World Domination by Frito Lay

Frito Lay™ has conquered the worldwide market on potato chips.  I got off the plane in Toronto and was greeted by Salt & Vinegar and Original.  Kinda boring, Canada.  Especially after Forest Mushroom and Thai Sweet Chile.

            My obsession with potato chips started last summer at camp.  After 3 mess hall meals of bread and potatoes,, Laima, Vitas, and I would have a nightly snack of chips with beer or champagne (depending on the occasion).  In Lithuania, the favorites are Spring Onion, Fromage, Dill, and Tomato. Vitas talked our ear off about the existence of mushroom flavored chips, but despite a month of searching, we never found them.  This summer though, they jumped off the shelf at me the first time I set foot in a grocery store.  The 54 clerks we asked for them last summer must have called up Frito Lay and told them a bunch of crazy foreigners wanted Mushroom chips.  Oh, and this summer, we also tried Chicken.  Yuck.

            In Latvia, they keep the Spring Onion, Fromage, and Tomato, and add Cheese to the mix, which seems a little overkill with the Fromage, but I guess they needed to use that Yellow #5 somewhere.

            Germany was pretty boring with its Lays, Cheese & Onion, and Paprika (double yuck!), but Amsterdam brought some surprises.  Barbeque Ham?  Bolognese? Thai Sweet Chile?  Hmmm…..Too bad I didn’t get enough Amsterdam to try any of them.  

I will never get over the fact that in some countries, you can't get clean drinking water, or it's more expensive than beer, but you can always find Coca-Cola™ and Lays™ potato chips.  I guess if I ever want to take over the world, the trick is high fructose corn-syrup and trans fats.

Is Amerikos

You just denied a 94-year old man his basic rights as a hospitable Lithuanian.  He tells you it's a victory for him to get out of bed in the morning as his eyes shine with happiness at your visit. You won't even let him make you coffee.  Lithuanian Culture 101: Rules of Hospitality -- when visiting a member of the older generation, he / she will consider him / herself a failure if you leave without eating or drinking till bursting point.  You wouldn't even let him make you coffee, yet you forced your American dollars into his protesting hands.  

Mostly this trip has made me more grateful to be an American.  Not the result I was expecting, but it happened.  In this moment, I hate it.  I tried to help restore some dignity by showing extreme interest in the bowl of saldainiai ir sausainiai that he put in front of us after your third denial of Kavos, but one can only stomach so many stale cookies before indigestion trumps manners.  You considered it an act of kindness not to make the old man get up.  I consider it a cultural atrocity.  You speak the language, I don't.  Does that make you right ?  This is not the first time I've hung my head in shame at the mention of the words, Amerikos, Amerikiete, or Amerikoje.  

On my first day of classes at the University, a bubbly young Emily from Connecticut came around to our table at the welcome party and invited us to join her and some other students for a beer later that evening.  I had just met Laura (US) and Piri (Germany) and we decided to spend a few hours showing the nearly arrived and Vilnius virgin, Piri, around old town and then meet up with our new classmates.  We did, and all started well with about 8 of us (6 US, 2 German) enjoying a 1/2 liter of Svyturys in the central square.  Then came the second round. The volume, which was already heightened by the first round, got turned up.  And up. And up. I can imagine it kept going up, but Piri, Laura, and I excused ourselves and headed for our respective busses to get home.  

These American students are perfectly nice people.  They are all like Laura and me with one or two Lithuanian parents, but varying degrees of understanding of the language and culture.  Like us, they came to this course to connect.  They also came to drink beer.  They are young. I felt old.  And embarrassed.  I like beer too, but I don't like being so "visible" in a foreign country and I don't like filling a bad stereotype. Later, while discussing my new acquaintances with my cousin, Andrius, he shared with me his theory of why Americans are so loud.  He explains that the heightened volume has to do with the big distances in the US.  Big apartments.  Big cars. Big tables.  Big cheeseburgers.  All of these require near shouting for any chance of communication.  Andrius has an explanation for everything.  Over the next 4 weeks, he shushed me more than once.  

In a language lesson on how Lithuanians greet people, our teacher explained that you ask "Kaip jus sakasai?"  This means "how are you?" She went on to explain that unlike in America, when Lithuanians ask this question, they really want to know, and so they wait around to hear the answer. Ouch. However, this conflicts with another professor's explanation that in Lithuania, people don't waste their time with small talk.  So I guess here, it's all or nothing.  If someone bothers to ask, then they want to know. But most times they don't ask.

Having Barackas Obama as president made being abroad much more comfortable this time.  Never once did I pretend to be Canadian or see anti-American graffiti.  We did get spit on by a group of middle-eastern teenagers in Amsterdam, but I haven't yet processed what that was about.  In general, I behaved as a respectable, non-stereotypical American (although I still cannot control the volume of my voice) and my country's actions during my time abroad gave me no reason to be ashamed.  Yet, the guilt and self-consciousness was still there.  Thank you, George W.  I guess the part of the self-consciousness that lends itself to cultural sensitivity is a good thing, but the knots in my stomach at the mention of oil are not.  Despite my intentions to represent well, most of what is "American" is out of my control. The best I can do is sit here and eat his cookies and candies and try to help him to feel like Lithuania's most successful host. 

Goodbye Lithuania

July 25, 2009

My tenure in Lithuania ended appropriately with my own version of fleeing.  After almost 6 weeks of respectable behavior and lovely family time, Saturday morning went like this:

8:37 am  Not packed.  Leaving for airport in 2 hours 53 minutes.

Knock knock. 

Me: Eehhhhh

Jurga: Do you want to get up? (Hands me a glass of water.)

Me: Thanks (Take a drink) Bleechh.  Not water!

Jurga: It's aspirin (We laugh)

Enter kitchen.  Andrius is drinking coffee in his underwear.

Andrius: Good morning

Me: Eecchhhhh. Somebody drank too much wine last night.

Andrius: Yes, I also feel that in my head.

I lay down on the couch. I sit up and get off the couch.  I put the aspirin-water down on the table.

Andrius and Jurga: No! You have to drink it all.

Me: Relax, I will.  I'm just going to the bathroom.

Return.  Finish my aspirin-water.  Lay back down on the couch.

Andrius (smiling devilishly): So, how much do you remember from last night?

Oh, dear, conversations that begin like this are never fun for the subject.  

Red wine.  

