Soon I Will be a Real Latvian Boy

There are some rules that I never seem to understand. In Latvia, there are lots of little things like the four kinds of police officers; I never understand which ones can do what. When you go to McDonald’s in eastern or central Europe, you must wait until they are done with filling your order before you pay. Or that a line in a shop should always curl back on itself as to impede the progress of others in the line most efficiently. I can almost remember now that refills are full price. Just another crime committed against the people.

However, there is something important to remember that I never seem to. Cream in Rīga is not free. Huh? Yeah, I agree that is stupid. This seems especially hard when your best friend likes one finger of cream in the cup when you make her coffee. She is right, and usually is about such things. The idea of paying 1.85Ls (3.50usd) for coffee in the first place seems a bit tough to take if it is not a super-grande mochacino with real Nigerian fat-free, lactose-free, reduced-calcium goat milk and decaffeinated coffee beans from Juan Valdez’s personal garden roasted and ground by his grandmother. So when I forget how many creams and sugars I used, because it does not seem important in the grand scheme of things I should be flagellated. Maybe the risk of corporal punishment in the Latvian Republic is not as scary as the kiss I will receive when I answer the question “Skalka cream you using with my coffee?”

The proper response would make Elsie collapse from dehydration. However, I can get a “Szanks!” a kiss and a huge smile when I pull another four or five creams and sugars from my pocket. Hey I really did not expect to be charged for them. It is great when she puts three more creams in her coffee, then puts her feet up on me and says “One day you be my real Latvian boy.”

I know a real compliment when I hear it.

Birthday Boy Bingo

Standing in RIX my sixth trip to Latvīja, I was waiting. In Rīga, sadly I am used to waiting. For the several weeks I have lived in Rīga I am sure that I spent the vast majority of my time alone. It is kind of soothing in a way. Soothing is how I know Rīga, but it is not always how I think of it. In August, the weather is not yet winter, but summer is far from memory. The trees were still green and they went well with the maroon and white flags in the circle by the airport entrance.

Natasha did not understand why I would spend the money to stay in a hotel. She does not understand why a “normal” flat is so unappealing to me. It is difficult to explain to her anyway. Why bother making her feel bad. Maybe twice or three times did she ever even meet me at my hotel room. As a matter of fact when I look back on the whole time we spent together, more of it is spent alone wringing my hands with angst wondering when she would arrive.

She did know how to make a cup of coffee. I despise the stuff, but she knew how to mix just the right amount of thickened cream and four spoons of sugar. I am not sure when she orders ribs and green onions. She never eats the green onions, because she says “They make my breath smell bad” lighting another Winston cigarette. Natasha has taught me that coffee must make everything taste better after it is mixed with nicotine.

We ate together many times. Normally her only requirement when selecting a restaurant was “I want meat.” She ate many things I know, but usually the meals revolved around meat. She did eat an omelet once in Jurmala. It was cold that day and we were on the beach there. Usually, we ate at bistros. Sometimes we ate in different kinds of places. Usually we sat and drank coffee that is what you do in Latvīja. I do not think that I ever saw her eat any vegetables, except mushrooms and olives. She loved olives. Every time we could get an extra helping of olives and would eat all of them first.

On my birthday, we had dinner at the Lido, and then off to the “Melnais Kakis.” She and I had three or four cups of her coffee. Not really coffee, but Natasha’s Rīga mix. After a few cups of coffee, she said the worst thing I ever heard. Looking me dead in the eye, she said that she loved me like people not as a man. At the time, I let it go, what else was there to do. Things like that are better left drop.

Later, after I my lovely birthday present, she said she wanted to show me something that is relaxing. We rode across town in Ginta’s Mazda. Dancing is my favorite activity followed closely by gambling. She knew of a special place to go where she likes to go and relax. We parked in the back near the garbage cans. I thought it was a difficult place to park for someone just relearning to drive.

We walked into the casino, and then across to a table in the middle of the room where we could see the board. At first, I guessed her to be a high-rolling poker player or a crap shooter straight out of Vegas. One Lat per sheet and the next thing I knew, she was working hard at explaining the numbers to me. I guess growing up as a Russian in Latvīja had hurt her feelings. She was doing her best to be happy inside, even though it was clear that she was falling apart. Buyer’s remorse I guess, she knew that what she had said was the end, but there were pangs of guilt. We were having a great time and she did not want it to end anymore than I did. We must have spent fifty Lats on bingo pages, but we did not win a single time. Sitting there with her was fun. Honestly it was fun, and nothing will take that away from me.

After a few hours of “talking”, she knew she had to work the next day. I almost felt like I was turning into pumpkin. The last thing I remember was the 25 point turn as she tried to get the car out of the parking lot. Actually, the last thing was her kissing me on the cheek when she did not get out of the car when I left that Monday. That day was the beginning of the end of things.

Can You Put Conversational Natasha on Your Resume?

Sometimes communicating with someone is harder than it first meets the eye. On my second or third trip to Rīga, I realized that Natasha really did not understand the words that were coming out of my mouth. That was not the worst part; the worst part was the fact that she felt trapped by not understanding me. I never wanted to make her feel bad or to do anything but be her friend. Ok, I will admit it, I wanted to be her angel, I see that will probably never happen, so the least I can do is to try and understand her a little bit.

Like all couples we had our own language. Ours was kind of out of necessity, because our relationship did not feel empowered by the language barrier. Here are some of the phrases we use when speaking “Natasha”:

• “aga” – this is the compliment to “ugu”, see below.
• “Allo!” – Russian for Hello!
• “Good weather” – it is not raining and probably will not be where we are going.
• “Hi! My boy!” – probably the sexiest thing that can be said to you at an airport
• “I am normal.” – Yet another Russian feeling. More like I do not feel bad, but I am trapped, and I do not understand how to make you understand how to help me.
• “I’m cafe and cig” – the breakfast of champions, coffee and a Winston 100 cigarette.
• “Send me message!” – it is the equivalent of “smsička” in “V”
• “So, so” – This is a general feeling of blasé. It conveys a certain unable to change anything-ness that can only be felt in a Russian heart.
• “ugu!” – It took me a long time to figure this one out. I was told it was short for “Дa!” Can you get shorter than that? It actually means “um-hmm” or “uh-huh”.
• “Wake Up!” – This does not mean what it says. On the contrary, it means “give me attention please”
• “Szanks!” –when accompanied by a smile is very clear. Without the smile, it could mean anything, seems untranslatable.

