Old Women and Their Socks

A proposition when done properly; can be a sexy and exciting thing for both partners. There are many easy ways to spice up your relationship. It is not always however, so sexy. After telling this story, I always think of this joke, “What does it taste like when you go down on an octogenarian?” ”Depends.” In Rīga, I have had many interesting interactions with the younger crowd. Standing under Milda, the Lady of Latvījan Freedom, waiting for my Rīga friends, I have been offered everything from oral sex to a place to stay for the night in Helsinki. Helsinki is almost five hundred miles from Rīga, I guess I am not good enough looking to get the plane flight there too. The things that happen on a snowy night in Rīga are an interesting aside to any trip to Latvīja. There was one day, I was waiting in the rain. I imagine it was the Latvījan spring, even though the rain did not seem so different in the spring than it did in the fall. I was walking along the mall in front of the Monument to Freedom toward the Lajma Clock. One of the many old women was standing on the bridge trying to sell something. At the time, I did not think much of it. There are many of these people all over the Centrs. Centrs is the Latvījan word for downtown. I guess there is no one thing that made me stand out. I am an American and it is nearly impossible to hide this fact. I was stopped on my path by a nice elderly woman asked me something about buying something, in Russian. After a few tries, I understood that she had nothing left to sell. Her hunger was overpowering to look at; she obviously had not eaten well in several days and or weeks. She was trying to sell me her clothes. Not specifically her clothes but her socks. Not a new pair either, she was trying to sell me the socks she was wearing while telling me that I looked like a Latvījan king. When she became truly despondent, I broke down. Nothing in Rīga seems like a lot of money, but everything seems so expensive. Partially, because I have never been able to feel relaxed in Rīga, but that story is later in the chapter. I broke down and asked her to follow me. She understood that I wanted to help her and tried to put her boots back on. We walked over to the “magazina.” I gave the cashier three Lats. I tried to say for the old woman to buy food, not alcohol. Maybe the alcohol is what she needed. Forgetting her world might have been the best thing for her. I think someone to help with some potatoes, cheese and cabbage might help her for a little while. I remember later, when my friends and I were together. The old woman who had desperately tried to convince me that I was a Latvījan king with one of the one–legged male beggars they were huddled over a fire in a garbage can eating something. I think that it was a good thing to do, but it will not fix anything. In the long run, there is nothing to do for these people. Especially, if the President of the country says that these people are remnants of the occupation. “They are the cross that must be born by the Latvījan people”, a harsh statement from a leader of a soon to be EU country who spent her life in Toronto. The funniest thing is that it certainly sounds like the impassioned pleas of the Dixiecrats of the 1940’s, but this time it is coming from the more “socially aware” Europeans. At least someone besides the Dixiecrats could see the differences between the peoples they wanted to separate. I still can not see the differences between them in Latvīja. Seven Times around the World One of the coolest things that has happened to me in Latvīja was during a walk around Kengarags. Kengarags is a district on the outskirts of Rīga. It was warm that day, and the sun was out. The snow was still dark with weeks and weeks of footsteps and I guess the best I could say was kind of dirty. What else is there to do, they do not talk about the dreaded “Russian summer”. I must have walked almost back into Rīga when I saw the sign for a bicycle shop. So being the ever so interested biker, I ventured in. Even on my best days I can not utter more than a pair or three Latvījan words. I hoped that I would find someone who spoke English, maybe not. When I walked in the shop, there were maybe eight bikes carefully arranged on stands and all polished to perfection? I was a little impressed, but realized that the shop was an anachronism. They did fix and sell bikes, but none of the high-tech race frames I was accustomed to would ever hang from his stand. It was run by an older gentleman, who had to be in his seventies. He had a big smile and a light voice. Even, I understood the Russian coming from this grandfather. We started talking in my best Russian and we actually understood some of what the other had to say. After a little while, he had had no other customers and not even a single browser, he went into the back and returned with two bottles of Vanagas. Vanagas is a dark Latvījan beer. We sat there with his scrap books and he told me stories that for the most part were absolutely lost on me. I could tell from the hundreds of medals and flags on the walls that he was a champion cyclist. His scrap book confirmed that he was a five-time Soviet Champion. He told me stories about races through Kazakstan, Uzbekistan and the glories bestowed upon him in races from Riga to Tallin. I am not sure exactly where it was, but when we got to the pictures of the 1968 Russian Championships in St. Petersburg, it was clear he was telling me how grueling the race was. He had technical problems, but in those days, racers had manners. They would wait for you so that you could take your place again in the pack. He showed me a scar well tanned on his knee where he fell in Moscow riding in the race where he met his wife. She too was a Soviet champion. His stories lasted for two or three beers and through seven or eight scrap books. I wish I understood him better. I know that the man who got fourth one year in the Tour de France, brings his daughter’s bike for him to fix and even lets him ride his race bikes sometimes. He was most proud when he showed me the certificate from the Soviet Cycling Federation that showed he had ridden more than seven times around the world. I can only imagine the pride he must have felt after such a long and glorious career. I hope that his life running a simple bike shop in the basement of a Kengarags panelak was a fitting retirement. In his best days, he probably could have ridden circles around me, maybe even kept up with Armstrong, Cippolini or Merck.