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