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?"

This Morning

Everyone knows that European electricity comes out of the walls at 220volts instead of the 110v in the States. Furthermore, the socket is shaped differently. That is why, to come to Europe, we must buy little adapters for our electronics. I have one. This morning I arrived at work without my adapter. I had to take the 10 minute walk back to my apartment to retrieve it. So sad.


As I was reading the news this morning, I perused my way onto an article about a NASA success on Mars that just barely occurred. There were some photos of Mars and whatnot. Most amusing was the celebratory shot at mission control. I'm thinking the guy on the left had been waiting a very long time for a good enough excuse to get close to his co-worker. He looks just a little too content in his colleague's embrace.

Michael & Robert

You know those mornings when you wake up just because? When you are too tired to get out of bed but not tired enough to completely fall back asleep? This morning was one of those for me. I really don't like them at all.

It's mainly because I feel so unproductive just lying there. Even when I sleep-in a substantial amount longer, I feel more productive because at least I'm doing something. Just lying there gets frustrating.

But today, I'm not one to complain. The day went in a direction I never expected. I was able to participate in a baptism this afternoon and it wasn't just any baptism either. This was a little more special.

Michael is from Ghana. He is 24 years old. His parents and siblings were killed in violent conflict and just recently he fled his country in hopes of something better. With a friend who had similarly suffered, he managed his way onto a ship heading for London but instead found himself completely stranded in Riga, Latvia. With absolutely nowhere to go (and no idea where he was) he lived on the streets searching for help. It was during this time that his mind was recalled to a point in his life when he had met Mormon missionaries back home in Ghana. At that time, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them; this time, he felt different.

Michael and Robert began hearing the lessons and became increasingly interested. They eventually desired baptism. Their progress became interrupted, however, when voluntarily, they walked into the immigration office hoping to apply for a work permit. They were immediately jailed and interred in a refugee camp (while given the name, camp, it is definitely more reminiscent of prison as they are not allowed exit nor will they be deported any time soon).

It has been 9 months since then. Michael and Robert have only been able to meet with the missionaries once every month. Special arrangements had to be made between the mission president and the government to secure the brief leave from the camp for their own baptisms (They were only given leave one at a time and consequently, Robert was baptized last week. This week was Michael's turn).

Michael arrived at the chapel this evening smiling despite the 3 migration officers following his every step. It was sick really: even in the dressing room he was chaperoned. He didn't seem to mind though. He was just happy to finally enter the waters of baptism.

The service, like any baptismal service, was beautiful in its simplicity. Pure happiness radiated from his warm face as he entered the water. I have not seen such joy in a long time. To conclude the service, he bore his testimony. I have not felt the Spirit that comforting in a long time. He recognized the Lord in all that had happened to him. He recognized his continual reliance upon God, stating that in His due time, he will be delivered.

His knowledge of the gospel and his faith were rock solid. He and Robert consistently read from the scriptures and Church magazines together. They pray together. They hold on to one another in their hope and dream of freedom. Now, with a new spiritual life, they continue in anticipation for the day when they can begin a new temporal life.

I was brought to guilt as I considered the lives of these two brethren. I share the same age as they and we each find ourselves in a foreign country. Yet, opportunity and economically fortunate circumstances have brought me here; they have been driven here by violence, desperation, and pure misfortune. Instead of finding greater liberty, they are now prisoners.

I write about this for two reasons. First, so that their faith and testimony of the true and living gospel can be passed on to ward members and friends. They are true examples of faith and hope. Second, I wish to draw attention to the further plight of Michael and Robert. They are lucky - they have found the true Church on the earth. But still, along with hundreds of millions of others, they are trapped in physical bondage by violence, hunger, and oppression. I know that sky-rocketing gas prices and the sub-prime crisis have Americans reaching for the torch and pitchfork. But seriously, does any of that matter when there is more than enough food to eat? Does any of that matter when we can walk down the street without the fear of getting shot at or blown up? Does any of that really matter when we are free to simply come and go and do as we please?

