right cuckoo!" the repentant bird relentlessly repeats. "I am the right cuckoo!" The lyrics, along with the twitter of falsetto voices, tickled me like a feather on the nose. Soaring on wings of madness, feathered with just enough humor to fly in the face of confusion, I understood that maybe the rest of the world really does make sense. Maybe I am the right cuckoo.

But there's one thing I just don't understand: swimming pools in Latvia. My initial acquatic experience came several months ago when another teacher graciously invited me to what I understood to be a swimming party. I happily and affirmatively responded to her invitation! I love to swim, both for exercise and for fun, and at that time, had yet to get wet in Latvia.

The pool party that I had conjured in my mind turned out to be a water aerobics class. And I turned out to be the only male in the class. Which is not an unfamiliar feeling for a fellow in education these days. Speaking of birds, in the coop of teacherdom, a guy comes to relate to the old American Engligh idiom about "the cock in the henhouse." (No way will I attempt teaching that one to my students!)

So, okay, water aerobics. I'm open to the idea. No big deal. But this pool (in a suburb just outside of Riga) had a few extra requirements before admittance. Like swim caps. Like swim shoes. I had neither items. When another teacher loaned me her extra cap and shoes, I really had to feign my thanks.

Picture me in a water aerobics class. Yep, that's me, there. The only man splashing about in a purple cap that only partially covers the top of his head like a misfitting kippah. The one with zebra print swim shoes cutting into the backs of his ankles. And the one being berated by the lady Latvian dictatorial instructor, the one barking at me to keep the giant foam noodle between my legs steady as I jump like a spooked kangaroo. (Woman, does it even occur to you I have my own noodle to deal with down there? Or are you picking on me because I'm the weird flat-chested student, the one with hair on her chest?)

About a month ago, I gratefully and reluctantly accepted an invitation from my friend Andris to join him in his early morning lap-swimming. Last year, early swims had become a felicitous part of my morning routine. I was eager to get back. Andris swims at a very nice pool in Kipsala, just across the bridge from Old Riga.

"Yes, I'll join you," I told Andris. "As long as you're sure there won't be any water aerobics involved."

Andris gave me a look that suggested I was the right cuckoo.

The swimming part of the early morning swims with Andris is great. Water is fine, and the pool at a length of 50 meters gives me the feeling that I'm actually swimming a lot further than I really am. But let me try to relate The Process of Gettting to the Swimming Pool. I'll condense this into as many steps as I can.

1. Upon arrival, take off your coat and shoes. Bag up the shoes. Put on flip-flops. Hand coat and shoes to old woman behind the counter. Take numbered token from old woman.
2. Walk to second counter. Hand your token to young woman. Pay for your swim. (In my case, 4.50 Lats. Rather pricey.)
3. Young woman hands you a receipt and card with bar code.
4. Pocket receipt. Swipe bar code under red light. This "unlocks" the turning passer-through silver wheely thingy. (What the heck are those things called?)
5. Proceed around the corner.
6. Same young girl takes same bar-coded card she just gave you. Exchanges it for a locker key. (Meanwhile, as you can imagine, other swimmers await in line.)
7. Hands you locker key. Reswipes your card to let you through second entry station.
8. Proceed forward toward locker room. Congratulate self on making it through customs check. Muster up strength to find locker, undress, and -- you want me to swim now?

When I finally made it to the deck that first day, I set my towel down on the first plastic chair I saw, just around the corner from the staircase coming up from the locker room. I was pounced upon by an aged Latvian Hasselhoff. The problem? My towel needed to go on another chair, five seats down.

You see what I'm dealing with here? And this is only the external confusion surrounding me!

Inga has a word for all things bewildering, mystifying, and downright incomprehensible: extremie.

"I think you will see many extremies here, Teem," she foreshadows with knowing endearment. "You vill see."

Yours,

Tim

O Trashy Day

Neighborhood dumpsters: the best thing in Latvia since sliced (brown) bread.

