The Polite-Aggressive Days of Summer

Dear Friends,

Paul Theroux begins his essays on traveling through the Pacific with these unexpected words: "Writing is hell." Surprising words coming from a writer. He goes on, "Especially in Hawaii, where it tends to turn paradise into purgatory." I'm not going to go as far as claiming the same thing for me in Riga. In spite of the ongoing days of sunshine -- we're going on two weeks of no rain! -- and the fact that darkness only counts for about four hours of the 24, the water in the Gulf of Riga remains chilly. I have yet to see surfboards strapped on to the tops of the Maseratis that speed through the city streets. And only a few souls in the city are stepping out in flip-flops. (And you can bet they're tourists.)

Though the seasonal swell of tourists is apparent here in Riga, I recently read tourism in Latvia is down 4% compared to this time last year -- another crack in Latvia's fragile existence. (For comparison, Hawaii's tourism industry continues to rise like a Haleakala wave, having crested well over the $1 billion mark.)

This morning on our walk to the indoor pool, I asked my friend Andris about the shrinking number of visitors in Latvia. "Well, that's easy to understand," he reported, naming the handful of Fulbrighters preparing for take-off like me. "Out of the 100 tourists we have here, there are about four of you leaving. You see, tourism is falling 4%."

Like many of the Latvians I've met, Andris maintains a great sense of humor about his country and his place in it: he'll be the first to joke about Latvia's small size (physically, the size of West Virginia) and the interconnected nature of its inhabitants, yet he'll be the first to defend the country's honor. Proving just how small a population of 2.25 million really is, consider this: when Andris broke his arm boxing five years ago, he was attended to by the highly-lauded Latvian surgeon, Dr. Valdis Zatlers. Due to questionable treatments from previous surgeons, Dr. Zatlers graciously performed Andris's surgery for free. Today, Dr. Zatlers is the president of Latvia. He met with George Bush just under a month ago in Washington, DC.

In spite of the integrated island feel, Latvia isn't Hawaii after all, and though it would be an egregiously false stretch to define my present days here as purgatorial, I can say the urge to sit in my (sunny, yes) apartment, at the reworked Singer sewing table that is my desk, on the stripped wooden chair, in the corner of my living room and write has ever so slightly been diminished. I'm finding Summertime to be a full-time job.

Take yesterday, for instance. I awoke at the ungodly hour of quarter past nine, put my church clothes on and trotted to the Anglican church with some friends. We shared an outdoor luncheon following worship in the Art Noveau section of Riga. (Any place to avoid the tourists!) Now, the first commandment of European dining is Your server will not be rushed, the beautiful flip-side of this being, Neither will you. A table is your table until next Tuesday, for all anyone cares. This is lovely, of course, and perfectly conducive to a slow-eater like me. But the slowness of yesterday's lunch nearly put a major dent in our afternoon plans, the ones of utmost importance: Ultimate Frisbee.

We arrived at the frisbee game in the park across the river just in time to substitute in for a few weary players and proceeded to play a total of three games. Sure, the playing is always fun: the competition is friendly and the motion is just enough to make you feel breathless, which is to say, "athletic." But there's always time to catch your breath. The three games are interspersed with cushy breaks, though it's probably more apt to say just the opposite: the games are really the half-time breaks in conversation.

Conversation! Nothing against the opportunities for conversation at home, but tell me, where in the States would you find fifteen people from approximately eight countries gathered to fling a plastic disk in the shadow of a Soviet victory monument? Forget about the monument (most Latvians have). What grounds me like a frisbee caught in a wind rush is the richness and diversity and common ground found in any given conversation abroad. I know I will miss this aspect, just as a friend who spent a year outside of the States told me one of the saddest parts of her return was being at parties stateside and hearing only one language spoken, as opposed to the shockingly seamless gliding in and out and between several languages by any number of gathered chatterers in Europe.

Of course, the ability to fluently converse in what has become the world's lingua franca doesn't hurt my chances of communicating (though I do envy those who can switch from one language to another as effortlessly as flicking a light switch). And I will say that it is rare to find myself in a conversation of "mixed" speakers that reaches the depths of a conversation spoken solely in English -- American English.