Apathectic Losers

I've never really been keen on discos or clubs. Even school dances got old with the unrelenting bump, bump of club music. It's just not my style - at all. I like happy music, music that I can smile to while getting down groovy-like. So when I decided to go with some friends (yes, all Germans. at times I feel like a Nazi POW) to a disco last night, of course I was apprehensive.

How was it, you ask? Well, to be honest, it exceeded all expectations. European discos are a bit different than State-side clubs. They are a lot more "happy," if you will, doing without the tough-guy, "yo, yo what's up" attitude. This particular one didn't allow smoking inside (a definite plus) and it seemed as though high school dances had been more dubious.

The funny thing is that everyone gets all gussied up to go to the discos. I just don't quite fit it - and I'm alright with that. Most the dudes here go for the suave, soap opera look: super expensive, dark jeans, some really nice dress/casual shoes, nice shirt, and their hair all slick (you get the picture). Here I am with the typically American, I'd rather be on my longboard, "I don't care" look in a t-shirt, blue jeans, my Vans, and uncombed hair. That right there kept me in the world but not of the world.

And people say apathy is a bad thing...

New Oval Art

One of the more tender moments of A Hard Day's Night has Ringo deciding that his life is too short to waste just being a drummer and leaving his "responsibilities" to go parading. Now, parading simply entailed walking around town taking still life photographs, attempting to skip stones in the city canal, and making friends with a 14-something year old boy before being arrested for unintentionally making trouble in a bar (a great scene really...).

In the spirit of Ringo's defiance to established life, I too went out parading one evening. Although I didn't make any friends or get arrested, like Ringo, I took my camera and got a few shots of the local scenery.

Pick up any travel book on Latvia and it will mention how Riga, Latvia houses the largest collection of art nouveau in the world. I had no idea what they were talking about. I figured it had something to do with new ovals. I was wrong. Art Novuvea is French for "new art." According to my all knowing, best friend Wikipedia, art nouveau is a type of decorative art that peaked around the turn of the 20th century and is "characterized by organic, especially floral and other plant-inspired motifs, as well as highly-stylized, flowing curvilinear forms" (my guess wasn't too far off).

So here are a few shots of this new oval art that everybody is talking about. If you're into eccentric Victorian era architecture, I guess this would be rather exciting. For those of us who would rather stare at a kaleidescope screen-saver while listening to Strawberry Fields Forever, it's still pretty neat.

No Finns Allowed

On my way to and from work I pass the same buildings with the same shops and businesses in them (go figure). Of particular interest is a men's clothing store. What caused me to take notice of the store wasn't the obscenely priced suits ranging from $1000- $5000, but the sign that hangs in the window:


I really had no idea what it could mean other than something to do with Finland. What really threw me off was the "no." I started wondering. What, does Somijas mean Finnish people and they don't allow Finns inside? Or maybe they are very nationalistic Finns and Somijas is a slang term for someone of some nationality or ethnic group they don't want in their store? I thought on this every time I passed the sign. After a couple weeks I had a novel idea - why not actually look it up in the dictionary.

After looking up the translation it made more sense. "No" does not mean "no" but "from." And "Somijas" is - you guessed it - Finland. Mystery solved. Those Finns makes some darned expensive suits.

Now I can walk to and from work without wondering what type of business would be so discriminatory against Finnish people as to not allow them in their store. Whew, what a relief.

Why Rinse?

A while back, when I grabbed a glass off the drying rack, I noticing something rather intriguing: there were bubbles and dirty dishwater residue in it. I simply thought it was an isolated and accidental case - everybody misses a spot here and there - and reached for a different glass. Then I grabbed a spoon and again, that nauseating little spot of dishwater residue was in the bottom of the spoon. I concluded that either the lighting in the kitchen was bad or the person who washed these particular dishes was acutely blind. Again, I grabbed a different spoon and no second thought was given to the matter.

The unrinsed dishes kept turning up, however. What is going on here? This was definitely not any type of isolated incident. Glass after glass, plate after plate, spoon after spoon all had sick, soapy residue on them. It really started to weird me out. Finally, after observing one of my roommates wash his dishes, I was able to diagnose to situation. Sure enough, no rinsing was involved - the dishes went straight from the dirty dishwater-filled sink to the rack.

