The Last Leg

And, that quickly, I make my way toward my last destination abroad. I’ve been to Sweden before, six years ago and coming in this second time, I look up, I can’t help it as I’m once again mesmerized by how big the sky here seems. Rounder somehow, grander, spacious enough to allow full and deep breathing and to make me feel free to fly, free to be. Even when the sky is cloud covered and the air is cold.

“You like it here?” one of my Swedish friends had once asked during that first visit.

“Yes,” I’d said. It had been September at the time. The days still sunlit and the air still without too sharp a bite.

“Come back in February,” he’d said. And I’d thought then about how dark the winters must be. How cold and dark. How grey the Swedish world must become by February. But I hadn’t really believed in February, not during that September. Not in that long-lasting, adventurous summer that had seemed miraculously as if it would never end.

February couldn’t really be real.

But now, this December, as I approach the end of the year and the end of this grand time of traveling and writing and living, February with its grey skies, dark days, and persistent cold seems imminent. The future has a wintry wind blowing in it and a touch of uncertainty. I shiver a little inside my woolen jumper.

Not quite ready to move on (just around the corner is another Christmas Market I’ve not yet seen, another Old Town to explore, another forest to wander through, another country to visit, more friends to make), I take the ferry from Riga to Stockholm and then the metro from the port to Stockholm Central Station.

For a moment, in Stockholm, the sun shines, glinting against the downtown buildings’ glass. I walk with my face turned up. The sunlight as bright as the smiles I give and receive as I wile away my stopover time. At a busy restaurant with large windows, I sit and eat a salad, watching the people walk by. At one point, a man asks me in Swedish if he can sit at the opposite end of my table. I don’t know the individual words, but I understand and give my assent with an inviting wave of my hand so that he doesn’t even know I don’t speak the language. 

Too soon, it’s time to take my train onward. I press my nose to the glass and watch the sky change from blue to blue and white to white to grey.

As we approach my stop the conductor comes by and says, “You’re going on to Motala?”

I nod.

“The train is running six minutes late,” she tells me. Six minutes late and there had been only nine minutes of time between my trains. Somewhere along the line, we’d stopped for something and the explanation given over the speakers had been in Swedish and I hadn’t understood. “We’ll come in on track four and your train will leave from track one. So, go to the back of the train. When you get off go across the platform, down the stairs, around the front of the station, and then you’ll be at track one.”

I repeat the instructions and then say, “I go to the back of the train because it’s faster?” Closer to the stairs and the directions I’ll be going. Closer so that my three minutes of time will be enough to get me where I have to go.

“Yes,” she says, smiling a bright smile. “Faster.”

I thank her, shoulder my backpack, and make my way to the end of the train.

As I stand near the door another couple come to stand near me, ready to disembark too.

I’m facing the right side but the platform is on the left and I turn when I realize. The man of the couple says something that I think means, “You can’t always choose the right side,” and I agree with a sound and then follow up in English with, “I’m going to have to run.”

When he begins to move away from the door to give me room (for he must have run for his share of trains too) I say, “But I want you to open the door for me.” It’s got a lever rather than a button and sometimes doors thwart me.

“I’ll open it for you and jump out of the way. Which way do you have to go?”

“Right, I think.”

“I’ll open the door and jump left and you can jump right and run.” He’s smiling.

“Thanks!”

Soon enough, the train glides to a stop. As planned, the man opens the door and jumps left. I scramble out and off to the right, heading toward the stairs.

“Run! Run! Run!” he calls out from behind me. I quickstep my way along the platform and down the stairs.

Flurries dance down around me as I do run to catch the connecting train from Hallsberg to Motala, dancing a seasonal magic and seasonal cheer down around me. A little breathless, a little exhilarated by motion, I make it with a minute to spare and settle in my seat for the last bit of travel for this afternoon.

My friend and his girlfriend pick me up from the train station and we spend the next few days catching up, drinking tea and smoothies, and relaxing. The extra sleep and the rest do me good. And yet, even amid the joy of friendship, my thoughts are heavy.

Transitions. Pressure. The end of one thing. The end of a wonderful thing.  