"Tim, what are you doing now that school is out?" That from Katri, a Finn, and fellow frisbee thrower. We were sitting in the grass between games, stretching and relaxing, with Latvian Janis and Liechtensteiner Barbara.

I've always bemoaned the observation that everyone in the world seems to know nearly everything about the field of education -- about teaching -- because everyone has been to school. This kernel of knowledge carried by those who have only sat on the student's side of the desk crumbles like chalk dust when examined from the vantage point of one who's stood on the other side. A former student does not a teacher make.

Everyone may know (or think she knows) something about a teacher's life nine months of the year, but what really trips people up -- what really must be gray -- is what the heck teachers do with their three months off. For many, the mystery is as pronounced and unresolved and fascinating as the Shroud of Turin. Come June, teachers sail off into the Bermuda Triangle, only to return at the ding of the first bell in September.

I have faced and fielded the "what are you doing this summer" question for seven years now. I can't fault people for asking, you know. I realize, to most of the working world, summertime is as elusive and far gone as braces, bubble gum, and pigtails. And I understand that the general population doesn't understand, in the words of my inimitable cooperating teacher, that a teacher's year is twelve months rolled into nine.

When she asked me the question, Katri was only trying to make conversation.

"Well, I'm relaxing here a few weeks," I responded. "But I'm heading out of Riga for awhile in a week or so... Ukraine, Czech Republic..."

"Oh, that's nice." That was Janis. He's a journalist. He and the others looked at me as if I were about to announce the results of the Euro Vision contest. Part anticipation; part dread.

"And, so in the mean time I'm just reading and exercising..."

Barbara from Lichtenstein, an architect, gurgled tribally.

"Swimming... choir practices... drinking lots of coffee and wine--"

"SHUT UP!" Katri burst. She's a professional translator. Her Finnish frustration coming to a head, in English in this case.

We all laughed, but I saw new glimmers of contemptuous disdain in their toiling eyes when again we resumed play.

I've come to like this Frisbee crew. There's Sherwin from California, the youngest-looking forty year old I know, who organizes the games. His love for frisbee is only out rivaled by his love for his wife; when he married Karina a few years ago, each wedding guest received a printed frisbee, commemorating the union.

There's Egils, a Latvian-American, who's my age. He's one of the best players on the field, and actually thought to base one of his original plays off of me. When he gets the frisbee (which he's good at), I run as fast as I can toward the end zone (which I'm good at), and he bellows, "Tiiiimmmmm!" He throws; I catch. Usually. This play has become known as "The Tim."

Baiba from Riga is one of my favorite players. When she runs, she prances like an animated Santa reindeer preparing for take-off, but don't be deceived by her lithe composure. The girl can wrangle a frisbee out of a man's hands like no other. Last week, when our team was broaching a panicky state of hopelessness (the other team was up 7-2), we decided team cheers would be in order. Putting our hands in the circle, Baiba suggested we shout, "Polite Aggressive!" just as you might utter, "Goooooooo Team!" so it really came out sounding like, "Poooliiiiiiiiite Aggressive!!" Yeah, probably not going to be adopted by the National Cheerleading Federation.

But, you know what? That mantra, that mindset, those words -- polite aggressive -- whatever they meant, were just right for us. Collectively, we tightened our shoe laces, wiped our sweaty brows, threw some more weight into our high-fives and butt-slaps, and... maybe won the game.

I don't remember now.

**********

I've been given this year in Latvia. God knows why -- guess He's always known -- but I'm only beginning to see. To see the game plans in retrospect. The patterns. The pick-ups of hope and tosses of faith.

I've got a week or so here now, before the blissful storm of bus stops and old friends, boats and familial visitors commences. There's hardly anything on my calendar this week: an opera, a movie, a dinner or two. Paradise.

But across the small box devoted to June 2 (today), I've scribbled the words "Polite Aggressive." Yep, that's how I'm going to spend these first few days of summer. Aggressive leisure which, if done right, should lead to quiet reflection.

And when the barista brings me my tab -- that is, if she brings me my tab -- you bet I'll be as polite as can be.

Yours,

Tim

It's not all fun and games. Here's me a few moments after crossing the finishline of the Riga Marathon. Like the majority of participants, I ran the 5K portion of the race. There were over 4,500 runners from the around the world -- quite a jump from the 800 or so who ran last year. Good news for a slightly sagging tourism market.