Desperation to Lightness

100 years ago a man left his job in desperation, depression and on the cusp of complete breakdown. He had made a name for himself running a boys house in the slums of Philadelphia as a young seminary graduate. He grew up in a family of hotel managers and he placed a premium on hospitality. The work demonstrated success over the years and the man worked tirelessly to transform the boys from street kids into young men with prospects. The house thrived.

A few years in, his six directors set out to cut the budget. They levied a difficult demand on the young man, cut major provisions including the daily food allowance for each boy. The news crushed him. It would alter his entire style and he despaired. Eventually, he couldn’t make amends with the decision and took leave for Europe, hoping that a six-week cruise would refresh him and lighten the burden.

Underneath the Mediterranean sun, he sank further into a quagmire of resentment and failure. The spring air floated over the stunning sea, but nothing could pull him from the bitterness he held towards the directors. He hated them and he was miserable for it.

At his final stop in Keswick, England, he stopped into a small Methodist chapel to hear a sermon. Following the message, he came to realization. He too had been wrong. The directors weren’t right, but the ill-will that he held towards them perpetuated the situation and he had become as much a part of the problem as them. Dead-set on his own agenda and clouded by his own pride, he had lost his way. He wrote a letter of apology to each director, admitting his own wrong in the situation and asking for forgiveness.

I’ve been in Keswick and thinking about this story for a few days now. Trekked around Lake Derwater and skipped stones on her stillness. Climbed fresh green hills to view the vibrant valleys below. Soaked up late spring rain. Basked in patches of intermittent sunshine. Asking: What’s to be gained from this story.

I’ve reached a few conclusions.

For one, I’ve come across a pretty radical idea here. Forgiveness I get. I believe it to be perhaps the most transformational force around. I’ve seen it completely change a person’s life. (If you want to read a great book on this you should pick up Forgiveness by Michael Henderson.)

That said, I think its one thing to ask for forgiveness when I’ve wronged somebody directly, but for holding resentment? I’m not so sure. I mean, doesn’t everyone carry a feeling like that in their heart towards someone they feel mistreated them. I’m not much for grudges, but I’ve definitely bumped into a few people that I’ve harbored some mess against. Seems a big step to ask forgiveness for that.

Still, here’s the trick, right. The resentment blocked this guy bad. Pancake block. His bad blood completely took him out of his element, kept him from doing his work and just about ruined career and life. Something had to intercede here. Forgiveness unlocked the chains that weighed him down and restricted him. Freedom.

The second point has to do with letting go of the pride and ego he carried around. I resonate with this. He was convicted about his work. He believed in his ability to do it well. It just reached a point where that got maligned. His own desires were admirable, but selfish. His ambitions were good intentioned, but self-absorbed.

I find his departure from the weight of ego encouraging. He understood the importance of his own skills, perspective and identity, but abandoned his self-deification.

Another saint, right? I don’t think so. The point of the story is the struggle. Its not the big enlightenment where he never again snaps up the last piece of cake without asking or sleeps in instead of going to volunteer on Saturday morning or gives all his money away. No, the beaut of this story is the process.

That’s where I connect with it. I can feel the weight of my own self-interest; I’ve actually traced it to be the source of almost all of my unhappiness. Still, I don’t think it can be all tabled at once and I’m happy to be encouraged by his step. Again, movement towards liberation.

Years later in his life, he used this image:

“I seek to hang my life on the line like an old shirt and let the wind of the spirit blow through it.”

Light. Secure. Available.

My Inner Child Takes a Hit in Sherwood Forest and Why That’s Okay

After 4th grade, I went on a family vacation out West. We traveled from La Jolla, California to Yellowstone N.P and back, traversing thousands of miles in a rented mini-van and cutting the cloth for our many travels, both collectively and individually, since that epic adventure (I’ve still never been on a road-trip of its equal).

I could write tomes about the trip but the point of reference here isn’t about attending my first rodeo in Cheyenne or being tossed out of a casino for playing the slots in Vegas. Instead, it’s about a simple afternoon matinee I watched alongside my uncle and brother. My viewing of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves that afternoon would lead to it becoming one of the most-watched movies of my life.

For a good two years after, I watched the movie regularly. One might say obsessively. It’s possible that I’ve watched it 30 to 40 times. You could call that wasted time, but I’m pleased with the way that Robin Hood’s philosophy partnered with my later studies of Buber, Kabir, Marx and Kierkegaard, developing in me a keen value of equality and restitution.

Because of the number of times I’ve seen the movie, you might not be surprised that I memorized huge chunks of the dialogue. (It could be said that RH:PoT played a seminal roll in the growth of the strange language I developed with my brother and my best friend next door. Yes, and I did just drop the acronym. No apologies.)

A few gems that still get tossed around:

“Yolk their strength.”
“Hired thugs. Brilliant.”

“We either take our chances with ghosts or become ghosts ourselves.”

“Damned English Oak.”

“Did God paint you? Why?”
“Because Allah loves wondrous variety.”

Given this history, it shocked me when one of my hosts in Sheffield suggested we take a hike in Sherwood Forest: Hood’s Hideout.

“You’re kidding,” I said, “you mean we’re close?”
“Yes. It’s only a few miles away from Sheffield. Should we go?”
"Yes. Definitely. Let’s go.”
“Cheers.”