O Trashy Day
O Trashy Day
O Happy Day

O Happy Day
Now I can place
Now he can place
Now I can throw
Now he can throw
I throw my trash away!

O Trashy Day
O Latvi-ay

Verse 1:

I used to wake... up
So ear...ly, to meet the truck
Meet the truck!
I had to carr...y
Carry all... my burdens down
To the street!

But now I bag... up
My trash... and tie it up!
Tie it up!
Pork rinds and scraps of... sin
Such filth, yucky stuff
Yucky stuff!

O Trashy Day

O Trashy Day!

O Happy Day

O Happy Day!

Now I can throw

Now he can throw

Now I can throw

Now he can throw

Now I can throw

Now he can throw

My own trash away!

O Happy Day!

Any time of the day!

O Trashy Day!

Come on and sing it, sing it!

O Latvi-ay!

Verse 2:

I used to stand... there

And wait... day-to-day.

Day by day!

With such sad, worn... trashed ones

Early in the day

He had to pay!

But now I go... to

The trash... bins, night or day

Night or day!

I lift that green... lid,

And toss... my cares away

And this he say:

Oh, oh... (key change)

Trashy Day!

O Trashy Day!

O Happy Day!

O Happy Day!

Now I no longer

Now he no longer

Now I am stronger

Now he is stronger

Now I no longer

Now he no longer

Hold that trash all day!

O Trashy Day

Come on, and let your trash go!

O Trashy Day

Send it way down below!

O Happy Day

And I don't care if there is snow!

O Latvi-ay

Now ain't nobody gotta know!

O Trashy Day

O Trashy Day!

Sundays with Juri

Nothing says "I Love You" like fuzzy lingerie.

You wouldn't find this ensemble in New York... or maybe you would.

(Yes, the whatchamacallits have faces.)

"The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time. Since we're only here for a while, might as well show some style." - James Taylor

Dear Friends,

February greetings from Riga where the days are growing longer and going faster. I hardly know what to do with myself now that the sun is risen by 8:30 in the morning.

Valentines Day, for better or worse, has been adopted and absorbed by Latvian culture and shops are already touting their Valentines wares in the milieu of the city center. Even still, Latvians -- who seem to love all things fuzzy -- have branded the banausic holiday with their own sense of vogue fashion, as evidenced by the tufted lingerie bedeviling the mannequin in one particular shop window on Matiss iela.

Speaking of fluff, Canadian pop rock songstress Avril Lavigne is coming to town -- in July -- but with tickets going on sale today, July doesn't seem that far away at all.

Students and teachers are doing what students and teachers do this time of year: counting down to spring break. (Thirty-three school days, one girl informed me Thursday.) My church friend Chris teaches at the International School where students and staff are gearing up for Ski Week and the ensuing freedom, regardless of whether or not one takes to the slopes. This concept will be one of the first ideas I present to the local school board upon return.

Just having crossed over the five-month threshold of living abroad, perhaps the most telling clue of the passage of time is the fact that I am already saying good-bye to people that have come to mean something to me. People who have marked time by their presence in my past and whose departures leave a lump in my throat.

Juris, or Juri, was born in Australia to Latvian parents fifty some years ago. For the last fourteen years, Juri has called Riga home, but Tuesday he'll fly the twenty-two hours it takes to return to Sydney, the place where he was "born and bred." I met Juri through church shortly after I arrived in September. Bald-headed and plump, Juris exudes an avuncular affection and a frightfully clever sense of humor, blended with wit and spice.

To save myself the embarrassment of bed head, one Saturday in September I arrived at the church soup kitchen wearing my new hat purchased at Cubus not far from where I live. I was also in my glasses. "Oh, my God, Tim! That's you in there?" Juri clacked. "I thought you were a member of the Communist Youth Party!" I appreciated the nod to "youth," but was bewildered by the "Communist" piece.