Graduation of the four week program at University of Vilnius. Had to crash it to say goodbye to my buddies.  White wine.  The opening of the exhibit that the students of the conference Andrius had been running all week.  Australian scenographer.  Lithuanian professor. I am uncharacteristically good at carrying on conversations with strangers.  White wine. Lithuanian designer.  Bubbly conversation with a colleague of Andrius's.  And here I thought all Lithuanians were hard to crack.  

Opening over.  

The Australian and the Lithuanian want to introduce me to some Spanish choreographer that works with people with disabilities.  I am foreign and have danced.  Clearly this qualifies me to have a professional conversation with a famous Spanish choreographer, Juan Carlos Garcia. \ Time for the last lecture of the series.  It's in the floating green box on the river.  I don't wanna. Just enough time for me to meet Augiene and Vitas for dinner and to celebrate her driver's license. Svyturys.  Back to the green box as Andrius is uttering the last words of the conference.... "Thank you, and now let's drink!"  Red wine.  

Red wine.  Another conversation with the Australian scenographer.  He's explaining yet again that he is from Sydney, but teaches in Zurich.  Why can't I accept this?  Walking with Andrius to the car to put my bag away. "There are stairs for normal people right over there." "Am I a normal person?" Straight up the slope balancing a full glass of red wine. Austrian curator.

  Red wine. Put in charge of the photo shoot for the installation / is it an installation of the "Maxima" guy passing out mayonnaise salad. Red wine from the Austrian curator.  Maybe I should sit down.  Jurga and her friend are in the green box.  Pillows on the floor are a little difficult to steady yourself on.  Red wine.  The DJ is pretty good.  Red wine.  Taking a walk with the Austrian curator.  Making out with the Austrian curator down the river somewhere.  How on earth did that happen? Green box.  Dancing with Jurga.  No more red wine for me.  Is it time to go yet?!?    

They had a good laugh at me the next morning.  Their favorite memory was that every time Andrius introduced me to someone, I would join in the conversation by interjecting "yo, yo, yo, yo" which is the Lithuanian equivalent of "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."  This is foggy. 

The good thing about being irresponsible, is that I felt so gross the next day and could barely keep my head up, that I had no energy to be sad or process the good-bye.  Andrius and Jurga were running so late from there own versions of the night before that they pretty much ran out the door to get to her brother's wedding.  There were quick hugs and thank you's and I love you's and tears trying to come.  And then they were gone.  By the time I had finished packing, I  was alone and so embarrassed by my memories / historically fictional guesses at the rest, that all I wanted was to get out of the country.  And that I did.

Latvia vs. Lithuania

I am not an impartial judge.  However, I am not voting for the obvious choice here.  Latvia is awesome.  The people are nicer.  I get why their economy tanked.  At least 3 times someone said to us, "don't buy that one, I'll give you this one for free."  And the waitress told us to go to the bar to order beer because it would be cheaper, and the teller at the bank told me to go away because the commission was too high there.  What?!??!  In Lithuania, the shop assistant won't even say hi to you.  People don't look at each other on the street, let alone chat.  One of our professors told us that in Lithuanian culture, small talk doesn't exist among strangers or customers/ salesfolk, because they think it is a waste of energy.  Once you get to know Lithuanians, they are a warm and welcoming people, but after 5 weeks there, how to crack that shell is still a bit of a mystery.  

Hmmm, anyway, back to Latvia. The guys are cuter, it doesn't look like a soviet tinker toy box , the food is better (or at least there are a lot more choices, although still no latin american food.  I am going to eat nothing but black beans, avocados, and corn tortillas for the first week I am home), Riga's river kick's Vilnius's river's butt, and the architecture is way more diverse.

Siiigggghhhhhh. Adventures are awesome and all and I love exploring new places, but maybe you can tell I am starting to get a bit homesick.  Made a Jason Deuchler reference in my last

 post as I found myself still awake tomorrow as he often does and thought, hmm, that was fun, but why don't I do that with people I know?

I missed Kristian yesterday. Riga is full of art nouveau buildings and he dragged me halfway across Baltimore the first time I was there just to see one.  I don't usually sing and dance for architecture, but I found myself looking up and smiling for quite a few hours in the afternoon.  Then there were all the scandanavian looking folks in Riga (long hair on guys is popular too, but K's

been out of that stage a while).  I saw a couple of guys that looked like they should really have been on their way to his house with their guitars to be in a band called Tre Bror. I spent the rainy part of the evening alone at Riga Art Space, and found myself having an imaginary conversation with him about the installations.  He didn't like the photo series on Gypsy living conditions as much as I did, but we both enjoyed the sugar mosque being eaten by ants and found Sasha Huber's Rentyhorn to be a pretty damn good use of art for the public good.  

I missed Courtney today.  Vitas and I were wandering for the sake of not going home yet. We walked into this place with no expectations, and immediately through the door I thought, my god I wish Courtney were here, we would love this together.   Chocolate cake just doesn't taste the same without her, even if it is being

enjoyed with a mid- 18th century concoction of Riga Black Balsam and hot currant juice in the cellar of a building that makes you think that your knight in shining armor is going to walk in any minute.  It feels so authentic in fact, that you realize while sitting in this dark and musty cellar, that his armor wouldn't really be all that shiny.  It would be muddy and maybe a little rusty.  And if he did walk through the door, he probably would actually be coming to see the buxom barmaid and not you, but who could blame him, you like her too.  She's funny.  One could also make believe that you were in the Hog's Head Pub at the first meeting of Dumbledore's Army.  I think you get my point.  Maybe I was just in the right mood, but although it seemed like it should have been a tourist trap, I didn't feel that.  Not a lot of cheese, just a little magic.

So yeah, I'd come back to Riga.  City #1 on the visit at least four cities I've never been before returning home tour gets a few stars. Next up, Frankfurt, Germany.  But first, two more days to say good-bye to Lietuva.  And while I can't say I've lost the travel bug, I will say it's currently competing with all the things I love in Chicago.  

That's you.

Last Night in Pasaka

July 17, 2009

I went to pee and it was light outside.  It was 4:30 in the morning.  The sun had only set at 11:15.  I think I finally get how you can be Jason Deuchler.  When the party ends for you around 6, the choice between an hour and ½ of sleep and hiking to the beach to drink your last beer a top a German WWII bunker on the shore of the perfectly still Baltic becomes clear.

And it is PERFECTLY still.  She is making some noise at the shoreline to let you know she is alive, but the sea looks like bathwater.  I am contemplating using it as such, but it is cold and I’ve already been in the Baltic since I last slept. 