So we set off for Sherwood Forest, my head spinning with a million images of archers and castles, robbers and strange costumes (including those from the Errol Flynn Robin Hood I watched back in the day with my grandfather). Perhaps I could even shoot a bow and arrow while I was there. Or carry a sword. Or at least dress up as a peasant outlaw. Ah, the possibilities scurried in my mind, now wonderfully engaged with my 10-year old self.

We've arrived! I stormed out of the car, charging towards the woods and into a...gift shop. Hold on a tick. Oh, how a 10-year old's dreams can come crashing down!

Alas, there’s not too much to share about modern day Sherwood Forest. It’s nice, but not notable. It’s smallish and unfortunately getting smaller. No treetop outposts. No archery contest. And definitely no actor on horseback, playing the Sheriff of Nottingham and hurling insults in a Cockney accent at tourists passing by. Hrumph.

All that said it’s an excellent thicket. And if you look right, you can see it as a den of thieves. It's packed tight with flora; brilliant with the light, fresh greens of late spring. We bumped into a French biologist who told us that it’s a wonderful forest for study as well.

We traced the path to a famous tree, legendary for its hollow girth that allegedly hid the merry men and when I tucked in with the news that Robin Hood was based off of a true character, I felt I had come full-circle.

So even though Sherwood Forest didn’t live up to my hopes of Robin Hood World, I appreciate the English touch to it. I think that if I had a handle on the place, it might be completely excellent, but a shadow of its original self. And I think that would be missing something. Actually, most everything.

Sometimes it’s just nice to see things as they are.

Construction Projects

Darbyshire’s hills corral a small valley wherein sits Cliff College, a small seminary for Methodist clergy-to-be. Clouds paint the sky in every shape and shade of grey. Sheep cover the countryside like a Catan hexagon. Birdsong fills the air with ineffable melodies and timbres.


I arrived in by coach, packed in tight with a colorful mix of Londoners, many of Eritrean and Somali descent. I’ve never seen a livelier bus of adults. Almost giddy throughout the whole 4 hour ride. Chatting away, laughing in fits, almost joyful.

The guests gathered for a conference on trust-building. I got into this event last-minute and, while unsure of what to expect, I engaged with enthusiasm.

Pretty standard fare for format: Speakers and plenary session, breakout groups, meals, the like. The quality of the speakers (I’ve already mentioned Imam Ashafa and Pastory Wuye), however, brought real life to the occasion. I wanted to share a few of their thoughts on trust-building (some direct quote, some paraphrase):

• “In order to be a trust-builder, one must be trustworthy.”
• “Trust is built and destroyed on very small things.”
• “Trust always involves some sort of surrender.”
• “When I’m in a moment of conflict, I always pray: ‘Lord, show me how much the other person is right.’”
  

One speaker told a story of building trust in strange places. John Battle, MP from Leeds said (read this in your best Liverpool, Paul McCartney or John Lennon accent):

The director of an education center came to me and told me that he would no longer be able to use a certain weight-lifting facility to carry on his work with some Leeds young people with Downs Syndrome. I told him I wuld help and I looked for an alternative location. I found one in the local prison and promptly phoned the warden. I asked him if the supervised young people could do their program in the prison’s weight facility. He hesitated, but agreed. They could come, but would need to enter, exit and operate discretely and at off hours. "Great."

Ten weeks later, the director of the class called me and asked if I would come to their graduation ceremony. I agreed. When I arrived, I found out that a few of the inmates had assisted in the teaching and training of the youngsters. They also attended the ceremony. While I was watching them interact, I saw one of the youngsters sitting next to one of the prisoners. The incarcerate man didn’t notice me, but I saw him putting his thumb on the inside of his Styrofoam coffee cup. He then mentioned something in his ear. The boy drank. The prisoner was checking the temperature of the hot drink to see if it was suitable.

I approached the inmate later and mentioned the incident. I said, “You have a unique ability to relate to that youngster. There are people who take years of training to do what you do very naturally. What’s the secret?” He replied, “You see sir, he’s the only person who has ever listened to me. And nobody really listens to him. So it works out between us.” He’s since been released and is now gainfully employed with a social service group working with those with Downs Syndrome.

If we are to rebuild trust, sometimes we have to re-extend it to those who have broken it before. Trust can be an incredible tool for transforming society for the good.

In the evening, I climbed the hill to look over the valley. The hike gave me time to reflect on trust in my life. I’ve often thought about it since I left the States last month. I’ve taken a big step away from a lot of relationships (with many of you) and I realize that it places a lot of stress on the trust between us.


I’ve been thinking about this image of trust as a bridge. You enter into relationship with someone and you build a bridge. Depending on the relationship, you build a certain kind of bridge; maybe it’s the Golden Gate or the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, maybe it’s a two-lane causeway or a covered bridge in Vermont. You choose your image.

My thought on the bridge has been less on the construction (though it’s important) and more on the maintenance. Remember that bridge in Minnesota that collapsed last summer? It’s a perfect example of good design, but bad maintenance.

With the image of the bridge, maintenance reflects the way that we continue to sustain trust in the relationship. Are you repaving the road? Are you replacing a pillar? Are you adding some guard rails?