"You don't rinse them off?," I inquired. He didn't know what "rinse" meant. Fair enough. I explained the meaning. With incredulity he answered, "Do you want me to rinse them off?" I didn't want to create a stir so I replied in the negative. But, being a sharp guy, he perceived my qualm and courteously proceeded to BLOW a few of the bubbles off the pots he had just put on the drying rack. Oh, ok, thanks man.

I really don't get it. Neither one of my roommates rinse their dishes. And it's not like they are unclean slobs; on the contrary, they epitomize German neatness and cleanliness. It just makes me wonder if they rinse off in the shower.

16 Tons...of Mushroom

This morning I got to work, took out my computer, and sat down at my desk with a sigh. Another day, another dollar, thought I. Hold on, I'm not earning any dollars?! (another sigh) - and cue the Tennessee Ernie Ford tune - ...another day older and deeper in debt. Yikes.

It's funny how these types of epiphanies happen. It must have been 14 years since I first heard that song. I was maybe 10 years old. I had to sing it with my class for one of those elementary school musical programs. Of course, it had no meaning back then, nor has it, until today (another sigh).

It's all good though. In some way, sometime in the not-too-distant future, it will pay off; like eating pickled mushrooms.

Pickled mushrooms are a traditional Latvian (so they tell me) snack usually eaten along with little smoked sausages and cheese and crackers - you know, picnic snacks. When a co-worker of mine brought in a bowl of pickled mushrooms for a little, happy hour get-together my curiosity was perked. I was pleasantly surprised - they were actually really good.

Now these pickled mushrooms are about the size of a normal small-sized mushroom. Logically, if they are that size after the pickling, they had to be WAY bigger before the pickling (at least...3 times bigger!). So either the mushrooms are just naturally humongous mushrooms or they are genetically modified humongous mushrooms. Or, they are grown near Chernobyl, which is not too far from here, and they are both naturally AND genetically modified humongous mushrooms. My bet is on the last one.

What does this have to do with capitalizing on my dividends? I will tell you. Because these mushrooms were grown near Chernobyl, and were thus both naturally AND genetically modified humongous mushrooms, some of their natural and genetically modified nutrients will pass on to me and in the not-too-distant future I might sprout a third eye, or a third arm. Talk about beneficial; with an extra bodily amenity, think how much more productive I will be!

Just the Way It Is

I hope everyone is enjoying the beautiful May weather. I still have to wear a coat to go outside. I really cannot believe this: it is late May and I am still wearing pants, a jacket, and shoes - SHOES! (I'm just glad my mother pressured me into buying a pair before I came out). This was definitely not expected. The strange thing is that it has nearly become customary for me to just put on my jacket without even thinking. It has taken some time to get over the fact that I still needed to bundle up though. At first it made me depressed. Then it made me angry. Now it's just the way it is.

We always say that - it's just the way it is. Growing up I hated that inextricably redundant phrase more than anything else. It seemed as if the answer to any and every disgruntle that ever occupied my thoughts was, "that's just the way it is, son." And yes, it WAS almost always my dad who was the one to say those odious words. It was never enough. I wanted something more; something I could wrap my hands around and strangle. But no, even that was just the way it was.

But, uhh, I'm not really sure as to where this is going.

It is still cold here; just know that.

MOM! LOOK AT ME! SEE ME?!

They say the 4 hour bus ride from Riga, Latvia to Tallinn, Estonia is rather pleasant. It travels through the pretty Baltic countryside, often times going straight up the coast giving great views of the sleepy Baltic Sea. I happen to agree.

I left Friday evening around 7 and arrived a little after 11. By far, the best part of the journey however was the sunset. First, the sun didn't even actually set until 10:30 or so - crazy, I know. Second, it didn't actually get dark until an hour later (even more amazing is that it began to get light again just after 2am - so by the time the dude I couch-surfed with and I were done cruising the town, it was already getting light!). The sunset itself lasted for nearly 2 hours - 2 hours! The sun slowly descended, as if were bright red apple being dipped into a sea of candy, down and down. And just when it was about to disappear, it seemed to glide along the sea horizontally hurling bright reflections of pinks, purples, and reds until finally, it dropped. It...was...gorgeous.