The sunset was beautiful, but now I am on the wrong side of the world for any morning warmth-yet I am still thinking about swimming.  And while the sea is more beautiful than I have ever seen (she is still and she is my own)-the beach is uglier.  When napping on the beach in the afternoon, I notice the waves.  I always liked this bunker. I thought it was an ironic piece of history amidst a beautiful seascape.  But in the morning light from this height, I see at least 3 concrete circles that used to support life sized machine guns.  The dunes behind me are more full of history than  I ever noticed.  Maybe they died waiting for the US too.  Machine gun, bunker, bunker, lookout, bunker, cannon, machine gun, bunker.  In the distance, a runner’s club is warming up, but all I can really see is concrete.  If I force myself to look forward it is beautiful.  If I allow myself to look back, it hurts.

I have to pee, again.  The obvious choice is to go inside the bunker, but I am a little bit afraid of the ghosts.  It is graffiti laden and half full of beer cans and cigarette butts, but there is light coming in from some missing bricks seaside.  I have nothing to look for in the Baltic except a moment of understanding.  The Germans were looking for something else.  I still do not have enough history to explain why this Soviet invaded land has a shore full of rotting German war defenses.  They are fading, but have centuries of ruin left to remind. 

 

Viltis

This country does so many things new. They monitor highway speed with cameras and sensors.  They recycle.  Their streets are spotless.  There is yet another shopping mall popping up on the outskirts of Vilnius despite the crize (crisis). You can send text messages to pay your parking meter. This kind of technology makes you think you're in modern Europe. You are not. Parliament tried to pass a law making homosexuality illegal.  Stereotypes about blacks and Hispanics roll-off people's tongues like they're talking about the weather. The only handicap accessible places in the country are buses that were made in Germany and are accessible by default because they were built to German standards. This is not a good country to be different in.  One can find ways to blame the Soviet occupation for every thing that is wrong here.  Maybe the older generations are still stuck in that vortex, but time is running out for excuses.  The future is going to leave this place behind.  

Enter Viltis, the organization that puts on the camp that A.P.P.L.E works through.  Their goal since 1989 has been to re-integrate people with disabilities into society.  It is slow-going.  For most of this century, people with disabilities were put into institutions, some received monthly visits from their families, most were forgotten.  When Lithuania became part of the EU, they were told to shape up.  People with disabilities are just that, people, and as part of their new-found guidelines as an EU member, Lithuania was challenged to start treating them that way.  The education question is the big one.  

For two weeks every summer, Viltis rents a camp on the Baltic Sea, buses in 50 or so volunteers, and offers two weeks of respite to the families taking care of kids with disabilities.  The volunteers work with the kids for two sessions during the day while parents relax by the sea (or lurk behind trees as to not miss anything their child may be doing).  There is also a group of teachers that the Ministry of Education sends to camp to work with the APPLE program I am a part of.  We get a very special group of students and we, the facilitators, work with them, their parents, and the teachers.  We also have camp volunteers that work with us, including Leticija, who is one of the most alive people I have ever met. I hope I have some time to tell you her story. 

 My job is to teach the teachers, but well, that's really not the fun part.  These guys are...

Meet Arnas. He is 14 and doesn't walk. He sure rides the hell out of his tricycle though and his wheelchair didn't stop him from beating me at basketball. He laughs a lot and always offers a handshake in greetings.  He wears pretty rad motorcycle gloves to protect his hands from blisters as he pushes the wheels of his chair.  He goes to a regular school and is in general education classes. He doesn't pee Monday-Friday until after 3:00.  He can't stand up to go to the toilet and no one at school will help him.

This is Greta.  She loves to dance.  She doesn't much mind if there is music playing or not. I don't know that much about her educational situation, but if she goes to a school it is not integrated.  I do know that her mom loves her very much, and accepts her for who she is. 

Erikas has seizures and doesn't talk much.  He has the most brilliantly blue eyes that match his mother's. He talks to you with them.  Leticija claimed him for her own immediately upon meeting him, and I see why.  She's right, he is special. 

Montvidas really likes to play catch.  Last year he wouldn't talk to me and had a really hard time leaving his mom even for the few hours our program ran.  This year he held my hand as often as he held hers.  We played ball every morning and once he even hid when his mom came to get him.  He's a pretty smart kid, who doesn't read as he should at his age.  He's got serious social anxiety, but I think he'll be okay.

Meet Henrikas.  He is adorable.  He is autistic.  Every morning he checks for new toys and then dismantles and rebuilds the twig houses he has built around our meeting spot. He loves to run away, but mostly just for the being caught part. 

Dovidus doesn't go to school.  His mother is a poet and works with him at home. He attends art classes at a center for people with disabilities.  He also has a tutor that comes to their home 6 or so hours a week.  This is enough by ministry standards to count as "being educated."  He refuses to learn to read, although he could.  I can't really blame him.  If no one asked me to learn until I was 16, I'd be pissed too.  Every night at the "disco" you'll find him on the balcony, microphone in hand, leading the group in Lithuanian and Russian pop songs.  In last year's APPLE performance, we were characters in the same family.  The first thing he did this year was hug me and remind me that he is my brother.  

This is Rytis.  He is very special.  I don't often work with kids who are this severely disabled, and I may really not be equipped to.  This little guy did a pretty good job this week of making me think again.  He recognizes you.  He can answer your questions with his gaze. He gets jealous when you leave him to play with someone else.  He forgave my terrible pronunciation when reading him stories.  I thank him for challenging my assumptions.

 

And this is the love of my life. You've heard about him before. He captured my heart last year by chasing me around in his wheel chair and we proceeded to set a world record for the number of times two people could sing Head Shoulders Knees and Toes in a 9 day period. Izodorius is going to be in the 3rd grade. He may be the luckiest little boy in Lithuania.

His mother is the most brilliantly stubborn woman I have ever met.  She decided he would go to a regular school with his peers and she made it happen. It didn't matter if he was the only one in their whole town.  She wasn't happy with his first grade teacher's method of "integration" which involved him sitting in the corner working on his own assignments, while the class existed without him.  So she partnered up with her older son's 2nd-4th grade teacher and they are in the process of making history.  I met them last summer when Izidorius's mom, Jurgita, brought his future teacher, Zydra, to camp with them.  Zydra stood out high above the others as smart, empathetic, and courageous.  And then she came back.  

She told us about her class-how accepting they are of Izodorius and how kids take turns to get to be the ones to help him.  She told us about challenging other teachers - those who didn't want to take him for art or PE, and how now they come to walk with him to class.  She told us about how the  administration approached her about including other special needs students in the school.  She wouldn't take any of the credit for a successful year, but it was her spirit, persistence, and compassion, along with a solid partnership with Jurgita, that made it work.  I would not want to enter in to any sort of argument with these women.  I would lose, hands down, before even getting started.  But in this case, everybody wins.  

