“Humility is the light of understanding.” John Bunyan

It’s a quiet dance. She listens to my request, dutifully leaves the window to make my coffee and to heat my Latvian snack in the microwave. I hear the timer ring in the distance and she returns to calculate my bill. I seek to embellish our brief time together as passengers on this twice-weekly routine, by asking how her day is going.

Brick by brick, exchange by exchange, I am building a social cottage here. A few people, like Lydia, help piece it all together. Her slight smile, her friendly voice, are the mortar that help hold it all together. I know I could easily leave it like that: comfortably anonymous and perfunctorily routine. But then, I’ll miss learning something more, about Latvia, about this place, about Lydia.

So I ask if I can speak to her sometime in the days ahead-an interview of sorts, I say. She agrees, and I wonder if she understands my request.

Lydia was born 62 years ago in the tiny hamlet of Faltopi about 30 kilometers southeast of Daugavpils. It is near the Latvian-Belarus border. She was an only child, she tells me, as was her husband of 42-years and their daughter, Inesa.

Inesa, though, changed all that, having 5-children. She moved to the UK, leaving the country, as a number of younger Latvians do, seeking opportunities and higher paying jobs elsewhere. When I learn that Inesa’s eldest daughter, Ustina, is in dental school, I say with some certainty, “Oh, you must be very proud.” A huge smile envelops Lydia’s face.

With her grandchildren living in England, Lydia likes to practice using her English-luckily for me. Latvians are highly literate (99%+) and well-educated. Lydia graduated from Riga Polytechnic University, majoring in building and architecture. It’s her interest, she says, in meeting and speaking with others, that brings her to this canteen window, a portal for brief exchanges of food, beverage and conversation.

This semester I visit Lydia’s building on Mondays and Wednesdays where I lead lunchtime English conversation classes. Knowing she’s here, that I can say hello, ask how she’s doing, adds something intangibly meaningful to my day. And Lydia, was my mom’s name.

Lydia and I share a history now, a place in time and space. She is not part of the official curriculum I offer my English students, and won’t be mentioned in a written report to the US. Embassy, or to program contacts in Washington, D.C. But meeting Lydia is exactly why I am here, teaching in Latvia.