Saturday was spent getting lost in the city. My first destination was Kadriorg Palace. It was built by Peter the Great as a summer home. Most of the subsequent Czars followed suit and spent their short Northern summers there as well. It was the first "palace" I have ever seen - I couldn't believe how luxurious and decorated it all was. These guys definitely lived high on the hog.

Next I wandered over to Old Town Tallinn and got lost for half a day in its narrow, twisting streets, antique buildings and fortress towers. Tallinn is a very quaint and charming city with its medieval aura. Even despite all the people in medieval garb trying to sell postcards and the like - giving it an uncannily similar feel to Disneyland - it was a great place to spend the day.

One day was definitely ample time to see it all - Tallinn and Riga are very similar. We've all grown up with the adage, if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. This goes in the Baltics every bit as well. If I were asked to recommend which of the two cities offered a better visit, I would have to suggest Tallinn. It is a bit smaller and, consequently, it has a little more medieval charm to it (can I even say that? medieval charm? they weren't called the Dark Ages for no reason...). Plus, there was a museum that let me try on chain mail and hold a sword. Who wouldn't love that?

I felt rather foolish asking the docent if I could try on the armor (last time I checked, I was 24 years old). He looked at me funny and gave me the negative to the armor but offered to let me parade around in the chain mail. Naturally, it was just enough to put one of those quirky, boyish smiles on my face.

Musuem Free Day

The National Museum of Latvian History - it sounds all official and intriguing doesn't it? It did to me. I've waited to go there until now, however, because there is no admission charge on Wednesdays. Yesterday, being Wednesday - and being a Wednesday that afforded free time - I went. It is housed in what is known as the Riga Castle, which also houses the Latvian President's apartment and offices. As you can tell by the photo, it's not really a castle. It's really just a big building but since it has one turret/tower, they called it a castle.

The museum itself contained an impressive plethora of artifacts, illustrations, maps, and exhibits recalling Latvia's story from its early beginnings. Despite this impressiveness, I was overtaken by boredom rather quickly; everything was in Latvian.

I know the numbers in Latvian and I can say please and thank you, and the equivalent of okay/alright, and ask, Do you have_? (supplemented with whatever word I before-hand look up in the dictionary), and yes and no. I'm beginning to become very familiar with the words for the various food items and I can even ask, And which platform? (in reference to the train station platforms) but naturally, in spite of it all, everything to be learned in that museum more or less stayed unlearned by me.

After perusing the aforementioned collection of things to see for a while, trying to at least pick out dates to pair up with whatever I was looking at, that got old. By the time I got through the middle ages, I was officially checked-out. Not wanting to short-change myself the full experience, I quickly walked through the rest the museum and then left. It was unfortunate really. I'm only glad I went on the free day.

Taxi!

In the States, I have only ridden in a cab twice, both times on a trip with my grandmother in Washington DC.

In Central America I took taxis all the time - and all for less than what it would take to ride the bus back home. One time, I got my foot run over by a taxi. I had gotten out of the car and I guess I had gotten out before I was supposed to because after I put my foot down, the car rolled forward just enough to squash the heel of my foot under the rear tire and then stopped. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as bad as I expected. I told the driver my foot was under the tire and he laughed, thinking it was a joke. I reassured him it wasn't. When he looked for himself and saw it was true, his face was struck with a look of absolute horror as if he had murdered someone and he hurriedly put the car into reverse. He felt really really bad. I just laughed.

In Latvia, I wouldn't even dream of jumping into a taxi. It's not that I'm afraid of getting my foot run over. Nor is it because I'm afraid of dubious cabbies. It isn't because Latvians are known as some of Europe's worst drivers either. It is because A) I have no need to ride in a cab, and B) there is NO WAY I'd have the money, even if there were a need.

When taxis come to mind, you think of a 10 year old, yellow Crown Victoria with a crummy, well worn interior that reaks of cigarette smoke and B.O. But what would you think if you imagine hailing a cab and climbing into a leather interior with a Bose sound system? Or imagine a Mercedes or Beamer with the TAXI sign on the roof? Ah, you must be in Latvia!