The future promises something, but what? The cages of expectation and financial sustainability want to shut and lock me in. But I have this desire for freedom, always freedom. I don’t want my wings clipped, I want to fly. I want the open road ahead of me. I want the time to write and live. Just the way I like to. Just the way I’ve done this year.

One of the days, I sit at the kitchen table, looking out at the opposite apartment complex with each individual window brightened by illuminated Christmas stars and candelabras, and write out the freedoms that I want. There’s nothing like making a plan to clear up the clouds. It’s only a passing storm, these heavy thoughts. Besides, I like winter. Especially if there’s skiing involved. For, there’s a beauty in the darkness. There’s regeneration in the dormancy of winter. And there’s life to be lived in any season.

My last night there, after dinner, my friends and I sit at the table with mugs of peppermint tea and an offering of chocolate and gingerbread cookies before us.

“There’s something we have to do today,” my friend says.

“What?” his girlfriend asks.

“It’s the day of Saint Lucia.”

“That was today?” she asks. “We missed it? We should have gone to church. It’s a beautiful ceremony.”

“We’d have had to go at seven this morning.”

“That’s why we missed it,” one of us says. We’d all been cozily sleeping at seven.

“What does Saint Lucia do?” I ask.

“She brings the light.”

The festival of lights, the day of Saint Lucia is a Scandinavian and Italian Christmas tradition.

“I’m not sure exactly why we celebrate an Italian saint,” my friend says even as he pulls up a video on his phone from that morning in a church in Helsinki. It feels to me that honoring the tradition is important to him and I sit and think of the traditions I like the most, all the ones that I honor. Later when I look it up, I read, “…to vividly celebrate Saint Lucia’s Day will help one live the long winter days with enough light.” So, I can see that even if Saint Lucia didn’t originate in Sweden why her festival is so important. Why light matters. Why my friend wants to honor the tradition. He looks forward to the light.

Pulling our chairs in, we gather close together and watch the girl who represents St. Lucia with the candles on her head, leading a procession of singing girls and boys dressed in white and carrying their single candles.

It’s Christmas time. The winter traditions with the candles, decorated trees, the lights, all the lights are a reminder that the darkness doesn’t last forever. The winter solstice nears, the shortest day comes, but then after that the sunlight grows a little each day.

And if it ever feels too dark, the festival of the lights and Saint Lucia remind us that the days will get lighter. There’s comfort knowing that February never lasts forever (which is nice even if the skiing is good). March always comes around. 

There’s a comfort in knowing that even if this year is done, the future is what I make of it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Lucy%27s_Day

Zeppelins, the Whales of the Sky

Once, when I was twelve or thirteen, I borrowed a book from the Bennington library about the Hindenburg. Captivated by the prized German zeppelin with its science-fiction shape and its smooth design I flipped through the pages and was shocked by the story’s ending. Even with the book’s photographs in black and white, the images of the ship in flames seared themselves into my memory, into my imagination.

Beautiful lightweight whale of the sky.

Floating on air.

Then.

A bursting into flames. A falling to the ground.   

Beached.

Done.  

Though originally not intended or even considered for war, the zeppelins (named after their designer Count Ferdinand Adolf Heinrich August Graf von Zeppelin) had been conscripted and used during WWI for bombing and intimidation. Death by air was a terrifying thing.

But the war was long over.  

And, with peace once again in mind, the zeppelins were put back into the air. This time without bombs. For now, the world could start anew. The world could be toured and experiences shared from sky to sky.

Before the Hindenburg disaster, zeppelins were considered mastercrafts of the air. They flew smoothly—they floated really, more sleek than hot air balloons, more controllable. They were luxury class and elite. This was the 1930s and transatlantic flight was a big deal. Transatlantic travel was a big deal. At the time, Germany was leading the world in both flight innovation and travel.

Fly from Germany to South America! Fly from Germany to the United States! Circumnavigate the globe in 21 days!

Offering flights to those who could afford them, between March 1936 and May 1937, the Hindenburg put 63 flights under its belt.

That was the life. That was the way to travel. For, in addition to passenger cabins, the Hindenburg had a dining room, a cocktail lounge, and a writing room. There was even a piano on board. It was called The Hotel in the Sky.

