Author Archives: steveschuit

“That’s What It’s All About”

The Hokey Pokey (Song for kids)

You put your right foot in

You put your right foot out

You put your right foot in

And you shake it all about

You do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around

That’s what it’s all about

Alla, pictured right, teaches this 4th Grade class here in Latvia. She was a student of mine in a specially designed “Advanced English” class for local English teachers. She invited me to come to her class and read to her students.

English Language Fellows (ELF ) work worldwide for the U.S. State Dept. We are, lifting a marketing phrase used by the Peace Corps, doing “the toughest job we’ll ever love.” Figuratively, we’re “soft diplomats.” Nothing could be closer to the truth. Every time we step into a classroom we represent the United States, whether it’s explicit, like when the State Department logos are pasted onto the first slide of all our PowerPoint presentations. Or, on the other hand, as I lead an informal English discussion group during the lunch hour and we loosely discuss topics such as traveling abroad or the success of the Latvian film Flow winning an Academy Award for best animated film. We are inevitably seen as representatives of the U.S. and what we convey, even what may be inferred by the locals, carries weight.

We “do the Hokey Pokey” day-in and day-out, by teaching classes at our assigned university or giving presentations at the local American Information Centers, usually funded by the respective country’s U.S. Embassy. But we also get countless requests by English teachers in the local community to come to their classes to be, as they say in baseball, utility players. Depending on the age of the students, your role as a guest speaker might include giving a presentation on the U.S. Education System, or reading a story about Fuzzy The Cat who thinks there’s a monster under his bed.

Yesterday, I kept a commitment I had made weeks ago to one of my students, Alla, a 4th grade English teacher here in Latvia. While attending one of my classes, Advanced English, designed for English teachers like herself, she asked, somewhat haltingly, if I could come into her class and read to her students. I never say “no.” And as we got things going in her classroom, I thought I would break the ice, by asking the students if they had any questions for me–it’s a quick way too of assessing the English-speaking ability of the group. After asking me what my favorite countries were (I said, South Korea and Hungary, after the U.S., of course), one student said she could say hello in Korean. “Gam-sahab-nida,” she said, with near perfect pronunciation. Then, in quick succession, a smaller boy said he could count to ten in Korean. Teacher Alla, sitting quietly in the back of the room, taking photos, looked shocked. And the young boy starting counting from one to ten, also with perfect enunciation. “Where did you learn to speak Korean?,” I asked, with genuine curiosity. “I take Taekwondo,” he said, with a proud smile. These priceless revelations all taking place before I had even started reading to the class.

These are the sweet moments, the places “in between.” The interludes not necessarily planned or assigned. And to an American English Language Fellow, dancing the Hokey Pokey on any given day, somewhere in the world, that’s really what it’s all about.

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So, What’s With Finland And This “Happiness Thing?”

Helsinki’s Ferris Wheel at the harbor. The dark gondola seen here at
11 o’clock is a functioning sauna and is available for rent

Everyone is writing about Finland these days. There was the piece in The New York Times, The Happiest Country in the World Isn’t What You Think, by Byron Johnson and friends, challenging Finland’s place atop the happiness throne. Basically, these guys at Harvard think they’ve developed a better way to measure “happiness.” I also saw the article, Finland Says It Can Teach Tourists to Be Happy. Challenge Accepted, by Brits Lotking, who recently went to Finland to see “if she could bring happiness back to America with her.” You know, I sense a bit of sardonic skepticism, and a good ol’ dose of American arrogance in this taking measure of Finland’s 8-year run at being selected as the happiest country in the world. The U.N.’s World Happiness Report is released about this time every year and once again, it lists Finland as #1.

I’ve been using that report as a vehicle for teaching English for many years now. It’s a handy way to introduce a global study where you can compare and contrast countries. You can ask students to do some self-assessing: “On a 1-10 scale, how happy are you?” It also allows some running room for students to voice their own skepticism about the concept and how it gets measured in the report. I see skepticism as a good thing, a key component of critical thinking.

So, I had a modicum of skin in the game during our recent trip, our second, to Finland. I was going, of course, to see the sights of Helsinki, but my secondary mission was to ask around and see if this happiness thing had some truth to it–at least in the eyes of the locals. I did what I usually do, strike up conversations with nearly everyone, then see if there is a natural opening, and ask what they think about Finland being a happier place. I even pulled my walking tour guide aside and asked if he would talk about it offline for a minute or two. He smiled knowingly, and asked if I’d be willing to wait 45-minutes or so and he would get to it.