A Cherry in Riga

I woke up early that morning. I could not believe that I was here. It was a gray morning; it was still early so I can not say that it was the sky. My Europe seems to revolve around CNN, however sad that is. My excitement was getting to me, as soon as it seemed light enough to walk around; I stumbled in to take a shower.

My hotel had the worst shower. I guess I could imagine it being worse. It was clean, but how much does a company save buying only half of a shower curtain. Maybe, this hotel has a happy hour rate, and so the bathroom voyeur set demands such a thing. Natasha told me that she would meet me at two o’clock. So I guess I have almost eight hours to kill.

Showering was an interesting experience trying to use the low water pressure shower head and half of a shower curtain. If a dry floor is the measure of success, I was a miserable failure. I remember my dad used to yell at my brother and me when we used to leave the floor all wet in the bathroom. I guess that he was correct; he showed us time and again that the water did wreak havoc in his room. I guess I will get grounded if he ever finds out.

I got dressed and left my hotel room. I walked down the stairs, there was an interesting stained glass mural in the hall way. I think it is of sunflowers or maybe it is lilies. It is quite pretty especially as the light shines through the prisms around the edges of the window. As dark as it was outside it still seemed to beam through the window and down the stairwell. I dropped my key off at the desk. They were watching Latvījan TV2. It was a concert of some sort, but it was in Russian so I had no real chance of understanding what ever it was.

I tried to figure out what the name of the street I was on. It was simple; it was Valdemars Iela, the same as the name of the hotel. All in all I must have spent ten or fifteen minutes trying to figure out what a Rīgan street sign looked like. I am sure that the whole thing would have taken two minutes had I brought the card with me like Natasha had said. Yeah right, I was too smart for that, and look where it got me. I hope when I try this again, I will just take good advice and bring the card. At least someone could tell me that way and point in Russian until I found the place.

I walked down Valdemars Iela to what looked like a big park. From what I remembered the night before this was where the art museum was. I figured what the heck, taking my life in my hands; I jaywalked across the street catty-corner. I guess a little of Czech experience is rubbing off, or if I ever get back to the United States I am just pre-signing my death warrant. Strangely, there were very few cars, except of course when you needed to cross the street at a light. Crossing the street seemed an interesting challenge. Almost as if death were not enough payment for getting creamed by the slow and lumbering on coming traffic.

I think I wandered several kilometers in each direction. I went to the famous meeting clock and the freedom memorial. The guards stood silently in constant vigilance over the memorial that probably stood more for freedom here than any of ten memorials do in America. I guess to think that these people were stripped of everything that they held dear and were then held hostage for fifty years. It seems sometimes the one thing that we stand for we have lost. I think it is greed or maybe not greed but a loss of fear. It has been too long since we knew anyone who had lived under oppression. I guess in many ways it was inspiring.

It was getting cold so I stopped in the international American haven. The steakhouse never lets you down. No matter where in the world you go, the golden arches always have hot fries and coke. Just what the doctor ordered for a chilled Florida boy. I had never been this far north before. It is kind of strange to consider that I am as close to the pole as I ever was to the equator. I sat and considered how close Latvījan was to Czech, then considering that I did not understand either with any proficiency. It was getting to be time to find some roses for Natasha then head back to the hotel.

As I left McDonald’s I wondered where I would find flowers, and how do I get back to my hotel. I got about two hundred feet into my journey when the weather went full-Seattle. Thirty-five degrees and pissing down rain, all I could think was that I had seen worse. It was early in the day when I had that thought. I bundled up put on my baseball cap and started walking looking for a flower shop. What is the Latvījan word for flower? It is certainly not “kvetina”, I must have walked for half of an hour until I saw roses in the window of a small shop. I bought a bunch of roses being careful to make sure that I had an odd number.

I have been told by those people in the know, that you do not give an even number of flowers to a Slavic woman. In the Slavic countries they give even numbers of flowers to the dead at funerals. So, I deftly avoided the obvious faux pas that stared me in the face. They were lovely I thought they still had not opened. I like to watch flowers blossom. I hope she did as well.

I got back to my room with a few minutes to spare. I got to my room and took off my wet jacket and back down to the lobby. I should have figured she was not exactly an on time person, but it was much worse. The shaved man in the lobby was telling me not to wait for her, to go out and find another. I told them that she was going to show. She was not like most of the other girls around. When I saw her my day brightened, her smile was lovely. She was wearing a white jacket and a striped golf hat. Her black hair falling around her collar, made her seem idyllic. She really is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

I kissed her on the cheek, and she said “Allo”. Her accent was sexy, kind of deep but very feminine, just like I had remembered it. When you do not see someone for a long time, you tend to build in your head what they would be like in a given situation. She came up to my room and I gave her, her flowers. She smiled and said “voda, them need voda.” I smiled and looked to find a glass or something to put them in. She was watching the television when I came back from the bathroom trying not to get pricked by the thorns. Why do they leave the thorns on roses? Some things I will never understand.

She told me she was hungry, that she had not had breakfast. I smiled and said “Wake up!” She asked where I would like to eat, as if I knew one restaurant from any other. We walked hopping over the puddles, and just resting on each other. We were like kids walking arm in arm. I think we were smiling like dopes. I was certainly happier than I could really imagine. She explained each building and told me about every nook and cranny that we passed. She certainly was quite well informed about “her town”. This was one thing that I was certain of, Rīga was her town. As far as I am concerned she is the boss in her town. I could not believe the face I got when she heard that she was the boss. I was just a little American boy in strange Russian town.

After being elected boss of the group she smiled moved the hair back into place and put my hat on, “Then you should take your hat, if I am the boss.”

