Perspective II

Once upon a time and long ago, I lived in a hotel that was used by circus performers. The hotel sat on a cobblestone street adjacent to Dome Square, Riga's central plaza, where young men played violin and cello in the shade. The hotel had a lovely, aged facade; inside, it smelled like -- well, I've never smelled that smell in the US. It smelled like old air. Like 500-year-old air. Musty. Inside the hotel was spare as a cave and in fact the building seemed to me naturally-occurring rather than man-made. I had a room, just a room, four walls and a bed, with one glorious, hip-to-ceiling window. I lived there through a summer and sat on the window ledge every day, listening to the musicians and to people talking below and, in the evening, to the breeze. A young English journalist who worked out of the room next-door sometimes joined me. We'd sip shots of vodka and talk about life. The (shared) bathroom was not clean, the shower had no hot water and I slept in a sleeping bag laid on a bare mattress -- but oh, I enjoyed that place.

When I rented the room they told me that since it was the circus' hotel, I could only stay until the performers returned from -- wherever they were -- in the fall. In those peripatetic days I never stayed anywhere for long; the hotel was my third residence in a year; and I liked it that way. Moving around was a good way to experience the city. Also, it was easy. Everything I owned fit in a backpack.

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The other day I ran out to the Goodwill truck, which very conveniently spends its days in the parking lot of a grocery store just a mile from my house. I gave away some clothes which no longer fit me, and vases I haven't used since they arrived at my doorstep bearing "Happy Valentine's Day" and "Happy Mother's Day" cards, and some other things, God knows what -- three backpacks full of stuff.