I’ve wondered what it means to bridge maintenance to be out of the country for a year. Some bend, some break. Some remain unchanged. Some still receive a lot of traffic. What are the little things that can be done to upkeep the bridge?

If trust is built and broken on small things, than the bridge can fall into disrepair quickly. Maybe it’s a small crack that never gets filled or heavy rains and high winds. Maybe it gets too much traffic and suffers and overload. When a bridge breaks (like in Minnesota) it takes years to rebuild. Of course, there are small things to fill those cracks too. I’m hoping that writing is one way to do that with you.

When I came down from the hills, I took a couple days with good friends in Sheffield. John will join us as a trainer on Action for Life and he’s been a role model of mine since I met him a few years back. I’ve been inspired by his work in business.

In particular, he focuses on the business of trust and cooperation in major construction projects. He’s found a straightforward method that enables the various parties involved in the project to work together from the outset. By planning together and understanding each other’s needs and desires, John’s company consistently helps groups to deliver their construction projects on time and under budget. It’s all about trust-building. He helps the groups to believe in each other and see that working in cooperation helps ensure that greater satisfaction of all parties; at both the bottom line and in the spirit.

This year will be full of construction and maintenance projects. I look forward to keeping up the bridge with you I encourage you to see where you are building bridges and how you are building them or how you are adding to those you’ve already built.

Shifting Gears (No, Not Another Motorcycle Accident)

Following my experiences from the past few days, the With Me Walk will be changing tack. Since I arrived in London, the nature of my business here has taken on a different tone from the romantic discovery of Latvia to a more solemn and thoughtful trek through England.

In my planning, I scheduled this time in as a period of personal and spiritual retreat. I’ll be traveling with a number of colleagues from Initiatives of Change, moving about the English countryside (and later to Sweden, Germany and Switzerland). I expect my entries to partner with this time of contemplation and meditation.

100 Cups of Tea

This weekend I attended a conference in Darbyshire on Trust-Building. Imam Ashafa and Pastor Wuye, form Nigeria, shared their story of reconciliation. This is mostly from their presentation, edited with artistic license (Imam in italics):

He tried to kill me. He stole my beloved. I posted a picture of his face on the stone wall of the mosque. Restless nights I plotted. Conspiring.

He took my hand. A dark latex replacement. My daily reminder of his theft. I’ve stored up my ammunition, ready to distribute the rounds on sight of his face. My church the armory.

According to the Prophet, reciprocal justice is acceptable. Eye for an eye. But the Prophet says the best Muslim is one who controls his passion at the height of anger. The ideal Muslim understands restorative justice. He views forgiveness as the peak of submission to Allah; the submission of pride and the beginning of relationship. I will ask forgiveness. I will make peace. I will take the first step.

He visits my mother as she lay dying. He travels across town with his men. Sitting by her side. I despair. I wish him dead. He prays. I pray. I know no peace.

How many times must I reach out before he takes my hand? How long must I swallow my pride? How much humility does it take to demonstrate love and build trust?

I can’t preach the love of Christ and hold hate in my heart. I’m poisoning my church. I will ask forgiveness for this bitterness and resentment I guard with moat and battle walls. Let love transform me. Let forgiveness transform me. I will reach my hand to him. I will step in his direction. Peacefully.

He is my brother. We love as brothers. We fight as brothers. We work together as brothers. The key to our relationship is that neither of us asks the other to be anything other than himself. We must be authentic. Only when we are authentic do we create a space for genuine trust to grow between us.

I respect your beliefs. I accept our differences. My pride and selfishness got in the way, but now I’m determined to build the bridge of trust. When we fight, we address it openly, honestly, thoroughly and immediately.

Trust is the ability to re-humanize others. It’s the ability to have purity of mind and see that purity in others. Trust is the ability to love unconditionally.

Christ teaches us to forgive, not seven times a day, but seven times seventy. That’s 490 daily moments of forgiveness. Forgiveness and trust walk together, hand in hand. Trust lubricates society, enabling the impossible to be possible.

I can’t expect my enemy to trust me because I bring him one cup of tea. I can’t expect him to trust me after ten. But I must continue to bring tea. Perhaps, for the 100th cup of tea I bring, he will bring the milk and sugar. And we will stir together.


The story of the Imam and the Pastor has been turned into a documentary. It's currently being used in schools throughout Europe as a tool to open a dialogue about trust-building, reconciliaiton and the potential relationships between Muslims and Christians. Learn more here...

Dali’s Elephant and medium ben

Admittedly, I’ve never been taken with England. On my list of top destinations in Europe, she sits in the middle of my list. Probably somewhere between Ukraine and the Czech Republic. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, here’s my top ten list (as of tonight, you will see that England doesn't make it):

Italy (again)
France
Portugal
Greece
Ireland
Croatia
Spain
Sweden
Germany
Czech Republic

I’m trying to place the reasons for why I never had a huge draw to the UK. Some of its probably rooted in some esoteric nationalism/rebellion, but I think it probably has more to do with stereotypes of too much rain, lousy cuisine and overall whiteness.

Fortunately, my work with Initiatives of Change has introduced me to a number of English over the years. Slowly but surely these wonderful people have worked on my attitude. My sister’s love affair with the country during her semester abroad completed the turn. With exhilaration, I landed in London this past week.