“All I could say is yes ma’am.” And softly smile.

I think the kind of restaurant she took me to is called a “Lido”. It means people. The food was traditional Latvījan cuisine. Our kabobs and rice were tasty. I did not dare have any sauce, but she seemed to like it. We looked all over the dining room of the lido. Finally, we found a free table. We smiled and I uttered my best Czech “Dobrou chut’!”

Removing her hat, she smiled and said “Bon Appetito!” I patted her knee and we started to eat. Soon we were joined by a mother and her several year old. Our new guests spoke Russian and it seemed to bother or at least take away from Natasha’s concentration. The little boy was eating French fries and sharing mom’s pork. I told Natasha to speak to me with her eyes. It is better sometimes, you can say many things if you just look at each other. She nodded and played with her food. Her hand rested on my knee and we looked into each other’s eyes. She nodded to the little boy, telling me that she thought he was a cute little boy without saying a word.

I winked at her. She cocked her head slightly and winked, I think. It was so cute; she can not wink with just one eye. She blinks both eyes. Could winking be hard? You almost want to kiss her when she tries to wink. Could it be possible that they do not wink in Latvīja? Who knows, but what a terrible thing for a culture to miss?

I know that I looked at her a thousand times at dinner, just to see her alabaster skin. Her skin is delicate and translucent; touching it is almost as tender as a baby’s. Her lips carefully tinted, but wore no other make up. She certainly was beautiful. No, I do not just mean physically, but something inside of her was happy and that made her that much attractive. We spoke about my morning and she did not understand why I did not sleep late. I told her I had, how could I sleep more than ten or fifteen minutes in a new place. My curiosity was killing me all morning; I had to see her town as best I could.

We finished and she said we could go for coffee to wait for the rain to stop. We walked as quickly as we could to the coffee shop. She smiled and continued my guided tour of Rīga at a sprinter’s pace. Her self-consciousness about English began to fade. I like it when she stops caring so much, and she just tries to speak. I know there were many mistakes, but that is not important. Her willingness to communicate with me was touching. Topics began to flow between us; she really has a great mind. Architecture, History, and Science it did not matter, she spoke about them all, little by little even in a foreign language I began to understand Natasha. No longer did she seem trapped in a foreign language, almost as if “Natasha-speak” became a new language. A little later we decided to go back to the hotel where it was warmer and we could talk more privately.

We walked more slowly than before. I think now it was about being together. I thought about many things, but I think we were silent. Many sideways glances and smiles filled our walk like delicate jewels in time. Up the stairs and down the long hall to my room we strolled. Stopping to appreciate the two stained glass windows on our way upstairs, we meandered up to my room. We got entered and shut the door.

She smiled and turned on the television. Immediately, she hogged the corner, taking the lion’s share of the bed. I lay down next to her, my head on her belly. We were watching cartoons and she laughed. Not a small snicker, she had relaxed and deep belly laughs followed. I really like it when she laughs. Is it really to much to think that I like it when she is happy? I kissed her belly through her shirt as she stroked my head. I slid up her body so that my head was on her shoulder.

We watched many cartoons and then music videos. I do not think she likes kissing. I think she is the second person I ever met who did not like kissing. She stroked my chest softly. My hand softly caressed her belly. Flat and firm, dancing certainly keeps her fit. I touched her skin for the first time, she shuddered. Circling her belly button softly trying to just feel its shape, she giggled when I found her navel piercing. She relaxed as I pushed her shirt a little higher and softly pressing my face into her neck.

She looked down at me and kissed my face. Her kisses were like a thousand little butterflies flying passed my skin. I think she must be the most desirable woman I have met. Her kisses fluttered across my face and down my neck. She stopped and rested taking her respite on my chest. Her arms around my body and her legs around mine, we lie there for what seemed like hours. She just smiled and occasionally would rub against me to make sure I was awake, or maybe kiss my chest.

Maybe sometimes it is better to be together in a small way. She tried to tell me things with her eyes, but I think her little smiles spoke more loudly. I know she is happy now. Her boy was with her, and I know that that was the best thing she could hope for. Someone to depend on, someone who would never let her down no matter how far apart we had been or might be in the future. This was a huge realization for a pair of hearts yearning to find a way to be happy, truly happy for a little while.

Rīga is a great town, and I do suggest visiting there. It really is the most western of the Baltic capitals. You can learn so much there about the way things were during the occupations.

Ligo, Leafy Hats and Latvījan Beer

Ligo is half of the biggest holiday in Latvīja . Jana and Ligo represent the two halves of the year and on the solstice they party. Almost everyone has the day off on Jana and Ligo. Natasha sent me a sms telling me that she had a surprise for me. In best Natasha fashion, I spent most of the morning waiting for her downtown. At least, in the summer it was not so inhospitable to sit outside in the beer tent. There were several beer gardens setup in the main squares of Old Rīga so in my best Czech way; I decided to kill time and a few brain cells.

The best way to kill an hour of Latvījan lateness is to drown it in Latvījan lager. I am not sure that in the USA a beer with a golden fish on the logo would do well. In “golden fish” beer is a close call over Vanagas. Alūs, beer, brewing skills are certainly well honed in Latvīja. Maybe, they do not drink as much as they do in Czech, but they do drink their fair share.

I was watching the ducks in the canal when I heard Natasha come up behind me. She looked great; she was wearing tan pants, dark t-shirt with a beige vest and her wrap around sunglasses. Natasha sat next to me and did not say a word. I think she got the hint that I was more than a little upset at her timeliness. Not a little late, but about an hour beyond leaving the restaurant late. The weather was nice and I had a book, what else did I have to do? She sat close to me on the bench, pulling up to my arm, and said “I have something nice for you. It is big surprise.”

Surprises abound in Rīga that is certain. Ginta and Diana, Natasha’s favorite partners in crime, were sitting on a near by bench. We quickly loaded into Ginta’s Mazda and were off to “mein schwester’s Haus.” I like German with a Russian accent; it has a twang that Germans fail at miserably. German is a lovely spoken language, but I guess some of my respect for Germans has been lost by living in Prague. Ginta has many sisters, I think four she said, and we were off to her oldest sister’s house on the outskirts of Rīga.

