Latvia's Top 10 Moments!

The time has come my friends. It has been good. I have learned some things, I have seen a few things, and I have experienced a lot of new things.

Out of all the things learned, seen, and done while in Latvia however,....(drum roll please...), HERE IS THE TOP 10 "WHO GOES TO LATVIA?" MOMENTS! (I know you're all excited beyond measure).

Number 10 - Attempting to hitchhike my way to Estonia only to get stranded in the rain for 4 hours some 50 kilometers outside of Riga!
Number 9 - Swimming in the Baltic Sea! Who does that anyways?
Number 8 - Seeing the sun out until 11:30 PM! No joke, it's bizarre.
Number 7 - Seeing the sun rise at 3:00 AM. Ever more bizarre.

Number 6 - Watching old guys play chess in the park.

Seriously, this was hilarious. The funniest part happens right after 0:12 and it was so funny!
Number 5 - Wandering around Riga aimlessly for hours on end due to lack of anything better to do! I could not tell you how many hours there were, but there were A LOT.

Number 4 - Wandering around Riga for hours on end because I was lost! Yep, more than I can count.
Number 3 - Wearing a crown made with 4 pounds of oak leaves on my head!
Number 2 - Getting punched in the face!
And the number 1 moment from my Latvian adventure is...
Walking away with the ability to say, "I'VE GONE TO LATVIA!"

So there you have it, the highlights of my 3 month duration in Latvia. It's been fun. It's been great. But frankly, I came, did what I came to do, and now it's time to go home. But before I make it back to Utah, 3 weeks tooling around Europe will be a nice treat, like the juice and cookies they give you after donating blood.

So, for the curious, here is my tentative juice and cookie itinerary:

July 9-11: Berlin
12-13: Budapest
14: somewhere in the Hungarian countryside
15- 16: Slovenia
17 - 18: Venice
19 - 21: somewhere in Northern Italy
22: Zermatt, Switzerland (yes, I will behold the Matterhorn, the mecca of mountain peaks. I may even touch it)
23 - 25: Gimmelvald, a tiny Swiss village high in the Bernese Alps
26: Bern
27: Zürich
28: fly home out of Zürich

I've got the feeling this is going to be the best juice and cookies ever.

But you know, I do kind of feel like this whole experience has been a lot like giving blood. Does anybody really like to have a piece of stainless steel stuck into their arm and watch their own blood trickle down a tube into that bag? NO. But the reasons for giving blood every once in a while overcome the reasons not to, and we are compelled to give. And although we most likely will never see or meet the recipient of our blood, we know that those 15 minutes of awkward "almost pain" from having a needle jammed into our veins and having blood drain out of our bodies, will one day be of benefit.

I just hope, for my own sake, that these awkward 3 months in Latvia will also be of future - albeit unseen - benefit.

So for the last time from the capitol of the beautiful Baltic state of Latvia, goodbye. I'm gone!

The Idea of America

Awhile back my mother asked how I felt when introducing myself to others as an American. It was a good question, one upon which I have previously reflected. She asked if I felt ashamed. I responded no, that I do not feel ashamed. However, I told her that unfortunately, the same pride felt when I'm within the States and claiming Utah as my home, is not there. This bothers me.

It does not require a degree in international relations to ascertain the reasons surrounding the world's negative perception of America at the moment. While the world rallied around the US in the wake of 9/11, America's foreign activities over the last several years have greatly tainted the image of the super power abroad. The vast majority of foreigners now have an unfavorable opinion of the United States. In a recent poll, the BBC noted that over half of Europe's population now views the United States as being a greater force for evil than for good in the world.

That right there is depressing and disturbing. It is why the words, "I'm from the US," do not carry the pride and conviction that I wish they could, and should carry.

Despite it all, it never ceases to amaze me how much European interest there is concerning the coming presidential elections. Nearly everyone I meet wants to know for which candidate I will be casting my vote. A few weeks ago, I was out and about with some friends and some random guy walked up and said, "hey, you from America?" I answered affirmatively. "I heard your accent and thought so," he said. "So who do you like: Obama or McCain?"

I realize that it is natural for my acquaintances to inquire as to my opinions (which they all do - it is rare that someone I meet does not ask me the same question), but a stranger - completely out of the blue - approached me wanting to talk American politics.

The outcome of these elections are a big deal to the world. While probably 99% of Americans couldn't tell you the name of the Canadian prime minister, the names of Obama, Hilary, McCain, Romney, and John Edwards have been circulating the globe for nearly a year now.

Thomas Friedman, an author and columnist for the New York Times recently wrote,"it [the foreign concern for the US presidential elections] reveals how much many foreigners, after all the acrimony of the Bush years, still hunger for the 'idea of America' — this open, optimistic, and, indeed, revolutionary, place so radically different from their own societies."

This "idea of America" is a very real thing.

In a conversation with my roommate Phillipp, a German law student currently working at the German embassy in Latvia, I asked concerning his opinions on the US. He expressed to me that despite the current unfavorable views, "America is still the model for freedom." He then elucidated the reasons for his thinking, all of which are as common to Americans as the English language.

As far as I have been able to tell, for the most part anti-Americanism does not exist (When it does in fact exist, it is usually only an outward expression of the anger and frustration caused by other repressive forces far beyond that of America's). What does exist, however, is "anti-current administration's horrible foreign policy that has had such a huge negative impact on the world-ism" that is commonly expressed. It should be noted that the United States is not insular - nearly EVERYTHING America does carries huge implications with it worldwide. But like any child who's heart aches for a loving father-figure, democracies around the world yearn for the America that once was.

That is why the coming elections matter so much to foreigners.

It is hard for anyone, American and European alike, not to simultaneously conjure up images of the stars and stripes while watching the famous clip of an East German man - completely absorbed by his emotions - hacking away at the Berlin Wall. The many positive repercussions of America's impact on the world are still very alive. That is why the Idea of America is still so prevalent. On a number of occasions, this Idea, this longing for the freedom and good that America stands for, has knotted my throat and teared my eyes. It has done the same for countless others scattered across the globe.

A large fire can be produced by simply blowing on a single coal - even if the coal appears cold and dark. In the eyes of the world, the Idea of America is still a glowing ember. All it needs is a little breath.

Tomorrow, as we celebrate our independence, let us not only remember what great things America has done, but let us aspire and re-commit ourselves to ensuring that America never be looked upon through the "golden age" lens that is now used to reminisce over ancient Greece and what was the British Empire. The Idea of America has the potential to burn strong in the hearts of freedom-loving people worldwide for many, many years to come. It is for us then, only to decide how hot, and for how long, that fire will last.

Food, Glorious Food

The following is a typical bundle of goods, with their respective Latvian prices, consumed by me.

• 1 large pickle: $0.34
• 1 pound of potatoes: $0.68
• 1 large packet of soup seasoning: $0.72
• 1 bar of not-so-expensive but still really good chocolate: $0.88
• 1 trip on the bus: $0.90
• 1 pound of carrots: $1.00
• 1 liter of gross Kvass: $1.00
• 12 oz can of pop: $1.09
• 1 loaf of bread: $1.10
• 1 box of generic corn flakes: $1.86
• 10 medium-sized eggs: $2.02
• 1 gas station hot dog: $2.85
• 1 pound of bananas: $3.40
• 1 gallon of milk: $4.12
• 1 pound of oranges: $5.40
• 20 oz jar of raspberry jam: a whopping $5.86

And for everything else, there's...no money.