I’m here to sort out some finances for the Action for Life program (Yes, I'll admit, I’ve enjoyed telling people that I’m in London to do some banking. Just sounds posh and fun), and I’ve had some time to take in the scene and determine whether or not my stereotypes hold water.

On Weather: On point. Yes, it’s the middle of June and I’m still in thermals and sweaters. It’s been constant mix of big clouds and small clouds and it has managed to rain, even when the sun is out. Fortunately, people make a habit of having umbrellas around, so I’ve been pilfering them when available. Remarkably handy device. (On a side note: I’ve always wanted to create a website that gives props to the people who have invented important things but rarely get any credit. Whoever invented the umbrella got it right. I’ve also wanted to honor people for other major gifts to the planet – beds, socks, bobbers for the fishing line, etc. Please comment with any person you want to credit for a great invention.)

On cuisine: Mixed Bag. I’ve been aware that the influx of immigrants ot England have significantly spiced up the local fare. I dove into some quality Indian near Victoria Station and I’ve sipped a wonderful cappuccino (One of my hosts said this has been a significant improvement in recent years).

On whiteness: Way off. London takes in all the colors, just like New York. It’s a beautifully diverse place, with loads of folks from all over the place. I love it. I’ve been traveling, as well, up in the cities to the north and there they have quite mixed cities too. The countryside, well, its mostly green. And that’s beautiful too.

Given my schedule for work and travel, I only had a moment in London to check around the Thames and see some of the sights. Here are a few pictures and thoughts:

I found this Dali statue. I had a print of a Dali painting up in my room for almost all of college. It’s one of my favorite pieces. The painting frames two elephants squaring off in a desert, standing on giraffe legs, under a blazing red-orange horizon. Like kings on fragile footing.

I was a bit shocked at the size of Big Ben, which I thought might be more appropriately called medium ben. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a big edifice, but it’s not huge. When I was a kid, the first book I ever read was called Big Ben. I don’t think it had anything to do with clock towers, but once I heard about Big Ben, I imagined it to be enormous. Since I grew up heading into Manhatten now and again, as a kid I figured that Big Ben ought to be approximately the size of the biggest building I’d visited in Manhattan: The Empire State Building. I mean, that’s BIG. I reckon I knew that Big Ben couldn’t be that big, but sometimes childhood conceptions stick around until you remember that they’re there. It all left me a bit disappointed with medium ben.



Westminster Abbey. Perfect.

Yes, England really starts to grow on me. Something so nice about seeing the peeps across the pond and a place where so much of the world meets up. I imagine it will continue to grow on me throughout my time here.

The Jurmala House and My Latvian Goodbye

I left the US with the impression I would be staying in Riga for my two-week visit to Latvia. As expectations so often go, that was completely of the mark.

Instead, I’ve found my way to Jurmala, a beach town much like my current hometown of Virginia Beach. Long swath of sand, loads of beach houses (some quite large) and a town center with clubs and restaurants for the tourist season.

Jurmala attracted the most esteemed Soviets party during the days of occupation in Latvia. A classic seaside town with 30-minute proximity to Riga, Jurmala was well suited to take in the high-ranking officials of the party. This shows in the size of the homes and the quality of the promenade. Today, the primary beachgoers here are still Russian. Native Latvians have told me that they prefer to dash out to the far western shore for their resort vacation.

I settled into a cozy routine here. I wake up in the morning (several times because the birds are chirping and daylight is upon me at 0500. Bless it. It’s like a natural alarm clock and snooze button all built in. Indulgent.), take in a cup of coffee and some time for myself before setting off to work. The day goes on and I take a walk or ride the bike for some activity and then begin to make plans with my gracious hosts Ulla, Imanc and Linda.

As I prepare to head out of Latvia, I must pause here to truly say how wonderful they have been. I read once in an American etiquette book that a houseguest should stay no longer than three days with a host. Three days gives enough time to enjoy the company, doesn’t over-extend the host/hostess, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. A couple months back, when I asked Ulla if I could visit her in Latvia, the conversation went something like this.

“Ulla, can I come and visit you in Latvia?”
“Yes. Of Course.”
“Well, how long would it be alright to stay?”
“Oh, you know, two, three, four, five…weeks.”
“Seriously?”
“Well if you want to stay longer, I guess that’s okay.”

You get the picture. My expectations were shattered. Again. And so I’ve been given this amazing gift of hospitality from three very generous folks. In fact, I think it took two weeks for the whole house to click. Now I’m sad to go.

Perhaps last night provided the image of our performance: Linda, Ulla and I singing and playing music while Imanc, the production wizard, angled mics and monitors to capture the songs on his computer. Still jamming as the sky turned over from midnight black to the dark blue of the coming dawn.

I closed my eyes to the sound of a lullaby, backed by a chorus of morning songbirds. My Latvian Goodbye.

Nice Place

Ulla’s brother and Sister-in-law, Valtz and Zane live on the other side of Riga, from Jurmala, about an hour’s drive. Obsessed with my own siblings, I always enjoy meeting the siblings of my friends. Plus, as Ulla put it, “these are freaky people.” A distinction of the highest esteem in her eyes.