This year's group of teachers was from a different planet than last year's. They belong at a place called Viltis, because they inspire just that.  I am hopeful they will find a place for these kids in their society.  I am hopeful that they will continue to improve their classrooms as places for all.  I am hopeful that they are the future of Lithuania.  

Noriu miegoti

I am home from camp.  By home, I mean my Vilnius home.  Chicago will see me in 2 weeks.  I chose no sleep over 1.5 hours of sleep last night, and while I regret no moment of that extremely logical decision, I have no brain power to tell you tales from Pasaka.  I will say this. It is a run-down Soviet summer camp with toilet-paperless toilets, a 1:125 shower:people ratio, and sheets that are too small for beds that are too small for me.  It is full of smelly kids and we eat potatoes 3 times a day.  I think it is the most beautiful place on earth. My heart is heavy from leaving and breaks a little more every time I think of the children who only get two weeks a year to belong.

I will recount my adventures in the next few days, but for now I leave you with these two videos, which pretty much sum up Camp Viltis at Pasaka for me (we're missing the daytime teacher training piece, but this is the fun stuff.....)

1. How I spent the afternoon before my birthday.  I spent my actual birthday in bed eating saltines and drinking 7-up and throwing up occasionally.  I do not believe this was related to the items in this video.  I believe it was related to mass produced meals and food-bourn illnesses. 

2. Obouliu Maisas: Every night there is some "entertainment" for the families.  APPLE programa was responsible for Tuesday.  I should be flattered that the teachers think enough of my new language skills to give me a speaking role.  And I can admit, that when children are involved, things that would ordinarily be head in the sand humiliating become kinda fun.  

July 10, 2009

Today was my last day of school.  We learned our colors and took a final exam. I got a 47/50 on my test!  Woo hoo! I can conjugate verbs and understand your phone number.  I had a little trouble with prepositions.  It seems we will be meeting “to” the café instead of “in” the café. 

Tonight I head to the coast to meet up with the others from APPLE who are already at camp. I’ve gotten word that some of my kiddies are asking about me.  I’m warming up my smile muscles. Nervous about lectures and meeting the new batch of teachers, but mostly just anxious to try out my new words.

Stay tuned the week of the 19^th for stories from camp.  I’m unplugged until then.

Primary Sources

I spent the afternoon in a KGB prison.  Our tour guide's (the University insists) narration of the experience was as straightforward as if she were a real estate agent. And here in the execution chamber they signed a fake document, were shot in the head upon completion, and bashed with an axe to make sure they were dead.  And here was the best security system in Eastern Europe. And these cells were restored when it became a museum, because after Stalin died, the organization became gentler, and they no longer used the aqua-torture cells where prisoners stood naked on a small platform in a pool of water until they shared information.  And you can see here that the wall has been painted 17 times to prevent prisoners from sharing messages. And this cell is nicely padded so that after interrogation, the detainees dosed with LSD and other hallucinogens couldn't kill themselves, and their screams wouldn't disturb the others.  

Sometimes, history is very difficult to swallow.

Sandy Price, Dr. David Barclay, Mrs. Hayes, Susan Poetzel, Mc-Graw Hill, you have all failed me.  Everyone knows that the allied powers of WWII fought against the Axis of Evil. Hitler=bad and the enemy of my enemy is my friend.  The Lithuanian partisan movement, or "underground" army, existed for 10 years, under the belief that the mighty US would sweep in and save Lithuania from the aggressions of Russia.  They held on to the statutes in the "Atlantic Charter" agreed upon by Roosevelt and Churchill, that stated: 1. Territorial adjustments must be in accord with the wishes of the peoples concerned and 2. All peoples have a right to self-determination.

As she shuffled us out of the display on the partisan movement, I believe our guide's words were, "well, we have no oil in Lithuania, so moving on." Of course, history exists only in perspective, and every narrator has his own tale.  But, I know this.  Franklin Delano Roosevelt is no hero of mine.  We hid behind our "isolationist" policy. We entered the war only after the Japanese attacked us.  We ignored the Holocaust at its worst, and we let Russia take hundreds of thousands of lives and exile halves of nations to Siberia. Granted, we realized our mistakes eventually, bring on the Cold War, but it is my understanding that had much more to do with Communism vs. Capitalism and fear than in did with humanity.  

I do not understand power.  I do not understand control.  I do not understand genocide.  I do not understand ignorance.  I do not understand violence.

I do understand courage.

The partisans knew that face to face combat against Russia was a pointless death sentence. Instead, they cleverly organized themselves into districts, lived up to their name in bunkers dug under barns and forest floor, and sought to disrupt the Russian organization in any way possible.  They ambushed operations, sabotaged trains to Siberia, assassinated officials, and published and distributed an underground newspaper. Among these men and women was my grandmother's brother, Jonas.  He became the leader of the group (code name "Salkunas", falcon) in his region, Marijampole.  He was killed for his resistance on January 6, 1948. The rest of the family was in Siberia.

The other family member never to set foot in Siberia was my grandmother, but for a different reason.  I have been searching for the truth in my grandparents' story for as long as I have understood the existence of the Soviet occupation.  Our cousin, Nijole, told this story at dinner the other night.  I listened as hard as my ears would work. I didn't hear it.

I understand a lot of this language.  I get it when a shop keeper tells me how much I owe her.  I can order food and actually know what's in it.  I even called up a Lithuanian yesterday to arrange a ride to camp on Friday.  I do not possess the skills to understand the story I have been searching for most of my adult life and despite my pleading for one of my 3 American relatives sitting around the same table to translate, I still do not know how it is that my grandparents escaped from Lithuania and landed in the United States.  

I have these pieces.  

I thought that my grandfather was a member of the partisan army.  This is not true.  He was actually captured by the German army during their occupation of Lithuania (in between the 2 Russian occupations during WWII) and forced to dig bunkers for them. The story gets fuzzy. By war logic then, he was actually "liberated" by the Russian army.  At some point he was being dragged to Prague by the Russian army and my grandmother was following him.  She pretended to be French at some point, rode into Prague on a Russian tank, and tricked them into thinking they had liberated her from the Germans?!?  This may be language, or my lack of historical knowledge, and brings to mind the failure of Dr. David Barclay.  I elected to take a University course from him entitled, World War II.  We talked a lot about Japan.  I fell asleep in class often and got the only B- of my college career.  Dr. Barclay, WWII, I give you an F-.  