The girls told me that they were not a rich family. That did not much matter to me, but I was surprised at what I saw. I do not wish to hurt their feelings; Ginta’s sister’s family was kind and hospitable. The whole vista was just more information about life there. None of this information I could have hoped to have realized until it hit me in the face. They had a cool yard though, with a cow. Their cow was traditionally painted for Ligo. On our way, we stopped at the grocery store. It is surprising in some ways compared to the unplanned existence in Czech, in Latvīja too much feels planned. Sometimes even the minutia feels planned.

We bought some big tubs of chicken, beer and several other fixings for the party. Most of the time, Natasha and Ginta went shopping. So I was left pushing the cart around the store with Diana. She would throw out her hand to tell me which way to go. We meandered randomly through the store. Some how we gravitated back to the candy aisle several times, even though she knew that her mom would never let her have that much candy. I think it was a case of wishful thinking.

Diana is spoiled. Her moms and grandmother spoil her rotten, and sometimes it shows. I have been on many occasions with her and she is all but uncontrollable, unless she gets her way. I think maybe it is time for her to get some discipline. I am not talking about a spanking or the like, but discipline comes in many forms. Sometimes it is good for a parent or parental figure to step in and say “That is enough little man!” If it is applied correctly, the fear of death is always more inspiring than the death itself. Nonetheless, in order to sate the demon, Natasha and I were off to search high and low for a Kinder Bueno. I have tried them, and hazelnut filling is not my first choice, but Diana loves the goo.  The backseat of Ginta’s 626 on the other hand was not so keen on four year olds eating Kinder Buenos either.

Once again we were off to “mein Schwesters Haus”. We must have gone clear across Rīga, because I have never seen that part before. It was much more run down than I had seen. Panelaks you can get used to, but dilapidated wooden buildings seem to cry to you when you approach. They just need a little help, and some care. Fifty years of no money and no maintenance will make the stateliest mansion sag under its own weight.

I helped unload the car as we were greeted by Jana, Ginta’s mom. She is a driving instructor in town, and is a pretty successful business woman by Rīgan standards. I was told to sit in the garden. The cow was cool, and was obviously arguing with Natasha about who got to eat the green apples hanging on the tree. It seems that Natasha had been swiping the tastiest apples from the low-hanging parts of the tree, and the cow was not happy with that. That pesky opposable thumb of hers made that a lot easier than it was for the cow. She loved green apples. She must have gone back four or five times and between the two of them they had mostly stripped the tree bare in one afternoon.

Natasha is great at a lot of things, but bad at building a fire. I was useful for something. A few minutes later I was scolded for not putting the chicken on the skewers correctly. Tipping back cups of beer seemed to be the task for which I had been slated. In Latvīja that is a coveted job, so it pays to be the one in the group with a good liver.

What do I remember about the rest of the afternoon and evening? Since Ligo is the solstice it is a bit of a long day above the 75^th parallel. June 21^st is a long day for sure. I remember that I was quite quickly rebuffed when I asked for water to drink; my glass was quickly filled with beer. This reaction seemed almost Czech. When I sat down there was beer. When I walked away from the table there was beer. When I was standing by myself someone was handing me beer.

When Ginta and Natasha returned from the store with more, you guessed it, beer. They had brought several Latvījan delicacies, including something that at first glance is exactly what you expect. Yes, dried fish on a stick tastes just like you think. It tastes like a fish that has sat in the sun for several days under a jacket of salt and spices until it is fish leather. I guess it was kind of sexy in some way, to see Ginta and Natasha strip the first of two fish clean in only a few minutes. After a few hours of Ginta’s family pouring beer into me, I bet almost anything would have been sexy. They offered me some of the fish, and with a good mouthful of beer, it did not taste worse than I expected. As usual, Natasha was correct, it did need beer. A piece of fish leather sans pivo proved less appealing than I hoped.

I think it is the same in all families, munchkins and kids eat first. Not that there were so many kids nor that I had not been picking much to the chagrin of many at the table. At that point I do not think I cared about too much. By the time dinner was served I was three sheets to the wind singing “Ligo, Ligo, Ligo” with Jana wearing the wreath of oak leaves on my head. I bet that is a great picture for when I run for president. Yes, I do remember the ice cream and beer float. It was pretty good, what ever kind of beer I was drinking was too bitter and the vanilla helped it. Relations seemed better and I was accepted a lot more the next day after getting pretty ripped with them. Jana seemed all too happy to keep pouring beer in my cup. The faster I drank it the faster she poured. I hoped that she would run out, but Natasha and Ginta would not stand by and let that happen either.

It was a lot of fun and by the time I made it home to my couch in Kengarags, I was ready to take a bath. Given my state in the morning, I must have missed the hole in the stairs and not stepped in too much cat pee on my way up. Visku Iela is not a bad place to be with a hangover on Ligo. At least one gas station was open by the lumber store on the highway. Having pre-explored the area on previous trips turned out to be a good thing. Beware, I did get some sort of kefired milk drink with fruit in what I thought was fruit juice. That alone was enough to almost make me sick. I sure am glad I got the fizzy water too.

Ligo can be a lot of fun. It is a shame that Latvījans do not tell anyone else about it. Probably, it is better that they do not, since it is still a Latvījan tradition. Make sure you are nice to the painted cow, at least share some of your green apples with him or her. After all I am not sure he became the washed cow for weeks afterwards.

Lido

Lidos are traditional Latvījan restaurants. They are quite famous due to the efforts of a local Rīgan entrepreneur who has opened a chain of them throughout town. There are at least five of them in downtown alone. When you are in Rīga, you really should eat at a Lido. Traditional Latvījan food is usually braised and is normally chicken or fish based. I have not really found anything that I did not like. Some of the sauces do require some skill to match with a given entree. Each of the lidos is different and several are special for historical or locale reasons.