Sure enough, some time later, he stopped at a convenient spot along a sidewalk in a park a block or two from the harbor. He looked over the group and said, “Let’s talk about this happiness thing,” as if it was a huge elephant in the room that everyone was itching to address. “Whether you call it happiness, satisfaction, or just being pleased, it’s real,” he assured us. Now he had my attention. I had arrived at the top of the sacred mountain, and the old wise priest was talking it up.

Our Finnish Walking Tour guide walking us through the Helsinki Public Library. Finns being “happy” is a real thing, he said.

He started as if riffing, not in an arrogant way, but leaning plantiffly, as if making a case…

-Well, all our schools are public. There are no private schools. Our kids go to school 20-hours a week. Start their day at the reasonable time of 9AM, and we disdain competitive testing.

-When parents give birth to a new child, they get 3-years parental leave. First though, the government delivers a box to your home which contains about 50-items that parents of new borns can use to make their lives easier.

-If you lose your job, the government pulls out all the stops to help you regain employment. There are retraining programs, job assistance and of course, financial support, until you find your next job.

From the sauna (right), directly into the outdoor cold-water pool.
The sauna is a long-standing cultural tradition in Finland. Some say it’s a significant factor in the country’s high happiness ratings.

-He talked about schools, museums, and other institutions that support citizens, like libraries, and on that note, we immediately walked over to the new Helsinki Public Library that sits on a huge square across from the Parliament Building on one side and kiasma, the Finnish National Gallery, on the other. Frankly, I have never seen such a community-oriented facility in my life. I was standing in the glassed enclosed lobby looking around and wondered where I was. There were tables earmarked for chess playing right at the entrance and a sense of momentum and purpose moving around me. Each floor, in turn, boasted different services and activities for Helsinki citizens of any age. There were music rooms, cooking rooms, meetings rooms available free of charge. There were training facilities and printing facilities, places to watch films. There were several coffee shops and areas just to hang out, and yes, even books for loan. But you could also check-out tools and even artwork to hang in your home for a time. One can spend days there. But that’s the point, Finnish winters are long and dark.

Playing chess in the lobby of the Helsinki Public Library

Another reason to think Finns might be happier than the average country, has to do with their long standing cultural relationship to the sauna. It’s not “sawna,” like we would say back in Maine, it’s pronounced “sow-na,” carrying just a touch of elan as the word leaves the lips of a Finn. Saunas are that sacred ritual where people sit in wooden paneled dry heat rooms sweating their brains out. In Finland, that activity is almost always followed by some level of cold water dowsing whether in a tub, a lake, the harbor, or even via a cold shower. It’s the intense heat, then incredible cold, that makes it special, if not the existential ritual that some claim. But our tour guide insisted that the national pastime was perhaps the most important factor contributing to the Finish being the happiest people.

In spite of countless distractions, this young Finnish girl remained
deeply immersed in her book

So, I left Finland satisfied, and frankly convinced. They are certainly not the most gregarious people I’ve met. Finns check-in on the quiet, slightly distant, side. But they say, once in that sauna, they have license to break out of their shells, and apparently they do. They won’t brag about it, and only discuss it seriously, if pushed a bit. But I for one, believe it to be true. The Finns are one happy lot. I saw why with my own eyes.

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Heaven’s Fall

Note: This post was authored by one of my students, Aylin Aydogdu. Aylin is enrolled in two of my writing classes here at Daugavpils University in Latvia. She is from Kayseri, Turkey, and her English, she is proud to say, is self-taught. Aylin, 21, is an international student participating in Europe’s Erasmus Program, and is a full-time student at Erzincan Binali Yildirim University in Turkey.

Aylin Aydogdu

The ground beneath my feet had always been steady, like the promises of my parents to keep me safe. But that day, it betrayed us. The earth, which I thought was my friend, roared and shook so fiercely that I couldn’t stand. My sister screamed, and I tried to hold her hand, but we were yanked apart as everything fell apart around us. The last thing I remember was her small fingers slipping from mine as the ceiling came crushing down.

I woke up under a sky I didn’t recognize, gray with dust and shadows. I was surrounded by rubble, cold and sharp, pressing against my skin. I called for my sister, my mom, my dad…No one answered. Hours passed – or was it days? I don’t know. Time felt broken, like everything else.

When they finally found me, I was too tired to cry. The rescuers pulled me out, their hands rough, but warm. They told me I was lucky. I didn’t feel lucky. As they carried me away, I saw a man sitting in the rubble, holding a small, lifeless hand sticking out from beneath the concrete. His tears had frozen on his face from the cold, and he didn’t move. They told me later he had waited there for 3-days, refusing to let go of his daughter’s hand. I didn’t know her name, but I felt like I had lost her too.