Just feeding myself the basics has taken its fiscal toll. As you can see, some things - like riding the bus or a pound of potatoes - may actually be cheaper here in Latvia than back home. But others - 4 bucks for a gallon of milk!?, 2 dollars for medium eggs!? - are way more expensive. I seriously don't know how these people are staying alive with these prices.

My only hope is that back home in the States, food prices have not risen to these types of outrageous levels. In one more month I will be home. I want to be able to eat again.

Apples to Oranges

If there is one tidbit of knowledge I have gained from my studies and experiences in international relations, it is that you can't compare apples to oranges.

Huh?, you're thinking? You've spent almost 4 years and thousands of dollars only to learn an epithet that everyone already knows? Well, in all fairness it's not exactly about fruit. It's about countries and policies: what works for one state simply may not work for another. There is no way to correctly compare states and their policies with other states and policies.

Take for instance the Scandinavian welfare model. While this model produces excellent, and I mean excellent results for Scandinavia (seriously, those people have got it together), the rest of Europe - notably France - just can't quite churn out the same phenomenal results (hence the seemingly annual Parisian riots).

Now, I am not attempting to elucidate on the pros of Scandinavian welfare states; there is no doubt that those models work, and work very well for those countries. But what I am trying to do is simply paint a picture that says, "what works for Sweden may not work for France or the United States or any other country." And vice-versa.

It is not functional to take a state with 9 million inhabitants (Scandinavia's most populous nation, Sweden) and compare it to a state of 60 million inhabitants (France). That is an apple to an orange comparison. It would be very erroneous therefore, to conclude that since Sweden's system works for Swedes so well, it must work equally well for the French and everybody else for that matter.

Not only does this type of comparison (which occurs both in theory and in practice all too often) become fallacious due to demographic differences, but in that governmental policies must transpose cultural and ideological differences. Policies and procedures are usually built upon values and beliefs. What some cultures value deeply, others often brush off as unimportant.

A third factor is economics. With policy, just like with nearly everything else, money is what makes the world go round. Economies, just like demographics and cultures, differ across the globe. Good, effective policies need the financial means of ensuring a job well-done. Oftentimes, there simply isn't enough of the green for one state to successfully pull off what another state can.

A banana grower wouldn't expect the same results from planting banana trees in Phoenix to banana trees growing in Ecuador. Neither should governments and people expect policies that work in one state to automatically work in another.

The next time you hear the words, "well in Denmark...," realize that many policies simply cannot successfully transfer from one country to another. Also, the next time you hear someone mention "nation building," realize that well, you can't transplant a banana tree to the desert.

So I guess in a way, it is all about fruit.

Grownup Tastes

While nibbling on some bread and rotwurst this afternoon I had an awakening: I don't even like liver.

That was it.

But I ate the rotwurst anyway. I had no other choice. It had been sitting in my cupboard for some time now. It was pawned off to me a while back and in light of the fact only a week remains for me here in Latvia, naturally I am disinclined to buy more food than is necessary and so, the can was opened.

It wasn't until later in the afternoon that I became curious enough to actually know what else, besides liver, rotwurst contained. I looked it up. That was when the real awakening of the day occurred.

You see, I erroneously assumed that rotwurst was liverwurst. What I was eating was not liver at all. It was blood.

Yes, unbeknownst to me, rotwurst is German blood sausage.

I just know that 10 years ago (or maybe even 5) there would have been no way on earth I would have eaten such a thing. Firstly, I didn't even have a clue what rotwurst was. Secondly, even (and especially) if its contents had been known, there would have been no chance in hell that I would have ever opened the can.

It's funny how these things change as you grow up. Some like to use the phrase "refined tastes," or say that "your tastebuds have matured" to characterize it. But I'd like to think the opposite. Could it be that in fact our tastebuds are not becoming increasingly refined, but degenerating with age as things naturally repugnant such as chilled blood puree become palatable?

Instead of questioning why little Jimmy won't eat his peas it would be better if we questioned why Daddy Warbucks is sucking down raw oyster. I mean, when did eating uncooked fish eggs and snails ever become sane?

Rah! Rah! U-S-A!

Happy Independence Day!

Oh wait, it is not Independence Day. Nor is it July 4th. It is the 28th of June. But today is the day that Americans in Latvia celebrated the 4th of July.

July 4th is the yearly Latvian Commemoration Day of Victims of Genocide Against Jewish People. It was on this day that a large number of Latvian Jews were hounded up by their Nazi occupiers, locked inside one of their synagogues, and burnt alive as the building went up in flames. In order to be sensitive to this somber day of remembrance, the U.S. Embassy in Latvia throws an annual Independence Day celebration on the Saturday prior to July 4th.

The celebration warmly resembled that of an American picnic. It was held at a nice park. There were booths set up, each offering different food and drinks. There were inflatable bouncy house toys and face painting for the kids. American tunes were also blaring from a speaker system.

It was a fun time. Funny enough though, it just didn't quite feel like the 4th. Here's why:

A) Today was not the 4th of July. There is just something distinctive in the air - like a tasteless, odorless gas - on July 4th that we all breathe the second we wake up. Somehow, there is a noticeably different feeling to the day; you know what I'm talking about. Not being July 4th, that 4th of July feeling was absent.

B) Today was overcast. I cannot ever recall a 4th of July in my life that was not sunny and clear. Being cloudy, it just didn't feel like the 4th.

C) I was a minority at my own Independence Day celebration. Although there must have been 300-400 people at the party, I was not surrounded by Americans talking about the baseball season or the elections like I expected, but Latvians speaking their unintelligible (to me) language. I would guess that 95% of everyone there was not American, but Latvian who also happened to have American citizenship.

D) There was no root beer or ice cream. Celebrating the American summer-time celebration without root beer or ice cream (preferably homemade) is equivalent to an Oktoberfest without beer: it just doesn't happen.

E) I was still alone. Normally the 4th is a time that families and friends get together to barbecue and to play. It was just me and my camera.

And finally, did I mention that today was the 28th of June?

But it was still fun. I was proud to be an American, even if it was on a cloudy 28th of June, without any root beer, and all by myself. I wandered around, eating, drinking Coke (it was either that or Kvass, which is absolutely gross), and trying to meet the few people who were actually from the States.

Today's best moment occurred as I was standing in line for a piece of pizza. Without any pre-meditation or thought, I instinctively began singing along to the Cougar fight song. After singing a line or two, I realized what it was that I was singing and thought, "wait a minute...?" I stopped singing and listened. Lo and behold, the Cougar fight song, with its very American marching band feel, somehow made it onto the music playlist (not the words of course, just the tune). I quietly, but proudly, sang along (I even pumped my arm discreetly in the "rah-rah-rah" fashion at the end; I couldn't help it).

So on this 28th of June, I wish a grand hurrah for my two alma maters: BYU and America!

Summer Camp

Quite often, upon returning home from a vacation - short or extended - we feel saddened and weighed down by the burden of coming back to "real" life. Sometimes feeling the weight of it all return to our shoulders causes us to wonder if taking that break - and briefly tasting what a life without responsibilities is like - is even worth it at all.

After a four-day weekend (and arguably my wildest, most incidental weekend in Latvia), I returned this morning to my desk with these feelings. Even though this week would only be a three-day work week, it was still somewhat depressing.

And a three-day work week is nowhere near as good as a one-day work week. So when I found out that I would only be working a one-day work week this week, I nearly fell out of my chair with excitement.

ONLY ONE DAY THIS WEEK??? Yes, one day. Life is good.

I had forgotten that tomorrow and Friday will be spent "working" at a youth summer camp out near the small coastal town of Ventspils. It is there that Transparency International-Latvia (the non-governmental organization that I work for - for those who are still unaware) holds a yearly a summer camp to promote anti-corruption awareness in Latvian youth.