And somehow my grandparents ended up "safe" in Germany.  They re-met by chance at a church along the way that was popular among Lithuanian refugees.  At some point, they got married. My Uncle Pete was born in Germany and my uncle Tom boasts that he was created there.  My father, like me, was made in the USA.

Understandably caught up in her own quest for answers, and sensing my frustration, my American cousin Vakare reassured me that she would write the whole story down.  This is a tertiary source.  My Lithuanian cousins confessed that their English isn't good enough to make sense of the details and complications.  My grandparents are dead.  My father knows no more of the story than I.  His father refused to talk about Lietuva.  My primary sources live locked behind language and so I remain with half answers.

I spent the afternoon in a KGB prison.  Maybe half answers are enough.  

Here and There

As I predicted, I have been drinking a lot of beer and eating a lot of potatoes.  I am trying to avoid eating encased meats more than once a day and continuing my quest to find the best šaltibarscai in Vilnius. We came pretty close to finding it last night at a place called Gabi in Old Town, but I'm not ready to crown it the winner yet.  

Other than eating and drinking my way through senamiestas, if I'm not in class, I am wandering in circles around Old Town. This city is really not that big.  It's so not big, in fact, that I have seen the prime minister 3 times now.  The last of which was this morning from the bus on my way to school.  After I saw him and his micro-motorcade whiz by, I saw a cow.  That speaks to one of the things this place does right, there is A LOT of green space.  I live in the city, but the bus goes up a big hill with a pretty sizeable forest to get from the center to where we are.  So we're not just talking nice parks (of which there are many) we're talking communist housing project communities separated by straight up forests.  And we have a lake by us too.  A clean, no worries if you own a bathing suit, it's hot out, let's go for a swim, lake.  It always seems to be raining by the time I get home, so it's really more of a tease.

Tourist action.  In between eating, drinking, visiting family, and learning the language, I have managed to hit up a few tourists spots.  On Saturday, my class went to Trakai, a town about 35 

kilometers outside Vilnius that is home to the only fully restored castle in Lithuania.  Castles are cool and all, but the University

insists on us having guided tours wherever we go, and I'm really just more of a wander around aimlessly and soak up what I can kinda girl.  So after a few hours of the history of the castle, my new buddies, Laura and Nick and I did just that. There's another castle at the top of the hill in town (although just a tower remains), and I never made it up there during my other 2 visits, so Laura, Vitas, and I checked that one off the list this week.  

There are 1000 churches in Vilnius, and you can't really avoid them, so I guess we can add 999 of them to the list of touristy things I've been doing.  St. Ann's remains my favorite, and not because I'm a narcissist, but because it's the only Gothic church in town, and it makes me think of drip sandcastles.  I'm partial to St. John's at the university too because it is home to a few of Vytautus's portraits.

Last weekend, I spent a decent amount of time at the events surrounding the song festival, Dainu Svente.  While it was quite amazing to hear some 30,000 people from all over the world singing Lithuanian songs together, my favorite event was the fair in Sereikisiu Park that I wasn't going to go to.  Luckily, Laura made a sad face that she was going alone,

 and I obliged.  Three hours in, I was still enjoying the crafts, traditional dress, beat-boxingesque circles of old folks singing the stories of their towns, and of course, kepta duona and home-brew.  

The streets here wind in strange directions and gateways that look like they lead to private courtyards take you to new cafes and locally patronized shops.  I am sure there is so much more to discover in this city, but I live here now.  I have a routine (and homework) and a budget.  The magic of getting lost and ending up in the middle of a 16th century battlefield is gone, but it's been replaced by a comfort and familiarity that feels like home.  

Shaquilas O’Nealas

In the United States, I have four relatives who speak Lithuanian whom I communicate with on a monthly basis, and one I speak to daily.  Not one of them thought to warn me it would be so ridiculously hard.  Thanks, dad. I studied Spanish for 9 years, I am totally down with conjugating verbs, polite vs. impolite, and a gazillion tenses, but this idea of declension, wtf?  Seriously, there are 7 different endings to put on nouns AND their accompanying adjectives just to give them a relationship to the verb!?! 

Lucky for me, my teacher is pretty awesome, and although it is a university course, she is not afraid of things like sentence strips, bingo, and word walls.  I recognize good teaching when I see it.  Even adults need a break from grammar textbooks and writing exercises – I’ll play hangman any day. 

I’ve come a long way in just a week.  I can understand a lot more in everyday conversations, and I’m not so afraid to speak in shops, restaurants, etc.  It’s been great to expand my diet from saltibarscai and alus.  I am not kidding myself that I’ll ever be fluent in this language, but maybe, maybe if I keep at it, and try this again next summer, I’ll be able to walk into the post office and ask for 7 stamps to send cards to the US or ask Dede Vytautas about his paintings. 

Lithuanian is a phonetic language.  Since it is so old, there are currently a lot of “international” words, as they call them.  Of course, these words are spelled in the Lithuanian way, although the pronunciation remains pretty much the same. For example, my cousin, Andrius, is a dizaineris.  So far, DŻO[1] is my favorite.  Any guesses on what American name that is the Lithuanian spelling of?  The masculine form always ends in s and they love to add it to foreign celebrities’ names to let them flow better in tabloid sentences.  Bradas Pitas always makes me chuckle, and I do wish I was here years ago when Laura was to watch Shaquilas O’Nealas in the NBA finals.

---

[1] Joe

Something to Celebrate

I started school on Monday, and have had oh so little time to write, but I wanted to share this little piece of Lithuanian history from class today with you.  This year marks the 1000 year anniversary of the first time Lithuania was mentioned in European texts.  There were events celebrating this in Chicago before I left, Lithuania has been abuzz all year, and this week, Vilnius has 40,000 visitors singing or dancing in Dainu Svente (Song Fest) to commemorate this anniversary.  It's a big deal.  

So, Lithuanians were Pagan for a lot longer than other Europeans, and here's why.  1000 years ago, when the first Catholic missionaries came to Lithuania to convert the Pagans, the Lithuanians killed them all.  Yep, and therefore

 Lithuania was mentioned in European texts. Because we killed a bunch of Catholic missionaries. Hey, I mean, it was a pretty big victory.  We got to keep our Thunder god for another 368 years before Mindaugas wanted to be King and needed the Pope's blessing to do it.  As Andrius pointed out when we were discussing this at dinner, "everybody pays attention to crime news.  If the Lithuanians had baked a pie for the missionaries, we wouldn't have made it into the books."  Good point. 

