Bolderaja was the best home away from home one could have. Not fancy. Not spacious. Indeed, it had been little more than a hut which slowly expanded outward and upward. But what it was, was a validation of all things Latvian. Shelves filled with books, spare wall space devoted to paintings —real ones, and not mass produced by "starving artists", handicrafts,...

I still remember a New Year's party in my single days at the apartment of a friend of a friend. They had moved in recently and were quite proud of their decorating. For me, it was nearly antiseptic. Not a book or magazine or vase or carving in sight. In fairness, the most I had seen in anyone else's house was a single bookshelf and a curio cabinet with what I considerd a handful of items. Not like home growing up, where shelves were packed with encyclopedias and books, horizontal surfaces covered in all manner of wood carvings, ceramics, and crystal, walls covered with my father's paintings and my portrait by my godfather, Atis Grunde.

But back to walking in for the first time. Seeing all that: which reminds one, which makes one, which defines one, which validates one, as Latvian, I was home. In that moment I knew it wasn't me that was different from the rest of the world, it was that the rest of the world simply wasn't Latvian.

So, there I was, feeling right at home, enjoying rasberries fresh from the garden, when I noticed a hitchhiker. I grabbed my macro lens and...

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Gaida's garden,a tiny snail rides in on a rasberry picked in the garden
Gaida's garden, a bee harvests pollen
Gaida's garden, butterflies
Updated: April, 2021
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