That is exactly what every kid dreams of doing for a week each summer. "Hey Mom, when do I get to go to summer camp this year? I can't wait to learn about the latest Corruptions Perception Index and its implications for next year's TI agenda while roasting marshmallows!"

For some reason, I think catching fish and throwing cans of lighter fluid into fires were a bit more enthralling. But hey, apparently this thing works and they have a good turnout each year. And I'm not complaining or judging; because of it, I'll get free transportation to a part of Latvia I've been wanting to see for awhile, and free lodging and meals while I'm there. Plus I will not be working, but "working."

So learn on youth! Transparency International's new Guide to Countering Bribery for Small and Medium Sized Businesses awaits you!

Ligo!

I would first like to wish a Happy Birthday to my sister Bree today. She is 18. That is big. What is also big is getting a happy birthday wish from Latvia: Happy Birthday sister!

Aside from being Bree's birthday, today is the traditional summer solstice. I would like to also wish everyone a very warm and enlightened Midsummer!

In the US, not much attention is given to the pagan holiday of the summer solstice. I know it is celebrated in some parts of the country on a small or local scale, but I'd say our Puritan forefathers made a rather commendable effort in forgetting to pack along the pagan traditions when they got on the boats. It's a shame really; Midsummer is great time.

For clarification of the holiday, my best friend Wikipedia notes, "Midsummer refers to specific European celebrations that accompany the actual solstice, or that take place on the 24th of June and the preceding evening. European midsummer-related holidays, traditions, and celebrations are pre-Christian in origin and have been superficially Christianized as celebrations of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist as "Saint John's Eve" festivals. They are particularly important in Northern Europe - Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Norway and Sweden."

In fact, in Latvia, Midsummer is such a big deal that both the 23rd and 24th of June are national holidays and EVERYTHING shuts down. So I've had a nice 4 day weekend (well...yesterday and today were nice. Friday night...not so much). And last night, celebrating Midsummer's Eve was pretty much the coolest thing I've experienced thus far in Latvia.

Ligo, as it is called here in Latvia, is wild. Everyone heads out to the countryside for one long hoorah-rah of eating, drinking, and folk traditions. Zane, a good friend from the branch, was kind enough to invite me along to celebrate with her family. It was great. I got to celebrate a quintessential Latvian tradition and Zane, being the only member of the Church in her family, had someone to not be drunk with. Win-win!

Like any celebration or festival, Ligo has a dress code. Everyone wears crowns made of flowers and leaves. The women wear a crown made of flowers, symbolizing beauty, while men wear crowns made of oak leaves (apparently the oak is the symbol of power).

Zane's father and aunt making the Midsummer's crowns

The family all decked out. Check out her dad. Is that awesome or what!

Zane and me. Seriously, you can not tell me that that is not the coolest thing you've ever seen.

The central element of the Ligo celebration is the bonfire. Because Ligo is the celebration of the longest day of the year, bonfires are lit all night long in order that during the 1 hour of darkness, there is still light. (seriously, seeing the sky only go dark for about an hour was quite spectacular).

Around our little fire, wearing our crowns made of floral and foliage, we ate delicious shashli (meat specially marinated for 2 weeks), janis (special cheese only eaten on this occasion), sang Latvian folk songs (well, they did, I listened), and jumped over the fire for good luck (or something... No one is really sure why this precarious tradition is followed, but like any good tradition, it just is).

Zane jumping over the fire.

I'm not sure what is more life-threatening: getting punched in the face, or tripping through a fire with a bundle of leaves on my head.

At midnight, each person ran to a tree. The tradition follows that if you hug a tree for five minutes exactly at midnight on Midsummer's Eve, and you whisper your desires to that tree, they will come true. This was great. I embraced my tree, whispering sweet nothings against its supple bark.

Midsummer is a good time and a sweet celebration. Interestingly enough, beside Christmas, Ligo is Latvia's favorite holiday.

And now that I have been officially paganized, there is no other option but to forsake my Hebrew name of Joshua. So, henceforth I shall be known by the name of Jost, the Tree-Lover.

You know, looking at this now, this really does not seem like a good idea. Oh well. It was way too much fun having that thing on my head all night.

Moments that Define

Why does it always seem that on home stretch of...well, anything, accidents happen? You're almost done with whatever it is you are doing, everything has gone fine, you're almost done, when WHAM!, something goes wrong. You all know what I'm talking about. It's a common occurrence.

With only 2 weeks and 2 days remaining, I am now on the home stretch of my Latvian experience and ready to leave. Don't get me wrong, it's been great. And even despite the many times I've gotten on a wrong bus and ended up at the end of the line, completely lost; or gotten off on the wrong train stop in an unmarked area without signs or any indication of where I was at, my Latvian days have passed without any major incident. Until now.

I was walking home late Friday night. I was about 2 blocks away from my apartment building when I heard someone shouting something in Russian from behind. I paid no attention and continued my walk home.

When the shouting persisted, getting closer and closer, I crossed over to the other side of the street in an attempt to avoid any possible confrontation. It was when the shouter followed me across the street that I knew it was I who was the target of his repeated rantings.

It was in Russian and I had no idea what this guy was saying. Naturally, I kept ignoring him and picked up the pace. He followed suit, eventually catching up. He began physically trying to get me to stop. With each time I brushed or shrugged him off, he got increasingly physical.

This Russian, in his late 20s, was about my height. But he was far stockier than I. The thought of getting physical with him crossed my mind but I opted to remain passively ignorant of his attempts to bring me to a halt. He was undoubtedly drunk enough as to impair his judgment but still sober enough to capably inflict a considerable amount of damage if push came to shove. The last thing I wanted was to aggravate the drunken brute.

I was half a block away from my building. I only needed to get to the door, punch in the door code, and get inside. I broke into a full sprint. I reached the door and began punching in the 4 digit code: 7 - 8 - 9 - Suddenly, before punching in fourth and last digit, I was grabbed by my shirt and hurled backwards into the street. When I turned around I felt a heavy fist land square on my nose.

He punched me! What the?! I couldn't believe it! He just clocked me in the face! I had never been hit in the face! I didn't know what to do without further aggravating him so I was left to grapple with him in hopes of keeping his arms down and unable to strike again.

The struggled continued and a second blow landed on the side of my head. During it all I heard the sound of a few people running towards us. Two men, who were originally with my assailant before we ran off, and even larger than him, came right at us full speed. Before I knew it, I had been grabbed by the throat by one of them and was being held against the side of the building.

I have never before felt true fear, the fear that accompanies a situation in which uncertainty in the face of a potentially dangerous and life-threatening circumstance is the biggest factor. In this instance I had no CLUE what was happening or what would happen. Do they want money? Do they want to kidnap me? Are they just looking for a way to vent their drunken anger? I really had no idea. At that moment, whatever the reason, I completely and entirely expected to be beaten very, VERY badly.

I cannot express in words how nerve racking those few seconds were as I was pinned, by my throat, to the side of a building.

To my complete and utter astonishment, the guy holding me began punching numbers on the door code panel. The lock clicked. With a thick, stern Russian accent I heard, "Here you go. Have good night."

WHAT?!?

I immediately extended my hand and the most heartfelt thank-you that has ever left my lips was given.

The door shut. I was completely out of breath. The night watchmen - a man of around 70 years - just stood there wide-eyed. He had seen the entire ordeal. Right before I was thrown backwards into the street and decked in the face, I had slammed my fist loudly on the door a couple times hoping to get help from this watchman. He had run over to the door, but the door never opened.