There are more Mercedes and BMW taxis here than any other make. It is really quite astounding. Where these drivers get the money, I haven't a clue (Well, yeah I do - the lazies dumb enough to fork out $12 for a 5 block ride down the street is where). And it's not like these are some cheaper, only made for Europe-type models. No, no; they are exactly what is conjured up when German luxury cars come to mind.

So if anyone ever wants to feel like a celebrity being whisked away to some type of exclusive party, look no further than downtown Riga.

Hurdy, Vurdy, Shnurdy!

I am sick of living out of bags, cans, and boxes. I have reached the point in my life in which cooking is no longer viewed as an evil - it takes too much time to cook, and then clean - but it is viewed as a means to a higher quality of life. The dollar does not go far here so I have been confined to eating bread, crappy frozen vegetables, and cheap sausage. Sometimes I put butter on the bread. Once in a while I boil noodles to eat with my bread. Sometimes I put sausage and frozen vegetables on the bread. I'm done, sick of it, I want to eat.

In this spirit, I've attempted to fix up a few things. One of the biggest impediments, however, is that I only have a stove with 2 burners, one fry pan and a pot; no oven, not even a toaster. Since my resources are limited, it makes my situation quite difficult.

My fatal attempt at spaghetti sauce ended up with a half pound of ground beef and a can of tomato sauce in the trash - it was horrible. Even in my poverty and hunger I could not force it down.

I've tried to mash potatoes but it's hard to get them right just using a fork. They never quite turn out the way they are supposed to.

I bought a can of tuna fish. As soon as the opener pierced the aluminum, thick oil seeped out - and it was motor-oil thick. Gross. Not wanting to waste, I choked the tuna down as fast as I could straight out of the can. It wasn't even worth making into a sandwich.

My first victory has come in the form of German pancakes. Sister Hunter, one of the senior missionaries here, made them for family home evening once and showed my how to make them: eggs, flour, milk. It's great! I'm cooking! I can cook! I'm a cooker! Dr. Leo!

My problem, however, lies in that after a week's worth of German pancakes, I now need something more. French toast, German pancakes, and fried-egg sandwiches seem to be the only thing I can come up with. It's like I'm at the worst Denny's ever, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

After 68 Years, Old Joe and the Fuhrer Still Going At It

Friday marked the 68th anniversary of Germany's official surrender to the Soviet Union. Because over half of the population of Riga is ethnic Russian, this anniversary is a big deal here. Much of the city's population wore orange and black ribbons on their person and covered their cars with flags of the same likeness. At night, there was a celebration in one of the parks with fireworks.

Naturally, it is really only the Russians who celebrate this. The actual Latvians are extremely indifferent on the matter in that May 9, 1945 only signifies the transfer of power from one oppressive regime to another.

After speaking with a few people concerning the matter, I learned that on the 16th of March, there are similar celebrations made in commemoration of a victory by Latvian SS troops over the Red Army with marches and the like.

So on one hand, we have old Soviet redliners celebrating the victory over Germany; on the other, Latvian SS vets celebrating a win over the Red Army; and in the middle are the rest of the people who really could not care less about either one. Does anyone else find this as interesting as I do?

In light of such interest, my day was spent at work and then jumping on a train heading to the town of Salaspills, upon which I got off at the dinkiest, most remote train stop I've seen. After wandering in the woods totally lost, I made a few phone calls and was able to find my destination: a Nazi concentration camp that now holds a memorial to those thousands who died there. It was a bit eerie, to say the least. A large plaque above the entrance reads, "Beyond this gate, the earth groans." They have constructed a nice memorial there, with statues and monuments that are covered in flowers placed there by local visitors.