Although designed to use helium, the Hindenburg’s balloon cells were filled with hydrogen. Apparently (I don’t remember this from the book), helium was rather rare and the United States had most of it. In order to better hoard it (having not learned to share when it was a child), the U.S. banned export of helium under the Helium Control Act of 1927. As a result, the Germans didn’t have non-flammable helium for their zeppelins so they filled the cells with hydrogen, first because hydrogen was available and second, because it gave more lift than helium.

Knowing the nature of hydrogen, naturally enough, onboard zeppelins there were strict rules against sparks, flames, or anything resembling anything flammable – even though there was also a sealed and pressurized smoking cabin on the ship. Figure that one out.

But something happened, no one really knows exactly what; sabotage, accident, or fate. As the Hindenburg came in for its landing in New Jersey, some deadly spark met hydrogen and the cells exploded. The ship burned up completely in less than 37 seconds.  

36 people died.

Maybe more surprising was that 62 survived.

I can’t remember the title of the borrowed book, but even so, I carry around, impressed on my memory, the imprint of the Hindenburg; the burning ship as it falls to earth, the whale-bone ribs exposed, the sadness of a beautiful thing gone wrong.

Eventually, and partly due to the Hindenburg disaster, the era of the zeppelin ended.

Maybe that’s what I carry with me—the end of an era.

A memento mori.

Whatever it is, when I’m looking up the things to do for one day in Riga, Latvia, I read that Riga’s Central Market is housed in old zeppelin hangers. And just like that, the disastrous and wonderful image of the zeppelin rises to the top of my watery memory.

I make a note in my travel journal: Central Market (housed in 5 WWI-era zeppelin hangers). I put it under the note for Old Town and above Art Nouveau Riga.

Not many days later, on a cold afternoon, with snow dusted over the roads and the forest grounds, I travel from Estonia to Latvia by bus. Outside the bus station, while trying to get my bearings and figure out how to get from there to the place where I’ll be staying, I look across the street and see the market. I see the rib shaped buildings and my soul floats upwards as if lifted by hydrogen (or even by the rarer non-flammable helium).  

Adjusting my backpack, I take some pictures and then walk briskly on in order to find my place before it’s completely dark.

After surviving an underground street crossing—like a metro tunnel except only for pedestrians—but ending up on the wrong side of the road, I eventually get to the street I need to get to. Never quite despairing, but almost, I finally make it all the way, check myself into my little, basement apartment, and put my backpack down. I glance at the clock and realize it’s only just after 4:00. These early dark days. Well, there’s still plenty of hours (if not daylight) left. I might as well use them. It’ll also be nice to get out and acquaint myself with a new neighborhood so that tomorrow I’ll have a sense of direction and purpose. My time in Riga will be short and hopefully sweet.

Retracing my steps, I head back the way I came and wonder if I can do better with the underground pedestrian crossing this time. Seeing where I need to go (I’m already making landmarks of these high rise shopping centers), I stand at the top of the steps and think, “I just need to go straight.” I try to envision the paths below me, I try to squint hard enough to see if there are crosswalks over ground. That’d be easier.

On impulse, I turn to a passing man and ask, “Do I have to go under to cross or can I cross above ground?” Because the tunnels branch out like a spider’s legs and I’m not familiar with the street names (are there even street name signs in here!?) yet and I don’t want to wander aimlessly all night, I want to be able to find my way home again.

At first, he almost keeps on. Then he stops, looks at me, and looks across the street. “Where are you trying to go?”

I point. “I just need to get there. I’m trying to go to the Central Market.”

He gives me another look as if to make a decision, and then he says, “Come on, I’ll take you.” Delighted to have a tunnel guide, I trot to keep up with him. We make our labyrinthal way—it’s not a straight line across. As we wind and weave, I try to glance around to see if I’ll be able to do it myself on the way home again. But we’re going too fast and then he says, “The Central Market? The place where you can buy potatoes for five cents.” He says this almost as if he’d never pay so little for potatoes. “Wouldn’t it be better to go tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I say. It’s easier than explaining I only have one full day and if I don’t go tonight, I might not go at all. And they’re zeppelin hangers. It’s easier than explaining I’m not really going to the Market for the market. He probably didn’t read a book about the Hindenburg when he was a child. Maybe for good reason, he’s probably not enthralled by zeppelins. Germany is much closer to him. Germany is much closer to Latvia’s history. In fact, Nazi Germany occupied Latvia from 1941 up until 1944, when the Soviets came swarming back in and retook Riga. Latvia’s sovereignty wasn’t restored until 1991 after the Soviet Union collapsed. So, all that to say, I don’t bring up Germany and I don’t bring up Russia either.