I stood there with the watchman just staring at me, with my hands on my knees, catching my breath, and trying to figure out what had just happened. Shouts from the street continued as my assailant was now fighting with his two friends. With a bloody nose and a ripped shirt I quietly walked up the stairs to my room. I was emotionally and mentally shaken up more than I had ever been in my life.

The next day, as I went out and about getting a few things done, I felt completely indifferent to the world around me. My usual optimism was gone. I didn't look at anyone. I didn't attempt to smile or acknowledge anyone as I passed them. I had this eerie feeling - completely devoid of trust - towards anyone and everyone around me.

We've all heard the American Indian adage that goes something to the tune of "Never judge a man before walking a hundred miles in his moccasins." I never could understand why people in Riga (and big metropolitan areas in general) were so cold and impersonable.

Now I know.

The Best Compliment Ever

I have been alive for 24 years. Out of those 24 years, only 18 or so are years in which I can remember. Tonight, I simply want to take the time to publicly thank a friend of mine for giving me what could be considered quite possibly the greatest compliment I have ever received in these 18 years cognisant life.

When she saw this picture of Ben and I performing at last year's critically acclaimed and enjoyed-by-all Mountain Wood-Stock festival, her exact words were, "you look like George Harrison's son!"

Words cannot express how much my tired body and groggy mind perked up when she said that.

Now, I don't want to brag or anything; it was she who said it, not me. But let's analyze this. If her claim is true - that I look like George Harrison's son, who is the spitting image of his father(seriously, he is...), who happens to be my favorite member of the all-time greatest group of musicians and cultural icons of the 20th century - then logically...........I look like George Harrison which automatically makes me freaking AWESOME!!!

Thank you Betsy for making my day!

You know, the world could use a few more Betsies out there.

One wrong turn...

Some days, no matter which side of the bed you wake up on, it's a bad day. Since my bed is a twin, I really can't demarcate a side. It's a shame really - there is no excuse for grumpiness.

Today, even though I had to wake up earlier than usual, I wasn't grumpy.

I had to catch a morning train headed to a small town outside of Riga. I caught the train and rode the train. I even got off at the correct stop (in my experience that is ALWAYS a bonus). I looked down at my previously highlighted and marked-out route on a map of the area, oriented myself, and began walking.

I was on my way to a business appointment as part of the project I'm working on. The majority of the offices I visit are in the center of the city and within walking distance from our office. A few have been scattered throughout the periphery, like today's office for example. These appointments cause for the greatest amount of excitement.

I began walking down the very street my pre-planning skills had determined would be the best way for my legs to go. I knew I was headed in the right direction, I just had no idea where I was. I kept hearing the traffic from a distant freeway and I was definitely nearing it. Before I knew it, I was at the freeway with nowhere to go.

I reached my destination eventually; it only took an hour, 15 minutes to get there. That's not too bad. I got to see some trees, chew on some long grass, see a lot of cars drive by, and sing a few songs.

The only problem was that I almost died when a semi-truck making a u-turn nearly collided with a car right in front of me. It was way too close for comfort. I had to dodge out of the way. But I am fine. Like a hobo in a boxcar, I sing my traveling songs and go merrily on my way, even if it means walking along the side of a freeway.

A Life of Learning

You know those little pockets that are common nowadays on the sleeves of jackets? You know, the ones on the arm? Well, I always thought they were just for looks but I have seen - with my own eyes - somebody actually use that mysterious little pocket. I saw a Latvian woman produce a cell phone from one. I was amazed! Who would have thought? People actually use those!

Latvians are on to something.

My buddy Andrew owns a jacket with one of said pockets (a very nice jacket I might add). He's had it for a while now. He used to stash little treats like a piece of gum or some Smarties in it for those venturesome (and flirtatious) enough to open it and see what was inside. It was like the Barney Bag, or that crazy Mary Poppins bag: you never knew what you would get.

Andrew, surrounded by women, wearing his notorious arm-pocket jacket. Note the pocket on his left arm.

Besides Andrew, I didn't think anyone actually used those little pockets. That's why the lady pulling out a phone was so incredible.

The knowledge that each day I can see something as novel and fascinating as someone actually using those obscure little pockets for utilitarian purposes is what gets me out of bed each morning. It reassures me that new knowledge is everywhere just waiting for me to uncover it, and if I don't get out of bed, I might blow an opportunity. Thank goodness for these little sparks of life.

What I Learned Today in Church

First things first, I would like to give a shout out to my Pops:

Happy Father's Day Dad!

Secondly, as if I were sitting at the dinner table with my family - the typical Sunday afternoon interrogation ensuing - here is what I learned today in Church:

In a small town, some 40 kilometers south of Riga, behind a dilapidated row of storage units, sits the immigrant detention center where Michael and Robert have been held for the past 10 months (See Michael & Robert, May 25). In this detention center there is a room with a table, a few chairs, and a picture of the Virgin on one of the walls - it is the "religious room." It was here where I and one of the elders who taught and baptized the two of them held Sacrament meeting this morning.

We chatted and visited for a while, asking how they were, if there was any news on their release, what they had been reading in the scriptures, and so on. They seemed to be doing well enough and expressed continued gratitude for the peace and comfort they feel since receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost. They also mentioned how two Cubans had just barely been picked up and were now interred there with them. I told them I spoke Spanish, upon which Michael immediately ran out and brought Felipe and Rolando into the room.

Felipe and Rolando are in exactly the same position as Michael and Robert - they got on a ship and mysteriously found themselves in Latvia (only instead of trying to get to England like Michael and Robert, they were headed for what they thought was Spain). When they walked in and I greeted them in Spanish, their faces lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. It felt very warming to brighten up their day. The poor guys are completely in the dark when it comes to communicating with anybody here - they don't even speak English.

After chatting with the Cubans for a while, they left and we proceeded with our little service. We knelt together and Robert said the opening prayer. We then read the 6th chapter of Moroni and discussed the importance behind meeting together as a church. Special attention was given to the Sacrament, after which, the four of us knelt again as Elder Hobbs and I blessed the bread and water. As we partook of the emblems together, there was a deep feeling of humility and reverence.

Sometimes, it takes moments like these to be reminded of the sanctity and power of the simple, often times overlooked ordinance that is the Sacrament. With an enormous amount of respect and reverence, Michael and Robert partook of the emblems in remembrance of our Savior Jesus Christ. With equal respect, I watched them. In that moment, I witnessed what it means to truly have a broken heart and a contrite spirit. It was a very, and I mean very, humbling experience.

On my right is Robert, on the left, Michael.

The Forgotten Amendment

One of the more prominent features of the Riga city skyline is a tall, horribly ugly, brown building. Upon noticing it, immediately one conjures up images of hammers and sickles - this building is unremarkably and unmistakably Soviet.

The building presently holds the national science academy and you can pay a few bucks to go up to the observation deck on top. After doing a little research, I discovered that this building is not one-of-a-kind. It is identical to many others just like it in other cities of the old Soviet Republics. They were given as gifts to the republics by Stalin himself.

I'm sorry, but this building is so hideous that giving it as a gift would be like taking a piece of dog poo, putting it in a box, wrapping it up, and giving it to your girlfriend for her birthday. "...ummm, thanks Joe...you really shouldn't have..."

It's no wonder nobody outside the Kremlin liked Stalin - he gave out poo as presents.

Thank goodness for freedom of good architecture. That's one of those constitutional rights that we probably never even care to consider. I didn't even know it existed until I came over here and saw with my own eyes this tall piece of poo jutting into the sky. I mean, just look at this thing!

