April, 2001:  Mazsalaca.  Last night, at about 11:30, I went into my living room.  It was dark and, before turning the light on, I noticed a flickering orange glow on the ceiling.  Looking out the window, I saw a small bonfire on the lawn.  Earlier in the day it had been a smoking pile of damp leaves, grass, and whatever else the rake collects in the spring cleanup.  The children must have added twigs and branches to get a nice blaze going.  There were four of them, neighbor children, ranging in age from seven to fourteen.  They would squat and hold a stick in the fire until the end was glowing, and then retreat into the darkness and wave it around, making red patterns in the air, showering sparks as they went.

March, 2001: Riga.  Sitting in a cafe with friends in Old Riga.  We hear a rumbling noise and turn to see a sheet of slushy snow sliding down the steep roof of a three-story building across the street.  The snow crashes onto a Jeep Cherokee parked in the narrow alleyway below.  We expect someone to come running, but nothing happens.  That afternoon I notice that people on foot are walking as far away from buildings as possible, and looking up often.

January, 2001: Riga.  The automatic doors of the bus station slide open to reveal a large dog sprawled on the floor mat a few meters in, apparently sleeping.  In the waiting room, pigeons perch on iron bars that cross below the high ceiling.  A pregnant cat makes her way among the seated passenger's legs, looking for handouts.  Periodically she goes underneath one of the double rows of plastic seats and sits, watching feet pass by.

November, 2000.  The bus from Valmiera to Mazsalaca is chugging along at the standard 35-40 miles per hour.  All the seats are full, and a few people are standing.  Latvian music is playing on the driver's cassette player, sounding a bit like a cross between American country and polka music.  It is dark outside.  Since there are no lights inside the bus, everyone sits in the dark.  Even though it is only 6 p.m., it feels like the middle of the night.  The bus stops every 10 minutes or so to let someone off.  Most of the stops are in the country, near a field or forest—sometimes there is no house in sight.  Since there are no lights at the stops, the people disappear into the darkness as soon as the bus pulls away; some use flashlights, some don't.  The clouds are dense and low, so the countryside is pitch black.  Seen from a distance, the golden rectangles of farmhouse windows appear to be suspended in the air.

Last day of September, 2000: Mazsalaca.  Walking down the road from my apartment building to the forest, a sunny, warm fall day.  Occasionally there is a sharp popping sound as an acorn falls to the road from the trees overhead. § A man in a field, cleaning the dirt off of potatoes and putting them into big sacks.  His dogs see me and start to head my way, ready to protect their territory.  The farmer calls them back and they reluctantly give up the chase.  § Two goats and a yearling calf chained near each other in a meadow.  The smaller, white goat is frisky and vocal.  § A large brown cow bellows as I walk by, making an appeal.  I shrug and say I'm sorry I can't help.  § A wagon pulled by a tractor, piled high with loose hay, crosses the field.  Later I see the wagon stopped by a shed of sorts near my apartment building, a man on top of the pile is forking the hay into the shed.  Someone inside is piling it against the back wall. § Near the allotment gardens, several large piles of garden refuse are burning, giving off great clouds of smoke.  § A man stands with his foot up on a hand cart, smoking a cigarette, while his wife unloads cabbages from the cart into their garage.  §  Two boys in short-sleeved shirts shoot a basketball into the netless hoop on a pole in front of the apartment building.

July, 2000:  Valmiera.  A female emergency medical technician getting into an ambulance.  Her attire: official orange EMT vest, short-sleeved white blouse, tight black pants, and slip-on black, open-toed shoes with 4-inch wedge heels (I think they're called mules).

June, 2000:  Mazsalaca.  One day I was walking down the road toward the center of town, which goes past the manor house that is now the primary school.  Across the road from the school is a small spring-fed pond which feeds a stream that runs along the road.  There is a fairly steep, grassy bank of about 15 feet between the road and the stream. From a distance I noticed an elderly woman walking with a bicycle, and it looked like she was rushing her bike down the bank into the stream.  Then I saw her trying to pull it back up, yanking furiously at the handlebars. As I got closer, I saw that there was a rope attached to the handlebars.  The other end of the rope was wrapped around the horns of a big, brown cow (dairy cows here have horns—a sight that still seems strange to me).  Apparently the cow had decided to get a drink of water from the stream, without regard to her mistress. Unmoved by the vigorous pulling on the rope, the cow had a leisurely drink, and then consented to being pulled back up the bank.  Then the woman, bicycle, and cow continued their progress down the road.