The lido on the bank of the Dagauva is surrounded by a large kids-only amusement park. It is filled with colorful characters and the decorations and rides change seasonally. Inside of the main log cabin is the restaurant. There are tens of entrees available cafeteria-style and it is reasonably priced even for family or large groups. Watch the coffee; they short you on a cup of coffee. Oh, and they do charge you per sugar and per cream. I did not say that they had not mastered the concepts of capitalism, but they did miss the need for customer service. The lido on Čaku Iela has great pork ribs. When you are looking for a taste of real Latvījan cuisine try the bread soup. It is not what you expect; it is awesome with currants and whipped cream.

Sunsets

As the sun went down over the Bay of Rīga, she stood on the shore in her new black bikini. It was her favorite color. Not to think she looked badly in any color. The last rays of the sun gleamed off of her snowy skin; her smile glowed as brightly as the new moon on a clear night. Her voice was surprising exotic, not at all what I thought of when I saw her.

She knew how to make you smile, no matter how sad you felt inside. Surely, a woman like this only came around once in a while. At least I am smart enough to hold on to her with both hands. Slowly she walked up from the water, shaking her hips as she does. Softly, but her small frame spoke volumes as she stepped across the sand. When she got to me she pressed my head to her thighs as I kissed her knees, holding onto any part of her I could. She laid her hands on my head and pressed me to her.

I guess we were like that until she said “sunset”. She loved to watch the sunset, from our blanket she pulled a second over us. She lay down between legs and I held her close to me. We shared the warmth of skin on skin. Unknowingly she began to kiss my neck. I held her tight as the orange and reds shot across the sky.

Ice on the Bay

Unless I saw it with my own eyes, it would have still just been something in pictures of places I did not want to visit. Who knows what the means, I bet not so long ago, finding Rīga on a map would have been a challenge. Not such a challenge as it turns out; I could even probably name the three districts of Latvīja in Milda’s hands too. Imagine my surprise when I was standing next to a large turtle statue staring out over the Bay of Rīga watching people play soccer in the distance on the ice.

At best, this is a non-sequitor a beach with ice. Not ice in a cup, not ice in the water, but six feet (1.8m) of ice on the water so it can be walked on. The temperature had to have been cold enough to freeze alcohol in bottles on the step. Standing with your back to the wind was hard, your eyes hurt and your nose hurt on the inside when you inhaled. Our little group walked along the beach. The ladies knew every building, every street on the Jurmala strip. Truthfully, I was still stuck on the patches of ice on the beach.

Should there not be bikinis on a beach? Ice should be in a cup. There it was covering a perfectly good bay. I was kind of glad that we got off of the beach, because along the ice the wind was a strong wind that cut through my three sweaters and my jacket. I know, I bought the jacket in the Cascades not the Rockies, but I would have not guessed then, that the jacket would have to stand up to the Russian winter. I usually get cold when it is 30F (0C), why worry about -5F (-23C)?

Jurmala is a famous beach town formerly reserved only for the party and party officials. Now, it caters to middle and upper-middle class visitors. Streets are clean and picturesque, lined with brightly painted wooden houses. Normally, they have painted fences surrounding them, sometimes just a well-groomed yard in front. There was not much snow in town, but any snow at this temperature makes walking with our 4yo friend harder. Even her mom was losing the battle against the cold.

We walked the length of the Jurmala Centrs and finally found an open restaurant. It was a quaint hotel that even on my American salary would have been unreasonably expensive in the winter. They had the hockey game on, and we sat by the window so we could see the TV. Conversations were slow, but delightful. Natasha was showing us her student id and her driver’s license taken back before the new government. She is a lovely woman. When she was 20, she should have been a model or figured out how to be in sales or marketing. Even, dying communism puts the kibosh on that in so many ways.

We were talking about Natasha’s cat, Bagira I think. It is interesting here in Eastern Europe that they are so in love with their animals. Not that I am some sort of ultra-humanist but it is interesting that people are second class to the animals. I bet that explains a lot about how they act to each other. Similar to Czech, Latvījans and Latvījan Russians treat each other with disdain. Disdain may be too harsh, more like when you are speaking to them that you are bothering them, and they have to rush to the airport to deliver a heart across the country.

Certainly I am not a sociologist, but it is an interesting observation. We walked back to the car down the strip. In the summer, when they fix the bay Jurmala would be nice. It is hard to imagine what it must have been like only ten years ago. The girls are great at showing what is nice in Latvīja, but it is hard to imagine life here. Living dollar to dollar feels harder than continuously saving for old opportunities like in Czech. Life is not all bad, but it is harder than it needs to be. Life is hard to change when you do not know anything else.

Jurmala

Jurmala is the “Coral City”. It is the most luxurious beach resort town in Latvīja. I have never been there in the summer, but I can only imagine the houses filled with singing Rīgans enjoying the summer sun. It is certainly a different way to live, and summer is certainly a time for celebration. Jurmala has a great strip a few blocks from the beach. The wooden houses nestled in the forest are the real attraction. Some of them are decorated in traditional ways with lots of bright colors and handcrafts. A leisurely walk through the district between the beach and the forest is well worth the trip to Jurmala, even if there is six feet (1.85m) of ice on the water.

Name Days

Name days are the biggest jip. I guess for some people they are a good deal. In Latvījan Name Days are like a second birthday where you get presents or flowers or something. My Name Day is on Christmas Day so I get nothing. I have to give out many presents all year round for everyone else, but oh no not on my name day. They are kind when they say it was part of your Christmas present, but that is just real life for I did not get you anything because your parents did not think about it when they named you.

No, I am not bitter. The first name day I ran into was Diana. This was on my first long trip to Latvīja. As a matter of fact it was on the last day and I found out about it in the car on the way to the airport, so it kind of surprised me. Rīga in February should not be referred to as a warm place, quite the contrary freaking cold comes to mind. Waiting outside of a panelak for my ride to the airport in 5F (-13C) weather is not my most favorite activity, but besides being late the girls had never let me down. I had my bags on the bench and I was kind of ready to get back to Prague after a week in Rīga. Life here is not bad, but it is certainly not a place to kill time waiting for other people without much vacation.