Zane designs books and Valtz recently sold his translation company and both were looking for a way to pursue their passion for art together. The outcome? They started a company called Nice Place. The concept reminds me of “Life Is Good”. The brand is the phrase and they pin it on post cards and t-shirts, etc. I’ve seen their stuff on the Baltic coast and you will soon be able to pick it up in Riga airport. The website’s under development, but you can check out the logo.

I love the phrase “nice place”. It captures that sense of gratitude we ought to have more often. Right now, I’m in a nice place. About 6 months ago Ulla sent me a few samples online to give Valtz and Zane some feedback. I sent some word back in, not really knowing what the whole project was all about. The small effort I made for them went a long way. They welcomed me with open arms and brought me into the family. In fact, they reminded me of my brother and sister, what with all the wild energy and love for each other. Nice people. Nice place.

The Birthday Party and The Soviet Olympian

The Miracle on Ice in Lake Placid. The Gold Medal Basketball final in 1972. Boycotted Games. Epic showdowns. Yes, this summer’s action at the Olympics will be lots of things – polluted, carbon neutral, controversial and occurring in a bird’s nest – but the one thing it will definitely be is hot. The America-China political rivalry continues to simmer and will surely translate into some electric moments on the mainland this summer (Check it, the Economist recently tipped China for the total medal victory). Still, I wonder if it will ever begin to match the intensity of the Cold War games. We’ll have to see.

You know I love sports. I also love Rocky IV, the epitome of Cold War cultural propaganda. As a kid, it was one of my favorite movies. Even today, I hold the utmost respect for the cult classic. Seriously, how many people can claim to make a 4th movie in a series and have it really stand out as the best of all the follow ups? Who gets to four anyway? It’s just impressive. The music, the video montages, the villain, the hero, the weird robot, the steroids, Sly’s beard, the father/son drama, Dolph Lundgren. It’s all good. All the way down to Rocky’s final speech in Moscow following the fight where his words echo throughout the ages: “If I can change. And you can change. We all can change.” Cue massive standing ovation. Seriously, is it any surprise that I’ve been doing so much of this trust-building/conflict resolution/community development work?

All this cold war culture of sport brought me a nice surprise when I found myself at a Latvian birthday party a couple days back. Ulla and I had been asked to bring our guitars along to play. We’ve been doing a good bit of this nowadays, dropping in at parties and sitting around and playing and singing with everyone. It works for everyone and it’s been great.

Of course, these are usually with Ulla’s peeps who are kind and happy enough to speak some English with me. This particular party, instead, had only three English speakers put together. Ah ha! These are the great challenges of travel. What do you do in this situation? Choose your own adventure.

After a shot of thinking juice, I started attempting to communicate with my host, a tall, well-built and mustached Latvian guy in his early 40s. I’m trying to use sport as my entry point, as it cuts across all cultures. Sports and music are both great for this reason. After some struggles, I eventually made out that he was a bobsledding coach (this was a brilliant charade by the way.). This connection excited him enough to tell (a verb I’m using liberally) me that he was also an athlete in his day and he hurriedly took me away from the table to show me his medal collection inside.

The large glass case sat on the wall with some privilege. Row after row of medals clung to the purple backdrop. The medals showed their age; most a bit dull and a couple ribbons tattered. Many of them Soviet encrusted with a hammer, sickle and CCCP. Others were for competitions in Europe. A well-decorated man. While staring at the display he grabbed some documents, showing me that he was a former Olympian. My very own Dolph Lundgren. We share an awesome moment. The old enemy of the Cold War Olympics is graciously hosting me at his sister’s birthday party. Full circle reconciliation.

We walk back outside. I sit down with Ulla and accompany her as she leads the party through a never-ending parade of Livonian, Latvian and Russian sing-a-longs. I strum too, singing where possible, grinning widely at my new friends.

If I can change. And you can change. We all can change.

Big Chair in Ventspils

Yes. Click on these photos. They get bigger. And nicer.

Nice Saab and Other Tales of Transport

In high school, my brother and I would half-mock, half-covet Saab 900 convertibles. Seeing one on the road (or the few in the PDS parking lots) would elicit an immediate, sarcastic and envious (we were creepin’ in an ’89 Taurus) statement: “Nice Saab.” This became such a part of our fraternal vernacular that I still say it to myself, years after its fallen out of common usage.

I mention this because I’ve had the good fortune of cruising around Latvia in a Saab. Now imagine that until 1991, anybody in Latvia could only own a car from a state-owned manufacturer. A car that might have looked like this Lada.

In the era of independence, cars have become a symbol of liberation and the market has flooded with imports form all over the world ( most popular: BMW, Toyota, Lexus). Of course, all of these imports came after 1991, making any car that’s an 18 year old import, a very unique sight to see. So when we drove around in this car:

You can start to imagine, the looks of approval we would receive. Cool cats giving the nod of agreement, a young woman giving a thumbs up from the back seat of a motorbike and schoolchildren (literally) freaking out when they saw us cruise by.

Often times they would shout something to us. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but I figure it translated into something like, “Nice Saab”.

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Following the lead of many of my friends back home, I’ve watched “The Long Way Round” twice. It’s a seven-part travel series that document’s the trip of Ewan McGregor and his buddy Charlie Boorman on their motorcycle journey from the UK to New York, you guessed it, the long way round. I’d recommend it and apparently they just shot a new one about their trek to Africa (caThe Long Way Down”). Wow, without promoting too much, Jeff and I watched it voraciously upon our return to the US after our southeast Asian expedition. I lapped it up.