Deep Questions

I believe that at some point in everyone's life there comes a time when they question the existence of a supreme being. That point usually occurs in a tense moment, like when that stupid mosquito that continually keeps buzzing around my head cannot possibly get any more annoying. Why did God create them anyways?

Even with this question in mind, the more deeply rooted theological controversy would lie in questioning why Latvians haven't created screens - maybe only God knows the answer but there aren't any screens in the windows here. I don't know why nor do I really care. All I know is that I like fresh air so I keep the window of my room open pretty much the entire day. This leads to issues.

At night, when the lights go off and I am comfortably in my bed, content, and happily drifting off to dreamland suddenly, that most aggravating little high pitched whine approaches my ear. QUICK! I spring to my senses! The lights go on! I throw off the sheets and I'm standing on the bed! The hunt for the little ba$#@*d begins.

I create a sting. I turn the lights back off and turn on my flashlight hoping to attract him and then crush him in his stupidity. I wait. I wait some more. I wait some more. My attention span is reaching its limits. Where the H is this guy? I wait some more. It is really late and I am very tired. This is gay.

I lie back down. Suddenly, he returns! My arms fling out wildly in the air hoping to somehow do something, somehow, to the mosquito! He is gone. I lie back down perplexed. This is definitely not the normal mosquito. He taunts me. He mocks me. What I am to do?

I have now exhausted my energies and slowly slumber away. In my head I hear the distant hum of those little wings. My senses awaken. Is he coming back? I lie still and quiet - nothing. The eyelids grow heavy and my eyes fall back. Quiet.

Almost unnoticeably, the hum in my head grows louder, the pitch increases. He's back! I hear him get closer! Closer! CLOSER! Wait for it...wait for it. HE LANDS ON THE TIP OF MY EAR! HE IS STILL! WHACK!!! Did I get him? I GOT HIM! HE'S DEAD! HE'S DEAD! I HAVE KILLED HIM!

Oouuwww. My ear is ringing. It hurts. It hurts bad. I think I just blew out my eardrum?! Oouuwww.

What is with these mosquitos? You wouldn't expect there to be any in this frigid Northern environment where it just barely got considerably warm enough not to have to wear a jacket. But no, they are here. And every night they create a stir in my room.

I don't know what the deal is. These Latvian mosquitos are definitely different from their American relatives. The light trick doesn't even work. I don't get it!

I suppose, that like everything else I can't comprehend in this country, it just must be one of those Soviet legacies.

D@#* Soviets.

The Formal Reception Part II

I was able to dip my culture stick into the vat of high class again this week. Last Thursday I, with my boss, attended a reception hosted by the Latvian Council of Foreign Investors - a bunch of really really rich foreign businessmen. This evening, the office got an invite to a farewell party thrown by some Latvian ministry (not really sure which one) for 8 ambassadors who are all leaving at the same time: Germany, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Slovakia, Austria, Belgium, and our friend Canada (at least I think those were the 8).

It was thrown in the Latvian National Railroad Museum, a quaint, old railroad station (my dad would have really liked it). It was very similar to last week's event (except this time I had to foresight to put on a coat and tie). Waiters in white shirts and bow-ties greeted us with trays of wine and champagne. The food was obscenely fancy. There was a jazz band playing sweet tunes. The place was packed with dignitaries from all over. It felt like I was in some type of movie. This was definitely a whole different world from the one I've lived in.

It is exciting to attend these things, and having my dinner covered for the night is a definite plus, but at the same time it saddens me. There are hundreds of millions of people in the world literally starving to death and here I am, at this government sponsored gala, eating prime rib and salmon and caviar and three pieces of cake (oh that cake was good).

I know these types of state sponsored events are not foreign to the United States - they happen all the time in Washington. I also know that many Americans oppose a welfare state. Now I'm not entirely sure I'm completely sold on the idea either, but I really don't see how we can justify spending tax money to entertain already wealthy people's tastebuds but not want to provide just a little more support to those who are going to bed hungry or homeless or uninsured.

Governments must level the playing field. Either they must allocate more on welfare or less on themselves and the finer things of "good diplomacy." When a statesman publicly recognizes this need and does something about it - whether he be American or Latvian or Zimbabwean - he will earn my respect.

Who's Got a Pickle?

In this world there are very few phrases or sayings or idioms or what-have-you that everybody knows. For example, if someone says, "beans, beans, the magical fruit...," without even thinking, everyone knows what follows. If I say, "I've got a pickle...," immediately, everyone around immediately chants, "he's got a pickle, he's got a pickle" and "hey, hey, hey."

It just so happens that today I had pickle.

I've never been a big pickle guy. I mean, as much as I love a good game of pickle, sweet pickles are the only pickles I really like. There's really not that much you can do with a sweet pickle, though. I've only ever had them diced up with tuna for a delicious tuna sandwich, or eaten plain - a pickle every now and then just makes a good snack.

Dill pickles are different. I have never, never liked dill pickles. For the most part they are disgusting. You couldn't have paid me to eat a dill pickle as a kid. As my tastebuds have matured - despite the fact that I maybe have not matured so much - I have come not to mind a good, cold, CRUNCHY dill pickle on a hamburger; but that's it, no chewy, soggy, fast food hamburger pickles - yuck.

Pickles are a big deal here in Latvia (I think it goes for Eastern Europe as a whole). They pickle EVERYTHING. I've written about pickled mushrooms. I've mentioned pickled pear. Seriously, they love to pickle. So much that they do pickle pretty much every fruit or vegetable they can from pumpkins to apples.

I noticed a while back that in the supermarkets, they had these bulk bins full of pickles. Instead of candy, like we have in the States, they have bulk pickles. Fresh pickles! How cool is that?

Today I was just feeling that urge to eat a pickle. When I was walking home from work and passed a supermarket, I went in, approached the pickle bins, reached in with the tongs, and got myself a pickle. There were three different types of pickles. I had no idea what would be what so I just got the cheapest of the three hoping it would be a good one. I paid for my pickle and as I left the store I took a bite out of it.

I was hoping it would be sweet and not dill because again, I don't even like dill pickles. I was taking a serious chance here but I thought even if it were dill, it probably wouldn't be too bad because it's fresh and not sick like those gross dill pickle slices that everyone likes - sick. So I took a bite and sure enough...I couldn't tell what it was.

A mild dill, maybe? A not very sweet sweet pickle, perhaps? humph. It's actually pretty tasty, not too bad at all. And so I ate my pickle as I strolled the rest of the way home.

The End.

The Hunters

Last night we said goodbye to Elder and Sister Hunter. They have been like parents to the young single adults of Riga for the past 18 months. Weekly family home evening, my favorite part of the week, has taken place at their home. They have fed us. They have joked with us. They have been the supportive parents in the church that every single one of my Latvian peers lack.

Family Home Evenings have included a lesson by Elder Hunter. Sister Hunter, like the wonderful grandmother she is, then feeds us. This is like the greatest woman ever. Her refreshments have ranged from fruit pies and ice cream to German pancakes to garlic bread and vegetable trays. It has been the absolute greatest - on Monday nights, dinner has been covered! That will be missed.

Elder Hunter had a cheap guitar that became my weekly indulgence. I always arrived a little bit before family home evening started, then was the last to leave, just so I could have some guitar time without feeling completely guilty for not being social. Each Monday, I have been able to quietly go back to that special place of mine - music land. In college, excepting my real friends of course, a set of scriptures, my longboard, and my guitar have been my truest friends. As long as I've had them, stress, frustration, rejection - the typical feelings that accompany single student life - have been turned into happy times of reflection. Not having a guitar over here has proven especially difficult but each Monday night, I have been able to go back to my happy place. That will be missed.