 

London Calling

I received this message on Facebook this morning: 

Hey Ann, it's Sam here, Jessie's friend in London. Still remember me? Anyway, random question...are you in London??? I thought i saw someone on the tube today that looks incredibly like you. Please confirm I'm not going nuts...

Big city.  Small world.  Sam is not going nuts.  I was in fact in London.  Upon further communication, it turns out that Sam spotted me on the Northern line, where I got off at Borough at 8:30 pm on Thursday to surprise my friend Dan at his poetry event,

Bang Said the Gun. 

It was a last minute decision.  I had mentioned that maybe I had wanted to go in an email to Jurga a few weeks ago, and by the time I got to Lithuania, she had purchased a ticket for herself.  There is a doctor there that helped her with her thyroid 10 years ago.  The problem has resurfaced, Lithuanian doctors told her the only option is to cut it out, and so she wanted to see this Chinese doctor in London again.  She also wanted company.  And so my plan to surprise my poetry-riddled friends on the weekend of the London Teenage Poetry Slam was hatched.  We'd stay with Andrius' cousin, so no need to tell any of my friends I was coming.  I knew when the major events were, so no need to phone anyone to make plans.  Just a weekend of surprises.  

Most of these turned out brilliantly, with only one great disappointment.

The disappointment taught me a valuable lesson in writing thank you notes.  My friend Marty had sent me a t-shirt around Christmastime from the spoken word club that he and some of his students started at their school.  I immediately went out and purchased one of these postcards that he really likes where you can cut out the pieces on the front and make a little 3D creature.  I affixed an airmail stamp to it, and then proceeded to put it in my notebook where I found it yesterday.  After surprise number one on Thursday night, where I showed up at the Roebuck and in the middle of his poetry set, Dan announced, "My goodness, Ann!  You've come a long way, any requests for the last poem I read?" I asked for Marty's phone number as I had half-expected to see him at the event, and was mildly disappointed not to, and Dan informed me that he was in Australia for his bast mate's wedding.  As he is a teacher to one of the team's competing in the slam, I never imagined this possibility.  Dan said he was "gutted" by the decision to go the wedding, and I had a similar feeling in the pit of my stomach at the news he was not there.  

But I shall not dwell on the negative.  I miss him, but our paths will cross again if they are meant to.  In the mean time, I love love surprising people, and I got the others pretty damn good.  Dan's wife was the first to spot me in the pub.  Then I came out of the WC to see

Bismark ordering a Coke at the bar.  It took him a few minutes to register and believe it really was me.  Then I got a surprise myself when I went upstairs to the event and saw that Oak Park's own Adam Levin and David Gilmer were the guest poets.  Here I learned another valuable lesson.  This one about the differences between Chicago poetry and London poetry.  Chicago= very serious.  London = all about sex.  Now this may have something to do with the age and experience of the poets (Chicago = 2oish, London=39ish), and the characters Dan runs around with in London, but for now I will generalize.  

Friday was not quite as magical as Thursday night.  First to the doctor for Jurga, which meant a good 3 hrs round trip on the tube, but I was happy to support and accompany her.  Then to Camden Town for lunch, which I had not been to before, and will admit, is quite a site.  I briefly contemplated getting another tattoo, wolfed down a giant calzone for just 3 quid, and wandered for an hour or so through the vendors soaking in the multitude of characters strewn

 throughout.  Oh, and everyone was playing Michael Jackson, like everyone.  Even the leather shops and chinese food stands.  Then, she wanted to find good deals at the shops on Oxford street. I begrudgingly agreed.  I hate Oxford street.  I didn't remember that so strongly until I got there.  It makes me want to crawl into a dark corner, close my eyes, put my hands over my ears, and rock back and forth until the world goes away. Too many people is an understatement.  And it was hot this visit (can't complain too much, was snowing last time I was there). That led to a series of almost arguments that led me to question why it is that I am so bad at traveling with other people.  

But Saturday made it all worth it.  The London Teenage Poetry Slam was brilliant, and so were the looks on various faces as I made my way though the poets, students,teachers, and organizers as they readied for the event.  First, Kieran.  He was on the winning team that came to Chicago two years ago when I met Dan and Marty.  He is now a "shadow" or a student helper for his school, Kingsford's, slam team.  He has also grown about another foot since I last saw him, putting him around 6'6" or so.  Then Bianca, also a member of that team, back to help coach the younger students. 

 Esme about had a heart attack and quickly whipped out her camera phone, claiming that Lauren and Zara would never believe her (I was hoping to see these two lovelies from last year's winning team who stayed with me in November, but they were not there).  Fahro barely said hello before she started yelling at me for not telling her I was coming because how were we going to have a proper chat if I was running off to the airport away from London in the middle of the slam. She also solved the "I don't have a ticket and the Slam's sold out" problem by assigning me the job of timekeeper.   Ugochi didn't

 seem so surprised as she did genuinely happy to see me.  Her lack of surprise may have come from the fact that she had JUST flown in from Chicago and like me, was only in London for a few days. Peter was last.  He was busy preparing for his duties as a judge.  But upon seeing me, he briefly forgot how to speak and then called me Ms. Petroliunas as if we were at school, before hugging me and quickly filling me on his affairs of the heart whilst in London. My last surprise came when about 2 hours into the event, I looked across the theater to see a man who looked an awful lot like the head of the English Department at OPRF, where I teach.  Not five minutes late the MC announced that we did indeed have Steve Gevinson, head of English at the high school that hosts the slam winners, in the audience.  Chicago was well represented to say the least.

Cheesy as it may be, the energy at that event was like a drug.  The students excitement was infectious, never mind I couldn't understand half of the poetry through their adorable accents. And my friends in this world are the kind that can show you their appreciation and affection with a single sentence that's enough to last until the next time your paths cross. I think that may be the true beauty of this exchange that Peter and Fahro started.  The people involved in the project are so different, yet exactly the same.  My scheme to surprise was extremely well-received, and although my time there was short, is was packed full of friendship, passion, and exhilaration. Sometimes I wonder what we could accomplish if we all lived in the same place, but mostly I know that the beauty of it all is that we are worlds apart, yet united in our vision and our belief in our students.  