Anyway, this of course has generated my interest in riding a motorcycle and Latvians are keen for them. Nice connection. Ulla and her flat-mate, Imanc, both ride and, one night he offered (okay, after some pleading) to give me a quick tutorial. Everything looked good. They live off of a nice trail that goes through a forest, perfect for feeling out the bike while keeping out of the danger of tarmac and traffic.

Imanc runs over the details. I stall several times out of the blocks (my constant dilemma on manual shift vehicles), but I eventually get going and quickly sail into the forest. Minding the 1st gear, I navigate the storybook woods. Rich loam covering the floor as identical pines in all directions sprout up to about 50 feet. When added together, the base of each tree, bare until about 8 feet, give the canopy a mystical feel. Beautiful sight. I’m taking it in, enjoying the bumps in the road and, while not comfortable, definitely feeling that I might become so… eventually.

I reach the end of the woods. Ah, the moment of truth. Take the road or turn back to the woods? Hmmm…woods, definitely woods. Turning the bike, I begin my 180, amazed at how well it all seems to be going. Just about complete, I lose speed and control (eerily reminiscent of the time I dropped into the river in College Park, Maryland off of Jeff’s bike). I fail to get her into neutral, stall again and down we go.

I’m amazed at the weight of the bike as I’m taken for the last moment of my ride, flailing sideways. Barely, I prance out on one foot before crashing to the floor. The bike too. It starts leaking petrol from under the seat and I begin to freak out, thinking some sort of summertime blockbuster explosion is imminent. Slightly wounded, I dive back for the bike, wrench out the keys and fall to my back, breathing hurriedly on the forest floor.

Imanc, in his endearing way, had a premonition about where my ride was heading. From the moment I took off, he never stopped walking behind me. He showed up within a minute and helped me pull it together, saying,

“Chreess. There are two kinds of bikers in the world: Those who have fallen off the bike and those who are going to fall of a bike. So now you know who you are.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m the one who is getting a ride back to the house. And you’re driving!”

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Jurmala, the town I’ve been staying, fronts mile after mile of Riga Bay. In between the space of the sand and the residencies, there are some great trails for mountain biking. Here are a few pics from my day out on the Jurmala trails. Wishing my friends Jeff and BJ were there to show me a thing or two.









Guys, maybe after Utah, its off to the Latvian Coast. Choice terrain.

You Could Call It Swimming, But I Don’t Think I Was

On a trip to Mikeltornis, one must dive in the old Baltic itself. As I’ve said, even in the warm sunshine, the wind makes this seaside no tropical paradise. Nevertheless, the constant blue skies and encouragement from my friend made my eventual submersion in the chilly waters inevitable. Following a walk on the beach, I asked Ulla to head back to the homestead to ready some hot coffee as I prepared myself for the plunge.

I paced the beach, as if anticipating a showdown with an adversary. Staring at the miles of solace in every direction. The seemingly endless sea in front of me. I could have used P. Diddy and the Fam rocking “Victory” in the background to get me amped up. Either way, tradition is that one has to peel it all off before getting into the icy early summer water. Stripped, I walked to the beaches edge, placing my clothes carefully for my insta-warm exit strategy.

I put my feet in.
Not bad.
Ankle.
Hey, this is kinda warm.
Mid-calf.
Okay, yeah, that’s a bit cooler.
Knee.
Yeah. That's cold.
Thigh.
Ah the hell with this, it’s only getting colder from here…
In I go.

I’m not sure how to describe the actual swimming part of this episode. Somewhere between joyful dives and strokes to writhing fish on the boat deck. The temperature of the water had two effects. One, I only felt cold upon the first submersion. Afterwards, the temperature cut off most of the sensors in my brain, immediately giving me a feeling of complete immortality. Second, the sense of immortality came crashing down to heave and move almost uncontrollably in the freeze. This strange interplay of brain and body lasted about a minute. Smile. Yelp. Laugh. Shout. Finally, I pulled it together enough to realize that I had better exit the remarkably un-salty water and head to shore and sure safety.

A sweater and a coffee never felt so good.

Michael's Tower

I’ve been to rustic places. The first, a cabin in the Pocono Mountains called the Millstone, housed my grandfather and his hunting and fishing buddies. That north Philly crew chilled in the woods, trading stories, laughs and mammoth spaghetti dinners for decades. On a few occasions, I joined up. As a young boy in the shadow of those Pennsylvania pines I fished for trout, got into trouble with my brother and shot my first and last pistol (I remember being so scared at the sound that I ran inside and hid under the covers on my cot).

Of course, this prepared my for a much later trip to India that reminded me that dirt plays an important role in the turning of the world and should not be reviled. And water, no matter the color or contamination, still adds a little something to life on the planet.

Arriving at Ulla’s countryside in Mikeltornis (prounounced mee-shell-tour-niss) presented me with something I was not expecting: a true throwback estate. One of 13 fishing villages that line the Baltic Sea on the NW coast of Latvia, Piza (as its known in Livonian) holds about 10 small homesteads, a deserted school, a campground and an old church that the Soviets converted into a dance club during the occupation. Today, the locale looks something between an abandoned town and a rustic paradise. Most of the locals are quite old and only visit in the mild summer months. When we stopped into town at the beginning of the season, we saw only a few faces during our four-day visit.