It still is unfathomable to me how such atrocities occurred in the "modern" era. Just yesterday I finished reading Walter Scott's Ivanhoe. For those unfamiliar with the novel, it is the tale of King Richard and his return to England to reclaim the usurped throne from his brother Prince John with the help of one of his knights, Ivanhoe, and Robin Hood and his merry men (It really is a great read and its images have added to the mystic of all the forests and castles I've been frequenting). One of the main characters in the novel is a Jew and throughout the story we see how much persecution and revile the Jewish people felt in those dark times. Ironically, since then, time has not eradicated the prejudice and inhumanity towards them - and Salaspills is living proof that only 68 years ago, the situation had changed little.

Ode to My Mother

Being mother's day, today I devote this entry to my own mother.

Thank you Mother.

I love you.

Poor Whiskers

On my morning stroll to work I passed the corpse of a cat who had been run over. Its eyeballs had been ejaculated from their sockets and were loosely hung by the still-attached optical nerves. It...was...horrifying (I was going to post a picture but it was just too gross). It immediately made me repent of the time I laughed after accidentally running over a cat.

I don't feel all that bad though, as the cat was culpable. It ran out in the middle of the road, and like a stupid jack-rabbit, got out of the way only to run right back under the tires with a loud POP!. The girls in the car screamed; I got wide-eyed in disbelief at what had happened. It popped! I couldn't believe it. The sound was a pop! I had to laugh.

The adages to be "cool as a cat" or to have " the reflexes of a cat" do not hold their value anymore. I thought cats were smart? Why do animals do that, anyways? Right when they are safely out of harm's way, as if they had a suicide wish but got scared at first, they go directly back into the line of fire.

I suppose that in some fashion or other, we, like any other animal, are guilty of this phenomena too. The man who overcomes his drinking addictions goes back to the bottle in an instant of rage or insecurity. The family, who has suffered through years of financial difficulty finally emerges from debt only to take out another mortgage. The young woman, after leaving an abusive relationship, finds another man of the same low class and respectability. And the list could go on.

That is probably why Lehi told his sons to be as the Valley and River he mentioned. Geographical features are not capable of screwing their lives up. In this spirit, I wish to now be known as "cool as a cumulonimbus cloud" or to have "the reflexes of a willow in the wind" or to be "tactful as a stream finding its way quietly and discretely through the forest," you know, these types of things.

Murses

I am sure that anyone who reads these nearly pointless anecdotes of mine has wanted to ask me what the biggest perceptible difference between Latvia and the US is. At first thought I would say the weather. But then I think that somewhere in the States there is probably a place with similar weather. Then I think the landscape is very different. This too, can not be true as there are definitely parts of the US with similar geology and flor. Next I would mention how unfriendly strangers are to each other - no one even smiles or acknowledges anyone unless there is a reason; no hellos or nods or even eye contact on the streets. This notion, however, is also untrue as outside the realm of rural America, it is not much different in the States. So, after ruling out all these options, the only thing left is purses.

Purses, you ask? Yes, purses. I always have, and most likely always will, never understand why women need so many - but that is not the issue here. I'm referring to men and purses. Latvian men wear these little purse-bags. No, they are not with flamboyantly colored materials covered in sequins or a billion dangling charms; they are just basic little camera-bag type purses.

Upon first noticing them, I laughed. What fags! But then I started thinking: How many of us men are constantly having our legs fall asleep when sitting in a hard, or even a cushioned chair due to the wallet in our back pocket cutting off circulation? And how many of us are sick of wearing holes in our jeans where the keys or cell phone wear through the pockets when rubbed against a wall or tight space? And how many of us are sick of crushing or bending papers, letters, or anything by putting them in our pockets so we can function, hands-free?

Man-bags, or Murses (man-purses), would actually be a beneficial accessory to us men in the States. What American decided that purses are just for women? I'm starting to think HE was the fag who, attempting to conceal his gayness, thought if by going without the purse he somehow demonstrated a more masculine appearance.

I've considered purchasing one of these purses myself but I am stopped by the knowledge that however utilitarian they may be, once back in the States, they become a symbol of femininity and I am consigned to live as the society in which I live. But forget that - I've always enjoyed sticking it to the man. I'm just concerned about what the ladies will think.

