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.