Juri told us that his mother, before she died, confessed that as a boy she believed Juri to have been mentally retarded. The reason why: he smiled too much. Even at an early age Juri was drawn to religion. Baptized in the Latvian Lutheran church in Australia, Juri came to repudiate the "overwhelming intolerance" he sensed coming from the Lutheran church at large, so he sort of converted. "I attended Latvian church in Australia and English Anglican church in Latvia," he said smiling, over lunch yesterday following worship.

Whatever the response may be, one does not leave Juri's presence ambivalently. An undertone of honesty, however brutal yet always tactful, flavors his words. Juris has little patience with children; don't ask him to coordinate Sunday School. "I don't know how you people [teachers of children] do it," he once told me. Evangelicals may deride him as wishy-washy and the pious meek may label him something of a reprobate but one thing is certain, be it atheist or nascent believer, an agnostic one would walk away from him not.

Juris has spent most of his life in the service industry, teaching etiquette to everyone from check-out cashiers to corporation execs. Teaching, for Juri, and the content he teaches have been answers to a calling -- to give something back to a needing society so steeped in Soviet stoicism, where smiles were/are viewed as signs of weakness or suspicion. In spite of his work, Juri cites the persistent pushing, shoving, and -- here he raises and shakes his middle finger -- attitude of many Latvians as predominate reasons for his return to Australia, where even the rude behavior is kinder and gentler than mainstream Latvian social interaction.

While talking about selling his Riga apartment, Juri smiles wistfully about somehow forgetting to make money over the course of his lifetime. Still he seems to have made a fortune in trans-continental friendships, many born of his volunteer efforts. (Recently, Juris coached a team at the Special Olympics in China.) He's also garnered a wealth of knowledge that he desseminates in vivid stories and anecdotes, which are always the most effective means of instruction.

There's the story about him carrying a bottle of Latvia's famous drink, Black Balzams, to a friend in Australia. Because he had flown by way of Asia and perhaps by sheer chance, the contents of Juris's bags were examined carefully by the guards at the Sydney airport. When one of them specifically inquired about the ebony, oozy liquid inside the brown bottle, Juri claimed that the stuff was used for medicinal purposes only. After inspection, the guard conceded: "No bloke in his right mind would ever drink that stuff!"

It was with Juri and aged Alfred, another church-going acquaintance, I shared martinis at the Grand Palace Hotel on Pils iela after the Christmas Eve service. There, Juris explained that the success of a martini depends entirely on the quality of the vermouth. "And whatever you do," he instructed, "don't go cheap with the vodka!" The drinks -- all three rounds -- were on Juris. Around 2:00 Christmas morning, as we three, feeling like kings, exited the hotel and stepped into the cab, I thanked Juris for the evening. "I know what it's like to be alone here," he said. He continued in his mock-American accent, "There's more to you that I thought, Timmy! More than the shiny church-boy exterior." I should note that by Christmas I had long since hung up my Communist Youth hat.

Yesterday was Juris's last Sunday at St. Saviours. I haven't been around so long, but it's clear the work that he has done for the church and congregation -- namely, the spirit in which he has worked -- has been second to none. The church presented him with a few gifts: a framed picture of himself with the Prince Philip upon Philip's visit to the church some years ago, a digital camera, and the Christ candle used in the morning's service.

Candle still burning in his hand, his voice quivering just a little, Juris told the congregation that it's been his honor to, in some small way, help the Light burn a little brighter in Latvia.

Over lunch, someone asked Juri about what he'll do once he reaches the Land Down Under. Apart from having a place of residence awaiting him, he's not really sure. "What is that line from the Bible about the birds of the air?" Juris bellowed, his English accent somewhere between that of a British gentleman and an Australian matey. "I just trust there will be a plan."

From the other end of the table, the vicar responded. "Yes, there will be a plan, my friend -- you'll just be surprised about the address."

Yours,
Tim

St. Saviours, facing the Daugava River, was actually constructed on soil shipped over from England. I've found the spiritual soil of St. Saviours to be extremely rich in nutrients.