Laundry

My landlord has been promising to install a washing machine in the flat ever since I moved in. It has been 3 weeks now. Last week I had to do laundry in the bathroom sink. This week he finally came through and brought us a machine. The catch, however, was that we would have to wait another 2 weeks before he could get someone to install it. He proposed that if we wanted in done sooner, we do it ourselves. The roomies inquired if I could install it. I figured I could, but declined. Of all the skills I've acquired working maintainence, the most valuable has been the ability to recognize when a seemingly simple project has the potential to go really bad very easily. With hardly any tools or spare plumbing parts, this was sure to be that type of project.

My roommates went ahead themselves in the endeavor. And what was I to do? Sit there and watch? Heak, if they were going to do it anyways I decided to join in with the yanking and prodding. Sure enough, a little drip-drip and before you know it, yelling, and then water everywhere. The water lines had been tweaked so that they would not re-seal and it was one humongous wet mess. Luckily, upon notice of the dilemma, our landlord arrived with a few vital tools and the machine was installed hitch free. Why he didn't offer the few wrenches we needed in the first place, we may never know.

Me and Little John, running through the forest...

The 5-day weekend was eventful. Thursday and Friday were spent just kickin' around town. There were some concerts in the park, some festivals, and some good weather which were enjoyed. The real weekend began at 6AM Saturday morning. I had previously expressed my desire to visit the capital of Estonia to some of the friends in the branch. A few decided they wanted to go too. My proposal to travel by bus (a short 4 hour ride) didn't go over well due to financial constraints. They proposed the best option to be thumbing for rides all the way up. Incredulously I asked if that would really work to which they gave their firm affirmations that it would, backing it up with the fact that they had done it many times before. I was stoked. I was to hitch-hike my way from Riga, Latvia to Talinn, Estonia. What could be more adventurous than that?

As mentioned, I got up at 6AM and met up with Zane, Jo, and Simona and we took a bus to the outskirts of the city where immediately we began thumbing. Within just a minute a car pulled over and picked the 4 of us up. The lady was only going about 10 kilometers in our direction but that was a great start. We got out and proceeded to thumb again. Another minute or so after and a commercial van pulled over. Amazingly, this van was going directly to Talinn. Unfortunately, it only had room for two so Zane and Jo took off leaving Simona and me to the mercies of the driving masses. An hour after getting left, we finally got a ride. This car, however, like the first, only took us 10 or so kilometers. After that, we got another ride another 10 or so kilometers.

It was at this spot, after 3 rides taking us maybe some 50 kilometers outside of Riga, that Simona and I would be stranded for 4 hours - FOUR HOURS. By the time we received a text announcing the arrival of Zane and Jo in Talinn, I was so fed up with it all I said screw it, walked to the others side of the road, and began hitching for home. My great adventure had been laid to waste.

After a further hour and a half, a heaven-sent messenger pulled over and took us straight to Riga.

What a horrible experience. Never again will I attempt that crap.

Independence Day was fun. There were celebrations and concerts and activities around town. At first I kinda laughed thinking how ironic it was that Latvians, after being occupied for practically most of their entire existence as a state, were so exuberantly celebrating their independence. After giving it some thought, however, I realized that for that very reason, they had all the more reason to celebrate. It was funny, once I realized this I almost got a bit emotional. Freedom is something that EVERYONE desires, and Latvians, only in the past 15 years have truly gained it. I suppose it makes it all the more sweeter to them, as it should.

The day's festivals were followed by everyone watching the national hockey team get their butts kicked 6-0 by Canada in the World Hockey Championships. For them it's ok though. Hockey happens to be their favorite sport and the national team, although getting completely tramped by both the USA and Canada, is good enough to consistently qualify for international play, which makes them very proud.

On Monday I decided to visit a region in Central Latvia named Sigulda. Locals call it "the Switzerland of Latvia." I have yet to visit Switzerland but I'd say this is more like a...West Virginia maybe. It is gorgeous, however. There is a national park and a bunch of medieval castles and ruins all over the place.