The black 626 came around the corner and Ginta hopped out and raised the trunk for me to put my stuff inside. She told me that it was Diana’s “Namen Tag.” I always spoke with Ginta in German, because my Russian was not good enough and she spoke no English. In the back of my head I think of the translation of what she said. My Latvījan family has three languages and a munchkin. Imagine my surprise when Diana always asks me if I am Latvījan. I guess to a four year old there are only two kinds of people. Little did she know that it took her mom and Natasha 30 years to meet an American and it would be common place to Diana, soon enough. By the time I got in the car behind Natasha, which was my traditional seat. I figured out what Ginta was talking about.

Natasha looks back at me and in her way of speaking to me “Aa-daam, Aa-daam, wake up!” I do not think she thought I was asleep, I think she heard this in a movie and it just stuck. On our way to RIX the girls told me it was Diana’s Name Day. In Latvīja  it was like a second birthday, but smaller. I remembered that Diana had wanted a bicycle for her birthday, “fat chance.” I tried to speak directly to Diana, “Eto pravda?”, “Is it true?” Diana is a cute four year old, and she curled up in the corner of the backseat and shook her head yes.

I asked Natasha if she had been a good girl today, and Natasha replied, “I don’t know, so, so. Maybe.” I take that as Diana had been a pain in the butt, and that Natasha was more than a little bit upset with her. Natasha takes a lot of translation some times. I told her that I understood Name Days but if she had been misbehaving that I did not want to give her a present. I looked at Natasha and said “Natasha is on the 26^th of August, or very close to my birthday.”

She smiled as she did when I touched her heart, and said “Yes, yes very close to your birthday.” I looked at Diana and said since she had been a “so-so” girl that I had something for her. I gave her two coins from the Czech Republic a 20kč and a 10kč coin. It was not much, but it was something for her to keep until she was old. I hope she realizes that the world for her will change so much and that by the time she is my age that she will not be able to find those coins anywhere but a museum. Probably will not be able to find the country that I lived in anywhere but a museum after the white wash of the European Union takes hold.

Beer Drinking

Ok, I have to admit it; Czechs have raised beer to an art form. Like all art, some of it is shit. I mean it tastes like it was made from the water they washed the dog with. Knowing how they feel about their dogs, I could see how dog bathwater would be seen as the basis for some new kind of beer. Germans like to think of themselves as beer connoisseurs, sorry “mein freund” it is just not the case. Per capita Czechs, man, woman and child (believe it) drink almost half again as much beer as anyone else.

Until you see a pub with tens of supermodels slurping down pints and eating pretzels you just have not seen beer consumption at its finest. I am not kidding; sure lots of women drink beer in the USA. Given, that there are plenty of fine fillies down in West Texas that could put a hurtin’ on a keg or two. I will not say anything about skills like that, but I think few of these women weigh less than 160 pounds (75kg). If they did weigh this much you probably could not bounce a quarter off their butts. Just think in the USA three or four beers is considered binge drinking. In Czech, women consider three or four pints, “just warming up”.

I will say back home in Florida I was more than a small stick in the mud about the whole issue. I will even say that I looked down on others who partied a little bit too hard. However, all things being relative the Czech pubs have enlightened me. Sure, I prefer to stay outside far from the choking chain smoke of Petra cigarettes. Some great times are to be had sitting in a pub drinking beer with several Czech supermodels. I am glad many women in Czech are so strong. Not only in conviction, but it becomes important to choose wisely. She probably will need to be able to read the map and can help carry you home.

 Well, not really carry. Verča is strong, but carry is a bit of an exaggeration. She mostly leans up against me and sings as we walk through the park in Olmy or across Vaclavak or Staromak. More than a few times we have tipped back the fabled “tuplak” and tried to get home wobbling from one řízek stand to the next. If we drink enough we usually find our way home, occasionally we have to take the “Prague Gay Train”, but we get home.

I can not think of nearly as many important drinking related phrases in English as there are in Czech. The only way to describe what I am saing is by example. Here is a brief transcript of a good Wednesday night in Czech.

Ceské verze	English version
p1: “Ahoj, Kam jdeš dneska?”	p1: “Hey, Where are you off to tonight?”
p2: “Do hospody”	p2: “I am off to the pub.”
p1: “Mužu?”	p1: “Do you mind if I come?”
p2: “Určíte”	p2: “Sure, I can probably talk you into buying some beer.
{v hospodě}	{at the pub}
Sevírka: “Maté přane”	Waitress: “Can I get y’all something?”
p2: “Si dam dvanáctické, velke”	P2: “I would like a pint of 12 degree beer.”
P1: “Ano, decetku, malé”	P1: “Yes, a small 10 degree beer”
Sevírka: “Dobre.”	Waitress: “Great.”
P2: “Ješte jedno”	P2: “I’ll have another”
P1: “Jo, ja taky”	P1: “Yeah, me too.”
Sevírka: “Fajn. Půl a dětské”	Waitress: “ok. A pint and a kid’s beer.” Men should not order small beers at a pub, unless they are only going to be there for five minutes or it is lunch time.
<šest nebo sedm piv pozdejí>
P2: “Musím jet doma”	P2: “I have to get home.”
P1: “Jsem houbíček”	P1: “I am a mushroom.” to be a mushroom - Normally, means really drunk. Can not see or hear, so he is not sure if he is sitting in shit.
P2: “Paní. Chtelí byšme slivka dvakrat.”	P2: “Ma’am. We would like two shots of slivka.”        A funny joke, they have the same rhyme about beer before liquor.
čekaní>
P2: “Jak se maš? Myslím ze citiš jako hovno.”	P2: “Hey, how are you feeling? I think you look like shit.”
P1: “’No, myslím ze vytahnam sekeru.”	P1: “Yeah, I think that I will throw an axe.” To throw an axe – pretty obvious I think. Yeah, I know, thank god for the weapons check at most Czech pubs.
P2: “Paní, zaplatí!”	P2: “Ma’am, he is going to pay.” zaplatit – to pay. Normally, said to a service worker at the conclusion of service. Also means that his friend will have a bad morning.

