words patricia lidis  |  images cebe loomis

There is a road that runs for hours from the center of riga to the outskirts of the baltic sea. the road is lined with tall trees that thrive year round with the sun and blistering snow. We drive on this road with a worn down car from the 1950s filled with family members: humans and dogs. The trees are morphing into reds and yellows past us. they reflect the sun coming down over the railroad that runs the electrichka carrying swimmers back home. The jurmala is up ahead, with cottages and smoking barbecues. We pass abandoned houses with english graffiti asking us where we are going, and where they are from. One family is in the backyard of their dacha, roasting a whole pig on a spit. the car ahead of us is grey, but full of life, having gone up this road many times. Just like ours, it is full of family, passing the giant trees in anticipation of the adventure at the end of the road.

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