Off the main road we traveled 30 kilometers on gravel to Ulla’s pad, called Vilumi. Her father, Teodors, greeted us and I quickly acclimated to the new scene. Ten hectares of field and forest, with birch and pine lining the two-minute walk to the sea. Three old building occupied the landscape. One, a delapidated barn housing numberless strange antiques accumulated over many years. Two, a small house for Teodors, who lives in the lodge year-round. Lastly, Ulla has another single room cabin with about 4 beds and a picnic table.

We unpacked and I immediately repacked all of my clothes onto my person. Everyone here seems to think its summer and I continue to freeze every night. What bums me out is that I just picked up a killer fall jacket at the Volcom sample before I left and I didn’t throw it in my bag. Ridiculous, thinking that summer in Latvia would be like summer in Va Beach. So now I freeze every night, wearing two t-shirts, a long sleeve t-shirt, a thermal and a sweater. If not for the constant evening bonfire, my hands would be to cold to type.

When we traveled together throughout Asia, Ulla told me about her countryside frequently, speaking of it the way one would write poetry about their beloved homeland. In a way, it is. Ulla is Livonian, an indeginous tribe from Latvia, and for hundreds of years her people have lived on the coastline. She is one of the few remaining people in the world who can still speak the language (about 20 total). Along with her brother, she is one of the forerunners of an ongoing movement to create and promote Livonian culture. A few of us recorded a song that she wrote. I’ll try and post it soon.

The Livonian flag, simple with striking colors, holds no symbolic reference to liberty or sacrifice or solidarity. Instead, it’s the view the Livonian fisherman would see from their boats. The Baltic water rising up to a white sandy beach, fading into the forest. We spent most of our days chilling in these confines. Sitting by the fire, wandering the completely vacant beach (as far as we could see in either direction) and playing music. I’ve also taken up a few important countryside activities:

Picking Up Amber. Everyday, the sea sweeps all kinds of debris onto the shore. Muscle shells, seaweed and most importantly, amber. From what must be some massive deposit of the stuff in the water between Latvia and Sweden, the pieces lap up onto the sand, all sizes and shapes. This semi-precious stone, for years, has adorned the people of Latvia as traditional jewelry. Any stop at a jewelry shop in Latvia will yield an eyeful of the stuff. Spotting amber is tricky (amber looks exactly like the iridescent yellow lady bugs that feed in the same space), and not that easy (a bit back-breaking), but the rewards are sweet. I’ve collected about a hundred pieces that I’ll carry with me as I travel. Folklore says that, if packed, they insure safe passage on a journey.

Building Bonfires. Now I’m no pyromaniac, but I love fire (well, except when the Breitenberg deck burned down, but that’s another tale). There’s something about the unpredictability of the flames and the feeling of communion with the ancients. People have been sitting by fires for thousands of years and I like that. Along with my love for chilling fireside, its with equal vigor that I build fires. This passion was reignited in Utah a couple months back and I took this task seriously each night at Vilumi.

I like to enjoy the preparation process and build slowly, so that (when possible) one match will do the trick, but my first effort was not quite up to Ulla’s standard for Latvian bonfires. It was just too small. The second night, I returned to the fire pit inspired, ready to create a blaze worthy of the landscape. After spending a few minutes gathering the necessary materials, I started small, cracking branches and creating a tidy little nest for kindling. Working at a gentle pace, I anticipated the future fire in the fleeting moments of daylight. Perfect. Abruptly, this peaceful moment ended; quickly and absolutely altered by Teodors. Who, in a flash, tore out from his abode, saw me at the fire pit, and grabbed a canister of fuel and some logs. Without hesitation, he crushed my paduan starter with the wood, doused the pile in petrol and flicked a match on. Instant fire. So much for my redemption and moment with the ancients…

Of course, I had one more shot at redemption. One last night. And it roared.

Battling Mosquitos. The forest and the dunes catch most of the sea breeze and can hold in a lot of sitting air. Coupled with some standing water on the land, it’s mosquito heaven. These are some serious bugs. Slashing through repellant and clothes. Each night the mosquito battles take on a sense of ritual. First the wind dies down. Then the first slap. On goes the repellant. Reapply. Re-reapply. Continuously apply as necessary. Cover most every inch of body with clothes. Prepare for the onslaught.

Gandhi is one of my personal heroes and I’m fascinated with ahimsa (non-violence), but I would very much like to have a conversation about mosquitos with Gandhi. There is really nothing in me that feels for a mosquito and its demise at my own hand. I feel much more for a dandelion that I might tug out of the soil. Or for a mug that breaks on the ground. A kernel of corn. A pebble on a gravel road. A speck of sand on the beach. You get the picture. Perhaps that’s out of balance with some of my beliefs, but I pounded away at the bugs night after night. Gandhi and I will have to catch up later.

Sasliks. Prounounced “Shashlicks”, this is the Latvian response to barbecue. And they get it right. Traditionally, you get the fire going for about 2 hours until the coals are large and white-hot. Then you strap the uber-marinated pieces of bone-in chicken into the sasliks-holding-device (essentially a wire trap with a long handle) and hold the meat over the fire for a while. Browning and perfect, pull them off hot, coupled with potatoes and Latvian beer. Perfect feast.

