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.
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
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.
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