They took me to a shelter where the air smelled like wet clothes and sadness. Everyone had the same hollow look, their faces pale and drawn. A woman sat rocking back and forth, clutching a shoe that belonged to her son. A boy about my age stared blankly at the floor, his arm in a sling. He didn’t speak, not even when I tried to talk to him. Maybe he had run out of words.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have words to describe what I felt. Unadulterated anger, sadness, fear – they all tangled up inside me, fighting to take over. I’d close my eyes and see my sister’s hand reaching for me. I’d hear my mom calling my name, my dad’s voice telling us to run. And, I’d be up shaking, the sound of collapsing buildings still echoing in my ears.

They tell me I have to move on, that life goes on. But how can life go on when everything that made it worth living is gone? I lost my family, my home, my school, my friends. Even the toys I used to play with, the ones that made me feel safe, are buried under the rubble. And every time I think about it, I feel like I’m buried there too.

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An Open Letter to the Leaders of Europe: By Opposing Trump, You Can Make Us Great Again

Gary Markstein, Creators Syndicate, 2025

Dear Leaders of Europe,

Most historians, and people of a certain age, would agree that Americans saved Europe during WWII. Now it’s your turn to reciprocate–please help save the United States. We hope you, Europe’s leaders, have the courage and conviction that America’s politicians lack when it comes to confronting Trump and his minions. Their brash, egomaniacal, and moronic statements and demands are laughable. We Americans know it, you know it, and hopefully, you’ll confront the stooges head-on, unlike the countless, feckless lemmings back home in the U.S.

Trump’s anointed fools have already begun arriving on your shores. Vice-President, JD Vance, arrived in Paris this week and told an assemblage of leaders debating the future of artificial intelligence that America would dominate the industry, make the most advanced chips on American soil, write the software there and set the rules. Europe could either get on board or get out of the way (NYT). Remember, only recently, the same JD Vance told Americans, with a straight face, that immigrants in Ohio, his home state, were eating cats and dogs. Don’t believe anything that comes out of his mouth.

Bramhall, NYDN, 2025

Then Trump’s new Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth, told a meeting of allies in Brussels that Ukraine must give up its objective of recapturing all its lost territory in the war with Russia. It was revealed during his recent nomination hearings that he has well-documented drinking problems, has sexually abused women and was nominated because he was a popular weekend TV host on a program liked by Trump. Senate Armed Services Chair Roger Wicker (R-MS) called Hegseth’s comments, a “rookie mistake” (Heather Cox Richardson, Feb. 14) and pushed back today when Hegseth offered that the U.S. would not support Ukraine’s membership in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). He said that it was “unrealistic” for Ukraine to demand a return to its borders before Russia invaded in 2014, essentially offering to let Russia keep Crimea. Senator Wicker, a member of Trump’s own party, said he was “puzzled” and “disturbed” by Hegseth’s comments and added: “I don’t know who wrote the speech—it is the kind of thing Tucker Carlson could have written, and Carlson is a fool.” Joe Gould and Jamie Dettmer of Politico identified Carlson as a “pro-Putin broadcaster.”

Then, dear European leaders, there is Mr. Trump himself, who again, according to the NYT, has began imposing tariffs on you before he has begun even cursory diplomatic negotiations, hurting you, our allies, and adversaries alike, and wiping out years of trade agreements. This is the same Donald Trump who has insisted we rename the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska’s Denali, the highest peak in North America, by executive order. In 2017, Trump pushed hard to make Americans accept that the crowds at his inauguration were bigger than those at President Barack Obama’s, an immediately disprovable lie that seemed unimportant at the time but was key to establishing the primacy of Trump’s vision over reality. This “acceptance” that led, eventually, to the Big Lie that Trump had won the 2020 presidential election and now, apparently, to the lie that Elon Musk is cutting “waste and fraud” from the government here when, in fact, he appears simply to be cutting programs he and Trump dislike (Heather Cox Richardson, Feb. 14).

Trump is a pathological liar. According to the Washington Post’s count, just during his first term as President, he lied well over 3500 times. Dr. Brandy Lee, a Psychiatrist and MD, and author of the book “The Dangerous Case of Donald Trump,” has established, along with 40 other leading psychiatrists, that Trump has Clinical Personality Disorder, a pathology which fuels on cruelty and destruction. This is evidenced by his current wanton destruction of the U.S. government and its myriad agencies.