Life suits me at Mikeltornis. If not for the mosquitos and further adventures ahead, I might stay on till mid-summers. But that's a another story altogether.

A Latvian Rewedding

I might have known when Ulla picked me up from Riga Airport in her brother’s red Saab 95 and told me that she had “a plan”. 24 hours later we’re rolling for the Latvian coast, watching the sun set as we leave Riga in the rearview.

The premise of the trip unfolds: 36 years ago a couple got married in far east USSR. In a highly romantic tale of dedication and Siberian railways, the young woman traversed the entire nation to meet her man at his military station thousands of miles away. She arrived, they married with little fanfare and spent their first night together in a fold out army cot. Now that’s good romance.

A short time later, the couple found itself on the tough end of a Soviet law. According to the state, they could not sign to have a flat together unless they did so in separate names. In order to house their future family, they divorced. Three children and 36 years later, the couple decided to officially remarry. As a friend of the family, Ulla and her father received invitations. As Ulla’s friend, I found myself along for the ride.

Following my first night out in the Latvian countryside (a full 10k from the nearest paved road) we awoke in the early morning to make the two-hour drive to Liepaja via Ventspils. Hugging the coast and cruising down a two-lane road, the cloudless sky backdropped my first real adventure of the trip.

We drove into Liepaja, a small port city that handles heavy sea traffic off the Baltic into Latvia. Following a stop at the Rimi Hypermart to wrap the wedding present and the Saturday morning city market for a tidy bouquet of wedding lilies, we eased the Saab along the waterway and into the parking lot of a posh hotel.

In what will likely be the most blur-strange wedding I ever attend, the entire event started and stopped within about 15 minutes. To begin, we went into a small reception room in the hotel, 25 guests holding flowers and lining the empty room. A sax player strolled in, ringing out some unrecognizable (at least to me) tunes. Enter: the couple, their two official witnesses and the priest. A brief ceremony unfolded in Latvian that, because of the somewhat ridiculous circumstances of the wedding, involved a lot of laughter and happiness. Ulla explained to me that the priest even joked the couple during the ceremony, asking them to give the gathering some advice on marriage because they were probably the longest lasting couple in the room! Seven minutes later and the ceremony over, each guest delivered congratulations and flowers to the married couple while the sax player gargled on and we were done.

Now I have no idea of how this stacks up to other Latvian weddings (pretty darn small I think), but with the ceremony over, I anxiously anticipated the party. And did it ever arrive.

Seven cars departed the city and cruised for the beach. We arrived at a small country estate with room for 25 guests, a choice stone patio and cozy reception hall. Quickly unpacked, we all walked to the beach immediately, champagne toasting the new couple. The wedding witnesses followed this familiar toast with a hilarious wedding tradition. They laid out the husbands fishing nets on the beach and had the couple each pick up a card from the net. On it, they had to write down three of their own wishes and the three wishes they thought their beloved desired. I don’t think I’ve seen anything funnier than the poor husband trying to get this right. First, he didn’t know what to wish for, then he labored, I mean really labored over what he thought his wife wanted. He desperately wanted to get it right in front of the audience, but come on, I mean, a man trying to read woman’s mind…that’s good theatre anywhere in the world. Without a lick of Latvian to my knowledge, I laughed riotously with the crowd as the husband, half furrowed brow and half clueless wrote and wrote until the wishes revealed. He missed two, but got one – rightly suggesting that his wife wanted to go to Norway on vacation. Of course, she did, but in her wish she mentioned nothing of wanting to take him along. Cue more laughter.

We retired from the Baltic to the reception hall table, covered with food and drink. Smoked salmon, grilled flounder, dill salad, cured meats, potato salad, carrots, tomatoes, brandy, fruit juice, vodka, wine. Sitting down to traditional music (accordion, bass, violin and citara [like an autoharp]), we feasted. A round of toasts, a heap of food and the dancing began. Dance after dance, waltzes and folk dances, the party swayed forward to the rhythm of the ages and the clomping feet of dancers on hardwood.

Hours later, we again set out for the beach to rest on the ultra-fine sand and watch the sun set. Ulla and I brought guitars to wish the light to sleep. Others sang along as Ulla strummed old Latvian and Livonian songs and I plucked along. The moment went sublime as she sang a classic lullaby and the accordion player gently dropped in subtle and perfect chords to partner the timeless melody.

With dusk our new backdrop we left the beach for more food and drink and dance. Old and young talking and lasting late into the night. We moved through the early morning hours with the band, trading guitars and instruments in the reception hall, singing songs of love.

The morning brought another feast and another wonderful tradition. The favorite song tells the story of the young man going to visit his beloved, climbing the mountain to reach her. At first she refuses him, but then she welcomes him with her parent’s blessing. Again classic theatrics accompany. This time, the couple switched roles and clothes. Standing on top of a dune and singing back and forth to each other this ageless love song. Simply amazing. What says “I love you” more than an older married couple cross-dressing on the beach and performing a love song on a dune for all of their friends.

With this image tucked away forever, we set out from the beach village Sunday afternoon, my heart full. Still accompanied by endless music and cloudless Latvian sky.