Some weeks, up to 25 young single adults have showed up for family home evening; other weeks, not so many. One week, just me and one other showed up. But no matter how many people were there, it was nice simply to have a "home" to go to, even if it was just for 2 hours a week. 2 hours!?, you wonder. Yep, sometimes more. Like I said, everyone just loved being there that much.


I feel most saddened for my Latvian peers. Unlike me, they won't go back home soon to tons of members and strong families in the church. Hopefully, throughout my life, the Hunters' kindness and love won't be forgotten. I am certain, however, that for the young Latvian members, the Hunters will definitely never be forgotten.

Corruption in the Court

Part of my internship duties entail interviewing foreign businesses operating in Latvia. These interviews are conducted in order to obtain an outsider's perception towards Latvian corruption. Most interviews are rather dull, composed of quick "yes" and "no" answers. I can't blame them; here I am, some punk intern jutting into their business hours. But sometimes, if I am lucky, these people will have real beef against Latvia. Those interviews are the good ones.

I had one such interview last week. A prominent international business owner from Sweden gave me a few eye popping accounts of his dealings in the Latvian business sector. He also rattled off a few subjective insights.

He said that in his experience, the only country more corrupt in the private sector than Latvia is Russia. Anyone who knows anything about Russia knows that, if this is true, it is a big deal. He mentioned how the 3 largest Scandinavian construction companies completely gave up and withdrew from Latvia a number of years ago because their sector was so bogged down by bribery and under-the-table payments that they could never secure a bid.

He said that in his experience, noting the exceptions of the Scandinavian countries, Germany, Switzerland, and the UK, the European Union as a whole is more corrupt than the US. Anyone who knows anything about the US knows that, if this is true, it is a big deal - the US is nowhere near squeaky clean. He mentioned that the governments are so tied into the private sector that self-indulged bureaucrats run the entire economies. Again, he noted, it has been extremely difficult for foreign companies to win fair contracts there.

He related to me an experience that took place here in Latvia 5 years ago. A Latvian friend of his required an operation. The doctor requested an under-the-table "facilitation" payment of 1000Lats ($2220usd) in order to operate. Unable to afford the bribe, this Latvian friend approached the Swede asking to borrow the money. The money was lent and the operation ensued.

After the operation, the Swede and his friend decided to take the doctor to trail for extortion and taking bribes. A trail ensued. During the hearings, however, it was discovered that the courts themselves were guilty of the same crimes as the doctor: 2 judges involved in the case had accepted bribes from the doctor to rule in his favor.

The doctor was found guilty and sentenced accordingly. But still - after 5 years - no ruling has been made against the judges, despite the efforts of this Swedish business owner and others. The courts are simply too bogged down in their own internal corrupt behavior that nothing is being solved or done.

What a sad and disturbing thing to have happen. Can you imagine living in a country where corruption had permeated even the very courts which hold the responsibility of interpreting and upholding the law?

We can only hope things never get this out of control back home. The slope is definitely slippery when dealing with corruption. We must be willingly to do something about it if it does happen.

The biggest problem facing Latvians is apathy - people view corrupt businessmen, politicians, and courts as simply part of "the system" - it's just the way it is.

The fact is: that is not the way it is. In order to keep a democracy running, we cannot afford to ever forget that.

1 Month to Go and Nothing to Write

As the time ticks away, today marks the day in which I have exactly 1 month left to go here in Latvia. 1 month, that's all. It has gone by rather quickly, I would dare say, and with only a month to go, I hope time does not decelerate. But, I honestly hope that this last month be the best month.

Unfortunately, with 2 months already under my belt, if you haven't already picked up on it, I find myself lacking interesting things to tell of. I don't get lost anymore, nothing is quite as novel, most of the big ooo's and ahh's have already been written about, and I am just here, in the swing of things. And on days like today, in which nothing extraordinary or spectacular happens, it leaves me nearly completely void of anything to write about (hence, The Beard Album). My apologies. I simply cannot bring my mind to think of anything concerning me and/or Latvia that is of sufficient importance to write.

So instead, I will mention a New York Times article. Now I know the New York Times is held by some as the "great perpetuator of the left, the flagship of the liberal media." For those who view it as such, fine. But just for the record, I enjoy it.

The following is a recent column I found particularly provocative and wanted to pass along to all 5 (if that) of you who read this waining blog of mine.

In January 1841, Abraham Lincoln seems to have at least vaguely thought of suicide. His friend Joshua Speed found him one day thrashing about in his room. “Lincoln went Crazy,” Speed wrote. “I had to remove razors from his room — take away all Knives and other such dangerous things — it was terrible.”

Lincoln was taking three mercury pills a day, the remedy in those days for people who either suffered from syphilis or feared contracting it. “Lincoln could not eat or sleep,” Daniel Mark Epstein writes in his new book, “The Lincolns.” “He appeared at the statehouse irregularly, hollow-eyed, unshaven, emaciated — an object of pity to his friends and of derision to others.”

Later, Lincoln wrote of that period with shame, saying that he had lost the “gem of my character.” He would withdraw morosely from the world into a sort of catatonic state. Early in his marriage, Epstein writes, “Lincoln had night terrors. He woke in the middle of the night trembling, talking gibberish.”

He would, of course, climb out of it. He would come to terms with his weaknesses, control his passions and achieve what we now call maturity.

The concept of maturity has undergone several mutations over the course of American history. In Lincoln’s day, to achieve maturity was to succeed in the conquest of the self. Human beings were born with sin, infected with dark passions and satanic temptations. The transition to adulthood consisted of achieving mastery over them.

You can read commencement addresses from the 19th and early 20th centuries in which the speakers would talk about the beast within and the need for iron character to subdue it. Schoolhouse readers emphasized self-discipline. The whole character-building model was sin-centric. So the young Lincoln had been encouraged by the culture around him to identify his own flaws — and, in any case, he had no trouble finding them. He knew he was ferociously ambitious and blessed with superior talents — the sort of person who could easily turn into a dictator or monster.

Over the course of his young adulthood, Lincoln built structures around his inner nature. He joined a traditional bourgeois marriage. He called his wife “mother” and lived in a genteel middle-class home. He engaged in feverish bouts of self-improvement, studying Euclid and grammar at all hours. He distrusted passionate politics. In the Lyceum speech that he delivered as a young man, he attacked emotionalism in politics and talked about the need for law, order and cool reason.

This concept of maturity as self-conquest didn’t survive long into the 20th century. Progressive educators emphasized students’ inner goodness and curiosity, not inner depravity. More emphasis was put on individual freedom, authenticity and values clarification. Self-discovery replaced self-mastery as the primary path to maturity, and we got a thousand novels and memoirs about young peoples’ search for identity.

In the last few years, we may be shifting toward another vision of maturity, one that is impatient with boomer narcissism. Young people today put service at the center of young adulthood. A child is served, but maturity means serving others.

And yet, though we’re never going back to the 19th-century, sin-centric character-building model, for breeding leaders, it has its uses. Over the past decades, we’ve seen president after president confident of his own talents but then undone by underappreciated flaws. It’s as if they get elected for their virtues and then get defined in office by the vices — Clinton’s narcissism, Bush’s intellectual insecurity — they’ve never really faced.

It would be nice to have a president who had gone to school on his own failings. It would be comforting to see a president who’d looked into the abyss, or suffered some sort of ordeal that put him on a first-name basis with his own gravest weaknesses, and who had found ways to combat them.