I jumped on a 7:45AM train and wandered around taking pictures and hiking for 8 hours before coming back to Riga. It was awesome. I was in nature. No city. Few people. Fresh air. Centuries old castles. European forests and woods, that were totally new and different to me. There was moss and growth everywhere. I felt like Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. It was a great, and I mean a GREAT day. I felt totally liberated. I must have hiked10 miles or so. I came home just in time for Family Home Evening and no one could believe I was there all day long. On Sunday they all had told me a couple hours was more than enough time to spend there. Well...I'm going back for another day because there is still so much to see and do.

It's probably that I'm an American, who has never seen an actual castle in his entire life, that makes it all so intriguing. When I wasn't Robin Hood, I was running around defending the fortress against invaders as arrows and stones were being hurled my way with people yelling and falling from the high castle walls. It's every child's dreams after all the fairy tales and Disney movies we've all been raised on. All the Europeans are just like, "meh, that's cool - there's a castle in my back yard." Just wait though, when they cross the pond and see their first red rock, they'll be a cowboy fleeing for his life from a band of savaged Apaches who want their scalps. That is what I think of when I'm there anyways.

Why They're the Coolest

No time for an entry today - I'm at an internet cafe so it's costing me. I wasn't even planning on writing today, but I just want to draw attention to my buddy Ben's blog. I strongly encourage all to go to the link on the side of the page named Bunjamin, and watch the video posted in the entry called "driving like jason bourne..." It....is....AWESOME. This is why I love these guys so much! Enjoy.

Does a Body Good

There is a dairy farm somewhere in Morgan County, Ut that my parents have bought their milk from for years. The milkman comes twice a week at some absurdly early hour in the morning bringing the freshest, most delicious milk one could ask for (I believe it is called RoseMary Dairy, or Rose Hill, or Rose whatever - that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet). Being raised on it, I was always spoiled. The problem, however, was that I naturally became accustomed to it and, consequently, store-bought milk just never did it for me. Upon moving out of the house, however, I was forced to allow store-bought milk to do it for me and, like all things, after a while, the store-bought became customary.

Latvian milk is a different story. It has this strange, almost earthy, aftertaste - as if you had just put your mouth on a dirty, udder nipple and sucked the milk out yourself. This first month, I have not drunk (drank? drunken?) much milk. This week, however, was a milestone week in that for the first time I drank some milk and thought, "hey, there's no dirty, udder flavor...." Congratulatory remarks to me. (You know, the more I think about this, the more I realize how the tenses of "to drink" form outright weird words. Drank? I mean, that is a strange word when given some thought.)

The best thing about Latvian milk is that it doesn't come as the usual Skim, 1%, 2%, and Whole. No, no; they have 0.5%, 1%, 1.5%, 2%, 2.3%, 2.8%, 3.5% and, a whopping 3.8%, which is currently stocked in my refrigerator. There is so much more variety to choose from. Why anyone needs such a rather arbitrarily wide selection I'm not really sure. But I am not complaining as the 3.8% feels so good going down.

The only problem I have to deal with now, however, is that milk only comes in volumes of 1 lt and 1.5 lt. So, just like with everything else, I have to go to the store seemingly ever other day.

Happy May Days!

Just the thought of a 3-day weekend makes Americans giddy with boyish excitement. Let me, however, suggest an even better alternative: the 5-day weekend. Yes, the U.S. may be the model for freedom, but Latvians have the right idea about holidays. Today begins May Days, a combination of 3 separate holidays (labor day, independence day, and some other day that apparently merits leisure) into one super holiday. This place is dead right now - stores closed, streets substantially less crowded, and I happen to be the only one in the office today, the only reason being to have internet access. It's great. They will have concerts and festivals in the squares and parks all 5 days. So from the beautiful city of Riga, Latvia...Happy May Days!

On a separate note, Phillip and I have discovered a tricky new way to deal with pesky street vendors and guys that follow you around prodding you into their strip clubs. These guys are obnoxious. They always approach everyone immediately speaking English, assuming all are foreigners. When approached, I immediately begin speaking Spanish while Phillip speaks German simultaneously. Their reactions are priceless. Some of them give a very blank look of confusion; others just seem to fade away in a perceivable state of sheepishness. Naturally, we feel very clever and laugh (in Spanish and German, of course).