My guide is still wondering why I’m going to the Market now as he looks at his watch. “It’s four thirty,” he says, as if to give me some credit for my plan. “But they probably close at five or six.”

We walk (at a fast past) for a moment in silence. Then he says, “You must be American.”

“I’m sorry, I am,” I say, being a bit apologetic these days.

“I could tell by your accent. Where are you from?”

“From Texas.”

“I see your point,” he says. I wonder if I see it too, but I’m not exactly sure. Then he says, “You should have just gone. Instead of standing and waiting. You could already be there.”

“I didn’t want to get lost and wander around forever.” This is simpler than saying I’m not experienced with underground pedestrian crossings, I don’t really know my way around, I don’t speak any Latvian except paldies which means thank you, and I’ve already walked a lot today and would rather keep walking with purpose and to the point.

“I see your point. You’re from Texas and you’re used to trucks and cows. You don’t walk all that much.”

“Exactly,” I say, agreeably.

Finally, we’re through the tunnel. We go up a set of stairs and into the open air. We walk a ways down the sidewalk and then he says, “This is where I turn and you go on straight. You see the sign,” he points to a sign ahead of me, “there you take a left and then you’ll see the market.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

Not much for sentiment, he bids me farewell and he’s off. I’m off too. And then I’m there. The Central Market (housed in 5 WWI-era zeppelin hangers).

It feels almost too good to be true that I can actually go inside. Hardly looking at the things for sale—produce, fruit, nuts, dried fruit, meat, fish—I gaze up at the ceiling. I stare down the length of the building. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time. Or at least, I feel the spirit of a zeppelin. Once, one lived here. For, the zeppelins had to be housed in something, their fragile coverings were susceptible to weather.

During and after WWI, something like 60 of the 80 (these numbers might not be exact) German war zeppelins were destroyed in some manner or the other. So, that left a vast number of unused hangers. Many of these, being no longer needed, were also destroyed.

There were some abandoned hangers in Vainode, Latvia, only 183 kilometers away from Riga. And, Riga had long wanted a central market to replace the small and unsanitary one they had which was no longer meeting the needs of the growing city. Alas, WWI had interfered with their plans to build one. But, finally, the war was over. Life continued. And so, in 1922, the committee decided on their plan. One man had had the idea of using the five old Vainode hangers, cementing them in as more permanent structures and adding in some Neoclassical and Art Deco styles to complement the unique style of the hangers themselves. The committee was all for that and the city then spent the next 8 years completing the market.

It’s used in much the same way as it was all those years ago. Only, people don’t haggle so much over prices anymore. I think back to my tunnel guide’s remark about being able to buy potatoes for five cents. I wonder if he’d haggle his vendor down to three cents. Or to two.

I go into all five of the hangers, wandering up and down the length of the buildings with my head turned upward. The ribbed structures feel like the belly of the whale, the belly of the zeppelin, but it’s the wrong way around. I’m getting mixed up somewhere. I can’t have the hangers be the whales and the zeppelins be whales too. I’m all mixed up with joy.

I buy three apples for .55 cents.

For a moment, at the end of one of the buildings, I let my gaze soften as if to see the ghost image of the zeppelin inside this zeppelin hanger. I can almost see it. But it’s wispy. And then, it’s gone.

It wasn’t just the Hindenburg disaster that marked the end of the Zeppelin era. There were reasons that the airplane overtook the zeppelin; susceptibility to weather being one. There was the decline of the German empire. After WWII, in 1945, the Zeppelin company shut down. It wasn’t just one thing, there were many reasons for the decline and fall of the zeppelin era.   

As I leave the Central Market, a bit reluctantly (but the vendors are closing up shop for the night), I wonder what the world would look like now if there’d been enough non-flammable helium to share around. I wonder what the sky would look like full of zeppelins. I wonder if that world would be better or worse than the one I live in now.

If nothing else, I think, turning to look back at the buildings one last time, it’s something for the imagination.