Twice on Sunday I forgot to take a selfie. The first time came during a joyous afternoon reunion here in Latvia with two long-ago SMU students. Both fantastic musicians, these “kids” were members of our orchestra in the early 1990s, a time many refer to as a Golden Age in our newly fashioned Artist Certificate program. They (and others from countries like Russia, France, Czech Republic, China, Bulgaria, and Spain) brought enormous talent, a razor-sharp work ethic, and hearts overflowing with enthusiasm.

Some went on to forge stellar music careers; others moved into innovative jobs outside of music. No matter which avenue their lives took, it is always a tremendous honor to visit with them years later, wherever I may be.

In this case, the three of us spent a leisurely afternoon of reminiscence and rejoicing at a trendy Riga coffee shop. Now, here’s the thing: if we had been teenagers, we’d have taken a selfie — a dozen “selfies.” And I did intend to take at least one picture. But we were so caught up laughing, and recalling persons and events, we simply didn’t think about pictures. Only when I returned to my hotel did it hit me. Gosh, lost opportunity there, right?

The second omission happened earlier that same day. Our Smithsonian group was weaving its way through Riga’s Old Town, taking in the endless architectural delights. Our tour operator (a vibrant Lithuanian woman), was bringing up the rear when she found herself suddenly approached by a dignified man. He was dressed in an old-fashioned suit and vest and, perhaps seeing her kind face, had begun to speak with her. I moved back to check things out. A retired Art professor in our group joined me, just in case something interesting was going on.

Within seconds we were drawn into their powerful conversation. I translated as seamlessly as I could for our professor who could barely believe his ears.

This gentleman, in 1940, had enlisted in the Russian army at age thirteen. A Russian born in Riga in 1927, he convinced authorities he was seventeen and got away with it. He then fought against the Germans and survived. He recalled seeing Stalin on multiple occasions while in Moscow. For him, of course, Stalin was the heroic leader who stopped Hitler.

After the war, this man came back to his home country. Latvia was part of the territory traded at Yalta to the Russians and subsumed into the Soviet Union. Folks in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia often say “the Russians liberated us but forgot to go home.” Such dry humor hides their deep bitterness at winning the war, only to be defeated by forty-plus years of disastrous Communism.

Past retirement by the time Latvia, along with Estonia and Lithuania, declared its independence from of the USSR in 1990, this man seemed not to have had had his world turned upside down as did so many younger Latvian Russians. Simply put, persons (Russians) who were high up on the hierarchical ladder during the decades of Communism were suddenly cast down and, in many cases, cast out. If he did experience this, he didn’t mention it.

What he did tell us, though, had to do with a commemoration on May 9th (Victory Day) signed by Putin himself, of which he was very proud. Now at age 90, he was being officially honored as a soldier in the Second World War. He pulled his shoulders back strong and tall when he described the commendation.

As part of his recognition, he was receiving a two-week visit to a spa on the Baltic seacoast in June. It was pretty clear that he hadn’t spent life enjoying resorts. He couldn’t wait for it to begin.

I’ve been privy to such spontaneous conversations with World War II Russian veterans, although fewer as that generation is nearly gone. But my art professor had not heard anything quite like this. As with everyone in the group, he is drinking in reams of information during his first serious tour of the Baltic countries. And he is coming to understand the different heritages, languages, geographical features, and personalities of these three countries united primarily by common misfortune: invasions, occupations, destruction, and rebuilding. This has been the cycle, from pre-history through the Northern Crusades. From Napoleon to World Wars I & II and 40 more years of Communism. That’s it: shared misfortune and a border on the Baltic Sea.

As our group was drifting away from us, we had to say goodbye. He was reluctant to part with us. He was enjoying telling his story. Only after we’d parted did my art professor and I simultaneously clap ourselves on our foreheads: “Yikes, why didn’t we get a picture?” We consoled ourselves that maybe we’d see him near that same courtyard tomorrow.

But we didn’t. That’s the nature of touring. You get only one chance. And, unlike younger people, snapping pictures isn’t always our first instinct. We are more likely to gaze in wonder at the situations we encounter, the persons we meet. We are more geared to savor the moment than to post it to Instagram.

I wish I had both pictures. But actually I do. I have two pictures etched in my memory. The first shows a proud, 90-year old soldier whose eyes blazed as he told his story. The second shows me rejoicing in the presence of two now-grown-up “kids” who chose not to stay in an easier life in the US, but to return and offer their talents and hearts to a stunningly beautiful sea-side country that continues to struggle and rise on the wings of hope and prayer.

Image: Claire Jones, A Selfie Icon (CC BY 3.0)