America’s Republican leaders, who once led with patriotism and pride, have become sycophantic puppets and have completely lost their way. Our Democratic leaders are licking their wounds after losing the 2024 election and are currently useless. We look to you to save Europe from Trump’s pathology and in doing so, help contribute to his demise. The modern Europe which we helped to create, led by NATO and the EU, must not succumb to Trump and his Russian partner, Putin. We look to you, the leaders of Europe, to defend freedom and democracy which, for the moment, are being spirited away from our shores.


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Rezekne, A Place in Between

Places like Rezekne remind us to see beauty and opportunity in the mundane moments of life, rather than constantly chasing after the next big thing. They remind us that there is value in slowing down and appreciating the journey. (Paraphrasing Jeff Goins, author of “The In-Between”)

The Rēzekne River as it meanders through the downtown area of this small Latvian city of 26,000 people.

Well known cities like Seoul, Tokyo and London are immediately recognizable and bring iconic images to mind: man-made canyons of gleaming buildings, long steel bridges, and streets almost comically teeming with people. Then there are the places in-between, the oft-ignored stops along train lines, the towns with awkwardly paved streets, where the smell of homes still heating with wood or coal fills the air. Locals are apt to still speak an old dialect from centuries past, and to move with a patient gait knowing that whatever is around the next corner will inevitably wait.

Rezekne in Latvia’s eastern-most Latgale Region, built on 7-small hills, is such a place. An old city, lying only 39-miles from the Russian border, it was once part of the Pale of Settlement, the large area in western Russia where Jews were once permitted to live and prosper in relative peace. In the late 19th century the city was 60% Jewish, and as late as 1935, the population was a quarter Jewish.

On a recent overcast Friday, I took the bus from Daugavpils, where I teach English, and about 2-hours later arrived in Rezekne with a plan to meet Elina, the city’s Tourism Information Specialist. Speaking fluent English and well-versed in history, Elina met me outside the Green Synagogue located on Israel Street in the city’s Old Town. The Synagogue, she tells me, and the surrounding neighborhood, were miraculously spared from the intense bombing inflicted by the Russians during World War II. In fact, nearly 70% of the buildings in Rezekne were destroyed.

Elina, here holding the keys to the Green Synagogue, works in the city’s Tourism Department, and in my mind, is the best ambassador a city could have.

Elina, holds the keys to the synagogue, and so too, the historic details of the city, which she unfolds like the pages of a novel. After carefully leading me through the several rooms in the synagogue, which dates from 1846, she escorts me past the nearby buildings. She points to the former Jewish Bank, a modest but handsome brick building across the street. A minute later she directs my attention to an old fire house, once staffed with Jewish firemen who, she says, famously doubled as town musicians.

The former Jewish Bank, now a several unit apartment building.
The old fire station, once staffed by Jewish fire fighters who doubled as the municipal band.

Having previously seen the city’s new Center of Culture, GORS, well-regarded across Latvia, I know the city is being proactive about trying to make itself a sustainable city. Smaller cities such as Daugavpils and Rezekne, like similarly-sized cities throughout the world, are confronting shrinking and aging populations. Their younger citizens are heading to the big more dynamic cities like the capital, Riga, here in Latvia. Just a few years ago, to invest in its heritage and to attract more tourists, the city hired a Norwegian team to come and restore the Green Synagogue which had remained in disrepair and unused, except for a few homeless souls, for some time. It’s that pride in itself and its history that left me rather impressed.

The new and nationally recognized GORS Cultural Center in Rezekne.

Unlike other places I’ve visited in Europe, the locals here did not take up arms to rid the city of its Jewish population. Elina vividly described to me the proud relationship between the Catholic and Jewish communities that once existed here. At the top of the hill, she says, is the double-spired Cathedral of the Holy Jesus Heart. The Jews would honor their Sabbath on Saturday and the town would be quiet. But on Sunday, as the worshippers left church, they would walk down the hill past blocks of Jewish-owned stores selling everything imaginable. There was a special energy in the air as sellers and buyers filled the main street with an excitement that symbolized the best the community had to offer.

It’s places like Rezekne, the towns and cities in-between, that quietly insist we slow down and listen to their history. In many ways, it’s likely they hold the most important lessons for our future.

Wall art depicting the oldest known photo of the Jews of Rezekne.

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Virs Un Vards: A Man And His Word

One of the things I have always loved about our home state of Maine is that it still is a place where a handshake binds a deal. When we closed on our home in 1985, no lawyers were present-just the four of us, the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Craigin, Marsha and me, and a bank employee. We shook hands in agreement, and the deal was as good as gold.