Family Portraits

June 25, 2009

The silence was heartbreaking.  First, he tried Lithuanian.  Then silence.  Then, “Parlez vous francais?”  Only enough to answer, “no.”  Then silence.  German? No. Anything, but English? Spanish, yes.  Him, no.  After a few minutes, he motioned us inside in defeat.  There was so much love in his soft eyes.  For me, perhaps.  Or for the memory of his dead sister that I invoke.  Or, perhaps I have mistaken this love for sadness, as Jurga later explained to me that he has been having major depressive episodes lately and cannot care for himself in Vilnius.  He cared for me though, in the Lithuanian way I came to know from my grandmother, his sister.  I was never with an empty glass of apple juice, he frowned when I wouldn’t have a 3^rd helping of dinner and I couldn’t leave before a 2^nd piece of cake. 

A funny thing about traditions is that they really are timeless.  We disputed whether if it had been 8 or 9 years since I had last been there, but we argued while sharing the same meal, in the same chairs, finished by the same cherry cognac we shared 8 or 9 years ago. 

His sister, Zuza, the caretaker of the 3 siblings still living, slipped into Russian once in her attempt to communicate with me.  She then laughed like a child at her mistake, and perhaps the ridiculous-ness of it all—that here I was, linked to them in DNA and named after their mother, unable to communicate except through smiles, nods, and “thank you”s . Then she turned to the cabinet and dug out her tools for story telling without language.  This was the last

 photo of all her siblings together—in the 40s before Jonas was killed and Albina fled.  There was the photo of my grandmother at 14, sitting in the doorway of their family home and another of the horse and carriage outside their first house.  And then came the photos of Siberia.  Zuza’s first child was born there, while Vytautas was barely an adult.  Albina was no longer with them—1^st in a work camp in Germany, and then finally to the U.S.

Back to his loving eyes.  His sad eyes.  He is almost 83.  As he clears out the garbage left for weeks in the studio, and shoos flies away from rotting fruit, Andrius explains that he cannot take care of himself anymore, and that is why he is in Kacergine.  Ignas reassures me with “he has lived a good life,” as he waters that plants and empties the half finished cups of kavos hidden away under books and tucked behind easels.  A good life, yes, but you can still see Siberia in all of his paintings.  From artists and actors who actually were in Siberia, to Mindaugas, only King of Lithuania in the 1200s, long before Russia stole Lithuania’s livelihood. Even the one he did of my mother when he visited Chicago when she was ill. Cancer eyes look like Siberia eyes. 

He never married.  It is my understanding that he toyed with the idea of becoming a priest, but after a month or so, he left the seminary as he knew his true calling was in the arts.  He returned to the family farm to work, as his father had died and his brothers were eventually called to the army.  In 1944, an Art school was opened in Kaunas, and he attended for 4 years, under some false pretenses created for him by a priest in their village.  He was able to avoid the army by being enrolled in school, but in 1948, the truth of his situation was revealed and he was removed from the institute.  Soon after, his apartment was surrounded and seized, and he was sent to Siberia.  I don’t fully understand the reasons why my family was sent to Siberia.  I believe it has something to do with them all being intellectuals (doctors, etc) and some of them revolutionaries, fighting with the Lithuanian Underground Army.  In Siberia, Vytautas had a two year sentence of hard labor in the pine forests.  He lived in a room with some 70 odd others and would try to draw portraits of them to keep art in his life.  After a few years, he met a professor in Siberia who helped him get a job in a theater there, doing scene construction (this brings to mind Gregory Hine’s character in White Knights). 

After regaining his freedom, he was eventually admitted to the Art Institute again and finally graduated in 1961.  He was invited to teach at the MKCiurlionis Art School and did so for many years.  He is a portrait artist.  To me it seems he has painted almost every important historical figure in Lithuania.  During our first trip here, he dragged us on an extensive tour of Lithuania’s churches, many of which have his portraits hanging in them. 

Last Saturday was “culture night” in Vilnius.  It was the shortest night of the year, and hundreds of events happened all night long throughout the city.  The National Gallery of Art celebrated a re-opening after some renovations.  I read about the event in a magazine yesterday as the guest list was full of Lithuanian VIPs in the art / entertainment world.  Wandering though the museum, I found myself frozen when I came to the wall that displayed two of Vytautas’s pieces.  I guess I was looking for them, but was still mesmerized by the reality of them hanging there.

I could pretend that I was invited to the opening because I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, but really it was because Andrius worked on the installation of the Ciurlionis exhibit, was invited, and snuck me in.  Still, I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian portrait painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, who lovingly stared at me throughout dinner from the seat next to me with the same sad eyes shared by the subjects of his portraits that drew me in from the wall at the museum.

So then DNA and family history, why am I such a terrible painter?

Naked with Strangers

Within 24 hours of being here, I learned that in Lithuania, it is rude to fill your own glass.  I also learned that hostesses NEVER want to see a guest’s glass empty, and that if said guest is a foreigner, say from the US, then the hostess NEVER EVER wants to see that guest’s glass empty. I have been to other parties, dinners, and such events in Lithuania before, but always with a certain hesitancy and awkwardness.  This was different.  Jurga said that one of her friends was having a “girl party” and that I was invited as well.  She was pretty insistent that I join her, and so I obliged.  The party started at 6, so I imagined a nice leisurely evening of bread and cheese and wine and beer.  There was bread and cheese. And smoked salmon. And olives.  And salad.  And fruit.  And nuts.  And sausages.  And egg salad sandwiches (made the British way).  And that was the first course. Then there were grilled things and later, pie.  And there was wine and beer. And cider.  And vodka.  And whiskey.  And something in a can that said “Gin and cactus flavor” in English that I didn’t understand and couldn’t bring myself to ask about, because I knew I would then find myself with a full glass of it.

            While I know that the majority of people in Lithuania speak some English, especially those who attended University as most of Andrius and Jurga’s friends have, I also know that many are embarrassed to speak it as any of us are with an unnatural second language.  Lucky for me, the hostess, a bubbly woman named Ruta, was excited for the opportunity to practice, as she is going to an advertising seminar this week in Morocco that will be held in English.  That opened the door for me to be included in almost all conversations as the night progressed, either by someone translating, slowing down their Lithuanian, or speaking to me in English.  These women seemed fascinated with the idea that I am only half Lithuanian and yet want to return here to learn more about that half.  There came a lot of jokes about things Lithuanians do (like lie!?!) and how as a half-Lithuanian, I must be a half-liar.  Funny, yes, but a rite of acceptance in it’s own way too.   I am also beginning to wonder if being loud and talking fast are genetic traits.  If they are, I most certainly inherited them from my father’s side.