Obviously, it’s not fair to compare anybody to Lincoln, but he does illustrate the repertoire of skills we look for in a leader. The central illusion of modern politics is that if only people as virtuous as “us” had power, then things would be better. Candidates get elected by telling people what they want to hear, leading them by using the sugar of their own fantasies.

Somehow a leader conversant with his own failings wouldn’t be as affected by the moral self-approval that afflicts most political movements. He’d be detached from his most fervid followers and merciful and understanding toward foes. He’d have a sense of his own smallness in the sweep of events. He or she would contravene Lord Acton’s dictum and grow sadder and wiser with more power.

All this suggests a maxim for us voters: Don’t only look to see which candidate has the most talent. Look for the one most emotionally gripped by his own failings.

Written by David Brooks


Just something to consider. Re-read the last 4 paragraphs. Mr. Brooks is on to something.

See, you can learn a lot from the New York Times.

The Beard Album

Back on April 10th, I wrote about my experience at the Latvian Symphony. Most notable, was the fact that during the monotonous, completely mundane and torpid organ solo I noticed all the older men with beards (See The Maestro, April 10).

In light of the fact that a it seems like a considerably greater amount of men let their faces go in Eastern Europe, I have begun The Beard Album.



Should I feel bad taking all these pictures without these men knowing? I don't think so. They are probably more than grateful to contribute their folliclical energies to the cause of man. They know, that one day, the razor wielding, iron fist that binds both BYU students and "professionals" alike will, in its own dictatorial fury and paranoia, smash itself to pieces. One day, Fashion and Professionalism, the great worldly goddesses worshiped by both old and young, bond and free, will be humiliated and brought low as Baal. One day, no longer will the Head monkey in Paris be followed,* but men will wear their faces as they are so inclined. Lennon said it best: hair peace.

To these men, whom I have covertly taken photos of, I dedicate The Beard Album. Thank you, guys.

*A reference to Thoreau, who, speaking on following the capriciousness of fashion, said with great satire, "The Head monkey at Paris puts on a traveler's cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same."

The Formal Reception

This evening I attended my first formal reception/cocktail party/whatever you call it when you go into a fancy ballroom and drink and eat fancy foods and meet people.

This particular reception/cocktail party/whatever you call it when you go into a fancy ballroom and drink and eat fancy foods and meet people was thrown by The Latvian Council of Foreign of Foreign Investors. Transparency International-Latvia somehow was fortunate enough to garner an invite (We’re unclear of whether the invitation was simply to be nice and recognize us, or to suck up to us so we won’t audit anyone) . It was hosted in what is known here as the “Small Guild,” an old Hanseatic League building owned by the city that now is used for upscale events and receptions like tonight’s.

Waiters with trays of champagne and wine greeted us at the door. I felt like I was in a movie. There was a jazz trio playing in the corner of the ballroom and tables were piled high with the most obscurely fancy orderves (sp?) and finger foods I have ever seen. Some, like the prime rib kebabs, were absolutely the best thing I’ve eaten in over 2 months. Others, such as the pickled pear with blue-cheese spread on top was not so good. And the caviar-like, raw salmon thing was ok.

The majority of those in attendance were high rollers sitting on millions of dollars worth of Latvian investments. My boss - a good guy, father of 4 in his late 30s - and I felt just a tad out of place without the obscenely priced clothing that everyone else was wearing (heak, I didn’t even have on a tie) but it was fine. We sort of just did our own thing in the corner close to the food.

Occasionally, some big wig would come over and speak to us. The conversation always died out rather awkwardly as they realized we were not anyone influential they were trying to rub shoulders with. I’m laughing just thinking about it. I mean, Marcis (my boss) showed up on his bike and I on foot. We were basically there just to mooch free food – and that’s exactly what we did. mmmmm.

Marcis and I. This is after the party had pretty much cleared out. We were some of the last few to leave - never eat and run, only eat.

Not What it Seems

In response to a recent request to post pictures of the KGB prison (thank you Jesse), I must say that I really don't have any. The outside of the building is actually a very nice piece of architecture which sits right on the main thoroughfare through town. You would never suspect that inside held a prison complete with torture rooms and execution chambers. Unfortunately, I did not take any shots of the inside because I was unwilling to pay extra to take photography - I hate when they do that! But here is the front of the building.


As you can see, totally normal. And here is the view looking down the street. It is right in the center of the city when you'd expect it to be in some far off, obscure area.


And you can't really tell, but this is the side of the building and those windows along the foundation are the windows to the prison cells. During the KGB days, the windows were painted over.


And that is all. Thinking about it now, maybe I should have paid the few extra bucks to take pictures inside? because these shots are lame. Come to think of it, I didn't even ask how much it would be!? hmmmm.

Microwaves

When I was still young in the mission, my companion and I got some leftover food from some branch member's party or something once. By the time we got home, the food was cold. Not having a microwave, I was just going to eat it cold but my companion suggested heating it up. "How?" I asked him. "How do you think?" he replied very sarcastically. I really didn't have an idea and I told him so.

It was then that I received the most cynical response I have ever gotten in my life - and it was deserved. "With FIRE," he sternly told me as he got out a frying pan, threw in the left overs, and turned on the gas burner. Oh.

Yes, I felt very sheepish. It's just that always growing up with a microwave, it had never occurred to me that food could actually be rewarmed by just putting it on the stove.

I am now living in similar circumstances without a microwave (only there is no heavy Guatemalan looking at me like I'm the most ignorant and pathetic dummy that ever walked). Sometimes I pull out the frying pan to heat food up but then I run the risk of charring whatever it is I'm wanting to eat. I've discovered a better way.

By resting a smaller pot full of left overs on the rim of a larger pot full of water, I have fashioned a double-boiler that serves the purpose of a microwave. I know! I'm genius! It works great only instead of a quick, minute-and-thirty second warm up it takes about 10 minutes once the water starts boiling. But hey, it works!

Now, whenever I hear that "Wells Fargo Wagon" song from The Music Man (you know - oh, oh the wells fargo wagon is a...comin' down the street, oh please let it be for me!) it has more meaning for me. In one line, a lady blasts out, "or a...double-boiler!" as her wish for what she wants the Wells Fargo Wagon to bring. Ha! I already have one! And I didn't have to wait for some crummy wagon to get it! Ha, lady!.

Vilnius

My weekend was spent in the capital of Lithuania. Vilnius a seriously cool place - by far the best in the Baltics to visit. It really is a neat place to be. There is just a cool, almost chill, vibe there that doesn't exist in either Tallinn or Riga, it just feels much more European than the other two. This is probably due to the relatively low Russian population in comparison with Latvia and Estonia.

The bus arrived in Vilnius around 3pm Saturday afternoon. I was more than thrilled to be off the bus. There must have been 20 kids around the ages of 10, 11, 12 on that bus. I don't know if there is anything more aggravating than 20 Gameboys or PSPs or whatever all blaring their obnoxious video game sounds all at the same time. I couldn't fall asleep for the entire 5 hour ride. I almost lost my cool. I really wanted to just stand up and yell, "TURN YOUR FREAKING SOUND OFF!" but I didn't. I'm not sure they would have understood me even if I did.

I got to Vilnius, and like I said, it was sweet. I've given up paying entrance fees so I didn't actually go inside much - after awhile, it's all the same anyways. Instead I just wandered around, "parading" if you will. I found my way to a park in which they were having their annual folk festival. What luck! It was the best. I spent a good 2-3 hours just chilling in the park, listening to the Lithuanian folk music and eating good Lithuanian food.