Hami! is Czech for Yummy!

One of the first things that you come in contact with in a new country is food. It does not take long before you have to suck it up and walk down to the market. During the summer this is not such a trick, but if you arrive in the fall or early winter the odds are against you. The reason being is the selection of fresh fruits and vegetables in northern climates are significantly reduced.

Czechs eat offal meats and I knew it, I had to be extra careful. Anything that smells like pee being cooked should be avoided. It was several months of trips to different potravíny (groceries) before I would venture into canned things and or things that did not have pictures on the labels.

Pictures on the label’s that is the key, you are thinking. I am afraid not, in this day of hyper marketing and photo sales, it is not always so easy to figure out if a tyčinky, is a cue-tip, a cereal bar or a part of a piece of fruit from the package. Yeah, yeah, I did figure out the difference between them. Only after many months did I figure out what a tyčinky was from an advertisement. The question remains, what you are getting in a can of “pork pieces” or “corn crispies”. Neither of which I am brave enough to try.

When I met Verča, some things became a million times easier. She still does not realize how helpful she is. No, she does not help with money or with things; that was never her role. Her role is to show me how to be more Czech. She is part mom, friend and adventure partner. When she came in that morning with a bowl of soup and told me “I won’t eat it.”, but hands it to me, I should have been concerned.

I am glad that in my many years of cooking I am familiar enough with most animal anatomy to realize that the lovely tasting soup had a dark side. The tang was not that of sausage. It had a lovely broth that went great with Šumava bread, still the things floating in the soup were troubling. As I continued to eat the vegetables and drink the broth the large piece of white flesh floated to the top of the soup. It looked like some sort of packing material came up in my spoon. Always thinking of myself as the adventurous type, I put it in my mouth. There is no mistaking the taste and the feeling in your mouth of tripe. It has the same effect on me as liver, skin grows cold, and galvanic skin response goes through the roof until I can eject the piece however forcefully from my mouth.

I remember I brought my bowl back out to the kitchen. There was mom standing there smiling. I said “Hamí”. She smiled and laughed when she saw there were just the bits of stomach left in the bottom of the bowl. I do not think leaving the tripe in the bowl was seen as bad taste. Mamka was obviously testing my Czechness. Even Slovak moms play jokes on me.

Czech food is quite tasty. Accusing it of being spicy is an overstatement. I do not think that I will ever acquire the taste for smažený syr, fried cheese with tartar sauce. I have tried it, it is pretty good just a bit too much mayonnaise for me. Fresh Šumava bread with garlic and onion butter is tasty with some porek, leek sliced on top. Czech cheesy potato salad with slanína, bacon, and řízek is really good after working outside all day. A large plate of gulaš with pepper rings and onions with knedlik can hit the spot in cold weather.

I do have a hypothesis about some of the seasoning technique used by mom’s in Czech. It is not that they do not like spices, nor is it that they are not available. They eat lots of pickled peppers and pfeferonký, spicy peppers. They obviously like spice to “kick it up a notch”. I think that over the centuries Czechs have learned how to cook, so if it does not come out right it can be covered by the taste of the beer. After three or four pints, even I could finish the tripe soup.

Dog Tricks

It can not be stressed how important dogs are in Czech society. Families are more reasonable about this than singles. A short walk along the tram tracks in summer and it is not hard to see a 120 lbs. (55kg) woman being drug behind 110 lbs. (50kg) dog. Maybe, the dog is cheaper than heat, because she probably lives alone in a one bedroom, 1+1 or a 1+kk, by herself.

Possibly, when she shows her mom the receipts from the grocery store to prove she is eating she really is the bill for the dog’s food. We know she can not keep that figure and be eating 1000czk per week of “diet” Czech food. Judging from the size and health of the canines in the area, it is pretty clear where her spare change goes. Where there are horse-sized dogs there are always presents.

It is pretty difficult in the summer to avoid the presents that the well-fed puppies leave nearly everywhere along the street. If you do manage not to step in any presents on a summer day, the overwhelming scent of well-watered dogs probably will overwhelm you. A choking, diesel smog is welcome in some of the well-ventilated alleys and passages throughout downtown. A trip to the square at “Narodní Třída” is enlightening, when you realize that the contributions to this phenomenon are not wholly canine in origin. A person peeing in public is certainly common. Bums and other urchins peeing outside is one thing. Children boys and girls, men and even women squat peeing in secluded corners and alleys are not really hard to find.

 If you sit and watch, you can see the concern they have for their animals. Every family dog knows special tricks. Dog tricks are almost ubiquitous in Czech. Everyone knows dogs are smart. They can open doors, answer the phone, can pick up groceries. Stories are told in depths of some less than trust-worthy pubs about dogs doing “special things” for their wayward moms. There always has been a theory about dogs and stinky stuff. None of it seems impossible, considering a dog can tell the difference between a bottle and a can in the fridge and retrieve the correct one on command during a hockey game commercial break.

Beware not all dog beer tricks are as gentle and cute as others. Having not been confirmed, but tales do exist of people training their dogs to bring the beer pitcher to the pub. Shamefully, stories also exist that some people have trained their dogs to steal beer from other houses. So pay attention, if you hear “Dineska, Litovel!” The dog might be going for your beer. Or worse the dog might go for your pride and then your beer. Training your dog to do this trick is just wrong.

Litovel

Litovel is Olomouc slang for beer. When you exit Olomouc’s train station, the Sigma Hotel is across the intersection from you. Maybe the 40 foot (13m) picture of a Litovel bottle on the side of the building would mean that maybe it was larger than life. I never did well picking the most effective marketing campaigns for the masses. In Prague, almost any kind of Czech beer can be purchased somewhere in town, except Litovel. I have searched high and low, it seems there is a conspiracy against Olomouc beer in Prague. I found it once in Julius Meinl on Vaclavak.