            While sharing food and drink and good conversation are all ways to acclimatize to a culture, I think I may have stumbled upon the fastest way.  A little bit like ripping off the band-aid, yes, but well worth it.  Get naked.  The purpose of this “girl party” was that Ruta’s work is somehow connected to a fancy spa in the city center.  Ruta also has a sauna in her backyard.  So, she invited a masseuse from work to work and all of her girlfriends over to enjoy massages, salt and honey scrubs, and the sauna.  We’ve all had those awkward moments in locker rooms where you think, “do I keep this towel on?” or “Should I wear my bathing suit into the steam room?”  Well, in the interest of cultural sensitivity, I had no time to fret over these questions.  When in Rome. 

            I spent the remainder of the evening as less of a foreigner and more of a friend.  I had a few real conversations with very interesting women and my guilt about not being able to speak their language disappeared for a while.  And well, in addition to a small victory for me in my struggle with belonging to a culture I can’t fully access, I have softer skin and lighter shoulders.  

More on Communist Block Architecture Later, but First, a Tour......

I am living with my cousin Andrius, his wife, Jurga, their daughter Meta (who called me teta-aunt today), and Mashka, the dog.  They bought their flat from my dad's cousin Albinas, who is living in Russia now.  This was the first place we ever stayed in Lithuania when my dad brought us here in 2000.  It looked very different then. Andrius is some kind of a designer, I still don't fully understand what he does, but he and his brother 

did most of the interior themselves. One of my favorite things about it is that there are old mirrors everywhere that they got from a theater's storehouse.  In Soviet times, only film studios and theaters were allowed to bring in goods from other countries, so these mirrors are warm vintage.  Most home furnishings in Lithuania are either super "modern" or 195o's USSRish.  

Like being home

For anyone that was worried, I did indeed make it to my intended destination today.  It is once again, midnight, and I am currently in bed in what will be my home for the next 6 weeks. (Props to my cousin's wife for insisting they get wireless internet since I have taken over their office for most of the summer). 

Here are a few thoughts I recorded over the last 24 hours of my journey....

            It took me the last few days to realize why my cousin Andrius was so concerned with the fact that I was stuck in Canada.  I told him that Laima and Ramunas live here, and not to worry, they’d take care of me. When his last text said he’d have a hot bath and lots of food waiting for me when I got to Vilnius, it finally clicked for me.  In my world, getting stranded in Toronto meant seeing family I don’t get to see very often and exploring a new city.  In his world, it meant 48 hours in an airport.  As Americans, there are so many things we take for granted that we don’t even know we take for granted.  I walked backwards through security despite the fact that the customs agent thought I was on my way to Germany and spent two days in Canada without a blink of an eye from a government official.  I can do that.  I am American. (It’s also possible that I just discovered a way to illegally immigrate to Canada).  My cousins would have spent a brutal night or two in the airport.  They need a visa to go anywhere.  At least now Lithuania is part of the EU, and the borders to most of their neighbors to the west in Europe have been opened to them, but not US.  It is a strange world of privilege we live in. 

            I’m always impressed with how poor security in the states is despite the fact that we started the whole “everyone’s a terrorist-fear, fear, fear” mantra among travelers.  I got through security checkpoints in the US and Canada without a second glance.  It wasn’t until Frankfurt that anybody questioned my knitting needles or travel mug (which, as the security agent showed me, is quite the suspicious canister in their x-ray photos.) 

            Employees in the Frankfurt airport get around by bicycle. It’s gotta be one of the biggest airports in the world.  I should look into that.  They also have smoking boxes, sponsored by good old Joe Camel of course.  It was kind of a sad and desperate sight to walk by.  I wonder what Skinner would have thought of the boxes. I am also quite impressed by the masses of people here at 8:15 in the morning, and among those people, the not small number of them that are drinking beer.  When I was 20 I would have thought this was awesome.  Now, it just makes me think too much.

            My bags were waiting for me in the airport in Vilnius.  I am quite relieved to be wearing clean underwear.  

Toronto Rocks my Socks (or at the least the 1 pair that was in my carry-on luggage)

Top 5

5. Toronto has food that is not potatoes.

a. There are street vendors aplenty.  Highlights include soft serve ice cream trucks and the fact that every hotdog guy had a veggie dog option and the most impressive condiment bar I’ve ever seen accompanying street sausages. 

b. I got to have sushi one last time before 2 months of potatoes and conversations in which people try to convince me that just because something has pork in it doesn’t mean it’s not vegetarian.

 c. There are coffee shops everywhere.  This is a much healthier respite than the Eastern European afternoon option.  There are bars everywhere.

4. Canadians are nice.  Really nice.

a. Take the subway for example.  First try, token doesn’t work.  Tell the guy behind me to go ahead.  He tells me to try it a few times, sometimes they don’t work right away.  I get nothing.  He waits patiently and then says, alright, then come on, and we make our way through the turnstyle as a twosome.  Illegal, perhaps, but really nice.  Then a 7-year old boy gets up and gives me his seat.  This would happen in Chicago if I were 95.  Maybe.

b. Everybody here either talks with a French accent or says “eh” all the time.  Both of which are highly entertaining. 

3. Toronto cares about the planet.

a. It is impossible not to recycle on the street.  There are no free-standing garbage cans, only receptacles with 4 compartments labeled for mixed paper, bottles and cans, Styrofoam, and trash.  There is even a written explanation of what can go into each. 

b. Their buses are all hybrid and they run electric streetcars.

c. Their home disposal program comes with 3 bins - one for trash, one for recycling, and one for composting materials.  These get collected every week and then in the spring, trucks come through the neighborhoods and drop off big piles of fertilizer made from the compost for people to use in their gardens.  How on earth does Chicago make it on to "Green Cities" lists?!?

d. You have to pay for plastic bags.

2. Toronto has a shoe museum.

a. The goal in foot binding for Chinese women was 3 inches?!!? 

b. The Dutch not only made clogs for walking, they made clogs for roller-skating. And yes, they are called roller-clogs.

c. Those Dutch again….during WWII they made clogs that had heels carved into the front of them so they could smuggle rationed goods across the border to Belgium.  Tricky.

 

1. Toronto is not an airport bench in Frankfurt.

a. Toronto has beds and showers. This point is self-explanatory.

b. Toronto is new, international, and not what I was expecting; yet directions, signs, and menus are all in English.  This was about all the exploration of a foreign land I could handle in the mental state brought on by the thought that ¾ of the things I need for my work / family in Lithuania is lost forever.

c. Toronto has Lithuanians.  The most notable among them is my “Aunt” Laima. She took good care of me these last few days and I dare say our visit was worth the flight fiasco.  She even made my favorite Lithuanian soup for dinner.  I bet I won’t have a better version, even when I finally get there.  Oh, irony.