I found my way over to the Vilnius Basilica. Now, I've seen a few churches over here but this was truly impressive. It was enormous and ornate in its classical styling. Unlike Estonia and Latvia, Lithuania (like its neighbor Poland) remained Catholic through the Reformation. Interestingly enough, I have never actually seen a Catholic place of worship even half full for mass; until Sunday morning. This place was packed.

Sunday morning I visited on old KGB facility. This place has been left exactly as the KGB left it in 1991 and has now been turned into a museum. I'm not sure I have been in a more disturbing place. The prison was absolutely horrifying. The "boxes," little 3ft. by 3ft. cement cells, the torture rooms, and the execution chamber were almost too much to see without getting completely depressed and disgusted.

In the "exercise yard," an outdoor but enclosed area of maybe 10ft. by 15ft., I sat down on the single bench that occupied the center of the area and just thought. The people interred there, who were not criminals but simply enemies of a motherland they had never professed allegiance to, were subject to such inhumane treatment. It was horribly depressing. What made it even more realistically unnerving was that most of the museum guides were former inmates.

I strolled through town some more after the prison. It was around 12:30pm when I received a text message from a pair of elders back in Riga in response to my query concerning the time and place of church in Vilnius (all 3 Baltic states comprise one single mission). They told me the address and time of church, which was at 1 o'clock; I had a half an hour to get directions to the chapel and get myself there. After asking a few people where the address was, I realized that only by taking a taxi would I get there in time. I grabbed a cab and made it just as the meeting was beginning. It wasn't until the sacrament was being passed that I actually ran the exchange rate and did the math in my head. Holy crap! I just spent $20usd to get to church. Ah man.

When I am in Heaven and allowed to see the replay of my life, I will definitely ask to see my face in sacrament meeting that moment. Twenty bucks; I couldn't believe it. I sure hope I got 20 bucks worth of the Spirit.

Nah, just kidding. It was worth it. I'll just have to budget that money out of the next two weeks' groceries. What can you do.

Fred

One of my favorite Beatles' songs is Taxman. It's one of those songs that you just have to sing (or yell) along with. The best thing is that the chorus is so simple, everyone else listening to it picks up right away and joins in. Not earning any money right now, I don't have any issues with the tax man. But yesterday I had to chase after the trash man.

Dumpsters and garbage cans and weekly pickups don't exist here. There are daily pickups instead. Every weekday at a specific time, the garbage truck pulls around and everyone on the block runs out with their bags of trash. This happens daily. I really think it would just be easier to stash a dumpster or two on each block and come weekly, or every few days. Who knows.

When I moved in to my place I didn't know the trash time. Nor did my roommates. Nor did our landlord. And the old guy who always sits out on the steps in front of our building only speaks Russian. What, were we supposed to just sit around all day looking for the trash man? No. We had lives to live.

We went at least two weeks without taking out the trash. What happened could be considered 'the trash pile.' I named it Fred.

Fred smelled bad. Fred's growth rate was too fast. We didn't like Fred but since we had no idea what to do with him, he stayed put in the corner, always growing. When Fred actually started getting in the way of free movement around the kitchen, we were forced to have a stake out for the trash man. We said our goodbyes to Fred at 6:15pm.

The problem is still that we have to physically be on the street to put our trash in the truck. If we miss it, too bad. Yesterday around 6:16 I remembered. I grabbed the bags that occupied Fred's old spot and made a break for the street. I made it. A feeling of satisfaction came over me. Then I looked behind me and saw the trail from my door, out the foyer, into the street. The satisfaction turned to sadness. It's just never easy is it?

This Sucks

I wasn't going to write this evening. I thought, "I need a break" (This blog stuff takes its toll. You think always being the funny-man, investigative journalist is easy? Think again). But here I am, sucked back into providing a daily dose of 'whatever' for personal fulfillment.

Which leads me into my topic for tonight: sucking.

Once in every other week or so I splurge and spend $1.25 on a bar of Latvian chocolate. Oh my goodness. While not German or Swiss or Belgian, the Latvian brand, Laima, sure beats anything homegrown. Due to the necessity of making each bar last as long as possible, I have almost mastered the previously inconceivable act of simply sucking on a single piece of chocolate until it melts away. I've never been a sucker. I've always been the chomper. It's amazing how rewarding it is! I had no idea it was so satisfying to just suck on a piece of chocolate!

I'll be honest though. Sometimes it is just too much and I have to chew. There is just something so gratifying about sinking my teeth into to something that delicious.

Eclectic Tastes

A friend of mine asked me the other day if I ate like a Latvian yet. The question was preceded by first asking if, not what, I was eating - thoughtful. I told her that yeah, I guess my current culinary habits did reflect Latvian, rather than American cuisine (although it could hardly be called cuisine).

So what is Latvian food? I asked a co-worker that same question myself. His answer was, "It's the same as German food really." Fitting.

My staples consist of eggs, potatoes (sometimes boiled, sometimes fried), carrots (cooked for dinner, raw for lunch), sausages, cheese, and bread. That's really about it. I make a lot of stew with a seasoning packet and potatoes, carrots, and little meat balls I get at the deli. I eat a lot of sausages, accompanied by just cheese and bread. A lot of eggs. German pancakes and French toast for breakfast. And that's about it.

I'm not really sure if it qualifies as Latvian, but there's definitely enough sausage and cheese in my diet to unqualify it as American.

On the quest to further my Latvian tastes, just this evening I bought a bottle of Kvass. I figured it was Eastern Europe's equivalent to Root Beer. I wanted to try it out.

Oh, it was not good. As soon as the cap was off, a rank aroma of black licorice, fermented molasses, and bad oats filled my nostrils. It tasted worse. The label read, "Carbonated Soft Drink with Sugar and Sweetener." I don't know WHAT it was.

A Typical Conversation Between an Aerospace Engineer and a Chemist...

In a recent phone conversation, my dad recounted to me a chat he had last week with a colleague who is a chemist and has spent considerable time living and working in Europe. After hearing about my German roommates and their dish washing protocol, he mentioned it to the colleague. From what I was told, the following is what occurred:

"So my son is in Latvia on a international internship. Have I mentioned that? Yeah? He's having a great time. He's just such go-getter, you know. Anyways, he has a couple of Germans as roommates and he wrote on his blog - which, reading it, by the way, makes for the best part of my day - about how these guys don't rinse their dishes; they scrub, and immediately put 'em out to dry."

The chemist chuckled. "Yeah, I discovered the same thing when I lived over there. None of my co-workers rinsed their dishes either."

"Really?"

"Nope. No rinsing, whatsoever." He continued to chuckle. "Until one day I sat them down and did some tests with the dishes they had just washed. They saw, how without rinsing, how 'clean' the dishes really got."

His chuckle had turned into a belly laugh by now and he continued, "Sure enough, the lights went on in their heads as they observed all the bacteria and soapy, oily scum left behind. I asked them, 'We rinse off our lab instruments, don't we?'"

They were both laughing now as the chemist mentioned the funny faces he saw as his co-workers connected the dots.

"So what's the deal with that?," Dad asked. "Well," replied the chemist, "I think it goes back to centuries of just washing with water. When soap came around, they viewed it as something to simply just add to the water to make washing easier, or better, or whatever. And to this day most Europeans still don't rinse."

"Huh. Interesting."

And so it is. Now the question, What turned Americans on to the sanitary act of rinsing? looms large.

My roomies probably look at me when I'm doing my dishes and think, "Dumb Americans, always wasting water..." And then they talk about it in German when I leave the kitchen, "Why does he do that?" "I don't know. Maybe he has OCD?"