If there is a mid-week hankering for Jihlavan or even “Cerny Brouck”, Black Beetle, they are easy to come by in a pinch. You would probably sell your soul for a crate of Litovel before you found it in Prague. There are two important things to know when courting a Czech woman, her dog and her beer. The dog might be a cat, but probably not. Her beer well, that is almost as important as her mom’s need for a new liver. Not to imply, that Czechs drink a lot, but they drink more beer than anyone else. I joke that the trams will stop for a beer truck before a pohotovost, ambulance. Civil values are important to keep in any civil society.

It is nearly impossible not to see a family with exactly two children. Not so hard to imagine, but the spooky thing is that they are almost always a boy and a girl. Czech boys have skills. The family will often decide on a single beer of the house, but it is not uncommon to see the woman carrying two different cases of beer home.

A beautiful thing is the Czech women’s utter ignorance or denial of women’s liberation. You never hear any of the picky complaints, and never ever an utterance of the phrase, “…because I am the girl!” A Czech girl on the other hand, is different. She will carry a baby in one arm, pushing the carriage filled with groceries with a crate of beer in her free fingers walking across the cobble stones in spike heels while her male companion lazily eats french fries. She probably cleans the house meticulously and has a full-time job, as the great Yakov Smirnov once said, “What a country!”

After all of that, the least you can do is try to find out which store has her favorite beer. It would be ungentlemanly if you do not point it out to her, so she knows to stop on the way home.

Cooking

Cooking with someone can teach you a lot about them. No, this is not some socio-psychological advertisement of cooking as a way to heal abused children. When you think about it, home cooking is important. If you are seeking acceptance with a new group of people, it can be an easy way to win inroads to acceptance. 

Cooking is both traditional and innovative. When I was told the first time we were supposed to cook chicken together for lunch, I was game. I was sick as a dog, with my winter cold, and tired from chatting with Veronika until the early morning hours. How hard can chicken be? We woke up pretty early and Veronika made us an omelet. She was talking with her parents about the new house. Her parents left pretty quickly and we were just finishing our breakfast together.

“No problem” I thought as she trundled off to gather the potatoes, carrots and other ingredients out of storage. I was trying to look busy and wash our dishes, but she would not allow that. My job was just to be a guest, which by the way I am not particularly good at. The chicken had been thawing overnight and was about ready. Verča was telling about school and how it was nice to have a visitor, because the last few weeks had been lonely. Finals suck for everyone, just in case anyone was wondering.

 
In Czech, students can take a final exam several semesters after they took the class. Not only that, they can take the final for the same class up to three times before they chose the grade that they want. As systems go it seems to work for them. How you could run a 50,000 person university like where I went with people taking finals so out of time and still have the prerequisite system. Someone in the Czech Ministry of Education must be a genius at sorting these things out. They are not only is a genius, but must be a mind-reader with all of the people trying to swindle the system. It just seems a bit crazy to me, but if it works.

We started making lunch and then to take a nap. Yeah right, we were planning to “rest”. Sitting there at the bar we busily chopped vegetables and mashing potatoes. Verča really does know her way around a Czech kitchen. I was just helping out with some new ideas for Czech food. Apples in Czech food; do not seem so new. We were slicing and chopping apples and carrots to stuff under the skin of the chicken. Like all Czech cooking she used lots of sweet paprika and fennel.  She showed me how to make proper Czech kaše, mashed potatoes.

After halving the chicken with scissors, she and I stuffed it with apples and carrots. We closed the dutch oven and threw it in the oven. Juppi! Now that was all done it was time to take a nap. Sleeping next to her always makes me feel better. Even in the middle of the winter cold season. We received rave reviews for cooking when her folks returned from the “new house.”

The next time our culinary powers were joined it was no longer a battle for acceptance, but a test of luck. Had we not done so well the first time, we would have been off the hook this time, I think? Veronika and I are a team, even if we were playing hurt with an injured knee. We were up to this challenge. It was not about cooking, but doing something together. Our pork steaks, řizky, came out well in their Litovel and onion marinade. I think the best part was the look on her dad’s face when he ate the purple (plum, blumý) sauce on his potatoes. Better was her mom’s face when he asked for seconds. It was clear to me that Veronika and I were a good team at more than cooking.

Litovel

Litovel is Olomouc slang for beer. When you exit Olomouc’s train station, the Sigma Hotel is across the intersection from you. Maybe the 40 foot (13m) picture of a Litovel bottle on the side of the building would mean that maybe it was larger than life. I never did well picking the most effective marketing campaigns for the masses. In Prague, almost any kind of Czech beer can be purchased somewhere in town, except Litovel. I have searched high and low, it seems there is a conspiracy against Olomouc beer in Prague. I found it once in Julius Meinl on Vaclavak.

If there is a mid-week hankering for Jihlavan or even “Cerny Brouck”, Black Beetle, they are easy to come by in a pinch. You would probably sell your soul for a crate of Litovel before you found it in Prague. There are two important things to know when courting a Czech woman, her dog and her beer. The dog might be a cat, but probably not. Her beer well, that is almost as important as her mom’s need for a new liver. Not to imply, that Czechs drink a lot, but they drink more beer than anyone else. I joke that the trams will stop for a beer truck before a pohotovost, ambulance. Civil values are important to keep in any civil society.

It is nearly impossible not to see a family with exactly two children. Not so hard to imagine, but the spooky thing is that they are almost always a boy and a girl. Czech boys have skills. The family will often decide on a single beer of the house, but it is not uncommon to see the woman carrying two different cases of beer home.

A beautiful thing is the Czech women’s utter ignorance or denial of women’s liberation. You never hear any of the picky complaints, and never ever an utterance of the phrase, “…because I am the girl!” A Czech girl on the other hand, is different. She will carry a baby in one arm, pushing the carriage filled with groceries with a crate of beer in her free fingers walking across the cobble stones in spike heels while her male companion lazily eats french fries. She probably cleans the house meticulously and has a full-time job, as the great Yakov Smirnov once said, “What a country!”

After all of that, the least you can do is try to find out which store has her favorite beer. It would be ungentlemanly if you do not point it out to her, so she knows to stop on the way home.