During a recent meeting with my “person of contact,” that is, my wonderful Latvian supervisor here at the university where I am teaching, I mentioned that nearly all the Latvians I’ve encountered during my first 5-months here, students, colleagues, nearly everyone, seem especially “earnest” to me. Ilze smiled as she heard my comment, and said proudly, in fact, that characteristic is a fundamental cultural feature here in Latvia and it’s called “Virs un Vards,” literally “a man and his word.” When a Latvian says they will do something, count on it. She said it was one of the most meaningful and descriptive expressions in Latvian culture.

Later, Ilze sent me this photo, the cover and name of an old children’s book here in Latvia, “Virs un Vards,” “A Man and His Word.”

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Cruises: A First-World’s Awkward Pleasure, And Everyone’s Problem

“The food here is terrible, and the portions are so small.” Woody Allen

The MSC Line’s Cruise Ship Lirica

I know cruises personally. Not from a lengthy resume of cruise ship voyages, but because I live on an island, in a city, that “welcomes” dozens of them for parts of the year. The use of “welcomes” here is certainly a euphemism. Cruise ships, for most residents, are an annoyance. For starters, they bring crowds to the streets, long queues in shops, and increase congestion in all directions. In addition, there’s that conspicuous smoke that constantly emanates from the ships’ stacks and the ongoing controversy about the dumping of both gray and black water into nearby bays.

I lead bike tours during the summer months and many of my customers are cruise ship passengers who wisely choose to do something physical while in port. They seize the chance to visit local lighthouses that have historically protected the harbor. And let’s be honest, people embarking from cruise ships spend money at local shops, buying souvenirs and trinkets from resident artists and entrepreneurs, and services like bike tours.

So it was with complete ambivalence that I recently boarded a cruise ship in the Mediterranean as December ended and January welcomed in the New Year. Candidly, our stops were fascinating: the island of Majorca, then Valencia, Spain, the port of Cagliari in Sardinia, and finally several Ligurian Sea ports not far from Rome and Florence. Our journey both commenced and ended in the gritty, yet alluring seaport of Marseille, France.

On one hand, the food aboard the Swiss-Italian owned MSC Line can best be described as “camp food” –recalling my days as a kid at summer camp. I found myself hoping for a delicious meal and yet, was constantly disappointed. Paraphrasing Woody Allen’s comedic line, “and such small portions.” On the other hand, the on-board customer-service was excellent and we took great pleasure interfacing with the international crew.

Two members of the on-board staff, sisters Agnes and Mita from Indonesia

I understand that Cunard’s Queen Mary has figured out how to delight its passengers when it comes to its culinary offerings. Royal Caribbean is also known to do a good job in this area. But when the conversation turns to what cruise ships do to local communities like Venice, Italy and Bar Harbor, Maine, naming just two, those residents care not at all about on-board food quality. They do care about the environmental degradation cruise ships create in their harbors, their skies, and on their streets. That should increasingly be everyone’s concern, including mine.

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Baltic Windows

“I feel that it is healthier to look out at the world through a window than through a mirror. Otherwise, all you see is yourself and whatever is behind you.” Bill Withers

The windows of local residential flats as seen from a hallway near one of my classrooms (Daugavpils, Latvia)
Side windows of a Stalin-era building along. November Street, one of our major thoroughfares here in Daugavpils, Latvia
Looking north and west toward the Daugava River from my office in “The New Building,” at Daugavpils University. I hold lunchtime conversation classes here. (Daugavpils, Latvia)
Looking out from a synagogue window. At the Green Synagogue (1845), one of the oldest wooden structures in the city of Rezekne, population 27,000. (Latvia)
From the window of Tallinn’s oldest coffee shop, Cafe Maiasmokk (circa 1864). That’s the Russian Embassy across the street–note the protest paraphernalia. (Tallinn, Estonia)

Christmas window of shop in the Old Town. (Tallinn, Estonia)

Windows overlooking nuns. Location of the Vilnius Theater. (Vilnius, Lithuania)
Artist Mark Rothko, born in Daugavpils, Latvia, stands near a window, shortly before his death. There is a marvelous art museum in his name here in Daugavpils.
View from the window of a recently renovated flat in Daugavpils, Latvia
Windows reflecting a brilliant Tallinn sunset. (Tallinn, Estonia)
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Lydia

“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.

Lydia serving a student at the campus canteen where she works
weekdays from 8:30 – 4:00.

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.

Sweets served-up by Lydia.

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