Chapter 1

       I hear a voice behind me, like a whisper. As always, the timing is perfect. Paputchka has been gone for years, but suddenly there he is, lurking near the front door, waiting for Canada Post to bring him his mail. With one hand on his watch, he would time the appearance of the hapless functionary and, if the poor guy was two minutes late, the postmaster would get an irate call. In the winter, the regular was usually in Florida and the substitute was always behind schedule because he didn’t know the route. This was Paputchka’s post-retirement way of recharging his batteries, refusing to go quietly into the night.
        Unfortunately, I seem to have inherited his Pavlovian response. Hearing the flap of the mail slot, I rush to see what life has delivered today—as if I don’t have a life, just a mailbox. And in it...
        I think of the childhood ditty: I packed my bag for Kalamazoo and in it I put...all the bills, then in another pile, the flyers and ads, and then I feel the sinking boredom of no real mail—until I see a white legal-sized envelope, neatly addressed to me. Things are looking up. I turn the envelope sideways and pry open the flap. Out slithers a glossy folder. Oh my God! Suddenly I’m staring at a photo of my beloved Riga. I’m riveted.
        Want more bang for your buck? Book now for your seat on the whirlwind RIGA LA NUIT adventure train! Visit the infamous Riga prison, tour recent crime scenes, former KGB meeting places, seedy bars, brothels. March in Riga’s gay pride parade.
        I hear myself hoot out loud. Is somebody having me on? I’ve heard that Toronto’s gay pride parade brings in as much money to the local tourist economy as the Santa Claus Parade. I might as well throw up my hands and say, "Well, why not in Riga?"
        But the next second I want to cry thinking of all those budget travel magazines touting Riga as the premier European Stag Weekend destination. Nauseating. I can’t believe it’s my Riga they’re talking about.
        The sad truth is that this piece of tourist crap has probably been written by some bimbo desperate to hold on to a job in the Riga Tourist Bureau. But I shouldn’t be so cynical. It could always be one of my distant relatives, and besides, I know how eager they all are for income where ever they can find it.
        So, who produced this stuff anyway? I flick through the pages. Okay, there it is. T&A Travel Tours. An involuntary hacking sound escapes my lips. T&A Travel Tours! Do you suppose they think we don’t know what T&A stands for? Last time I looked, it was tits and ass I get up and am halfway to the garbage bin when I stop in my tracks. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just tear this up? It’s as if some Latvian voodoo master has warped my mind, hypnotized me.
        Okay. Let’s just chill for a moment. Anyway, since when do things have to make sense? I shrug. Of course they don’t. With an unexpected little tweak of anticipation, I wing back to where I left off.