tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90139074498813951852024-03-08T12:33:24.023-08:00New Adventures on the HorizonSteffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-28156033529066463922011-06-24T09:42:00.000-07:002011-06-24T09:42:31.195-07:00Almost home<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Twice before in my blog I have shared my reflections from airports. The <a href="http://stefingeorgia.blogspot.com/2010/11/musings-from-airport.html"><span style="color: #3f00ee; text-decoration: underline;">first one</span></a> was written while on my way to the Republic of Georgia to begin this adventure. The <a href="http://stefingeorgia.blogspot.com/2011/01/in-between.html"><span style="color: #3f00ee; text-decoration: underline;">second one</span></a> was written while in transit back to Georgia after a few weeks of seeing the world during my Christmas/New Year's break from school. I just read back through those two posts. It seemed fitting to do so, seeing that I'm sitting in a bar in the Kiev airport -- the only place I could find with an electrical outlet so that I could charge up my laptop for my long flight over the Atlantic. They have some great beer on tap, but it is only 10:30 a.m. So while lots of men and women around me are imbibing in pints or liters of foamy draft that do look awfully tasty, I've got a bottle of water sitting on the table beside me. Dehydration, you know.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Back to my previous posts. Despite wanting to give the text in the first one a good re-write (did I forget that paragraph-breaks are needed?), I was again reminded of the two recognition-constants for me in airports: people and situations. These are still true. Today I saw three people who looked like former students, one who looked like a friend I used to climb with, and another, one of my aunts. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The second post about being "In-between".... Well, I didn't need to read it to be reminded of the "In-between-ness" of traveling; I've been living in a sort of limbo for the last..... how many days ago did I leave Shamgona? And what day is it now? Four days? No, for three days, I have been trying to get a flight out of Georgia. And for the next two days, I will be existing in the spaces between sky and the doorways to the sky.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That's what airports are -- doorways to the sky. You step through the doors of the airport, walk down a few hallways, through a few more doors and a tunnel or two, strap yourself to a seat, and suddenly you're in the sky. Then you reverse the process until you are back out the main doorway to the world and <i>terra firma</i>. But in that in-between space of transit, you're nowhere. The international spaces in airports aren't even a part of the country in which they are located. Well, of course, technically, they are, but barely. You can move freely within this small portal of "In-between-ness" without having to dispose of any water bottles that you buy. Until moving through passport control and customs, you are not really anywhere -- still in the space between the doorway and the sky. That's why, in the list of countries I have been to, I don't count the countries where I have only been in the airport: El Salvador, the Netherlands, St. Thomas, and now, the Ukraine.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">________________________</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It has been over 24 hours since I wrote that first part of my post. I was not able to continue it on the 10-and-a-half-hour flight from Kiev to New York City. Due to some changes made to the plane, no electronic equipment could be used -- there weren't even any video monitors on the plane. When my "single-serving friend" (<i>Fight Club</i>) and seat-mate asked the flight attendant what we were supposed to do for such a long flight with no entertainment, the flight attendant replied, "Read. Talk." I finished reading the book I had with me (<i>Message in a Bottle</i> -- if I hadn't guessed the ending, I would've cried), talked with my seat-mate (a former Ukrainian super-model who now runs her own modeling school), and dozed off repeatedly for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time ( -- a way to disorient yourself, for sure.) </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My layover at JFK was just as crazy-long as the flight there -- a 13-ish-hour layover. Overnight. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My flight got in at 5:30 p.m., and since it was my first point-of-entry in the U.S., I had to pick up my luggage (It arrived!) and work my way through the Sky Doorway before I could venture out onto American soil. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was so exhausted, I actually paid $5 for a luggage cart at the baggage claim to haul everything around with me for the night. (When I was standing in front of the machine contemplating whether or not to fork over so much money for the cart, an airport security official meandered by and said hello. I greeted him back, and he nodded at the machine, "Highway robbery! Everywhere else in the world, they're free!") In the state I was in, I couldn't carry everything, so I paid.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I felt like garbage. I was freezing cold, yet my skin burned. My raging headache kept me from thinking coherently. Slow motion governed my every move. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Since I would now be flying within the country for my last two flights, I had to change terminals from international to domestic. Once I stumbled to where I needed to be, in my bleariness, I scouted around for a place to sleep where I would be out of the way, but still visible. The space in front of the ticketing area was carpeted, so I picked a spot to the side where I would be out of the way of the constant swirl of people and luggage. I unclipped some of the straps on my backpacks and hooked the two bags together, then to the metal bars of the cart. I put my large handbag under the cart and attached it, too to the cart. My last carry-on was so heavy, I silently dared anyone to try running off with it. With the cup of tea that I had bought at Starbucks (Starbucks!), I took a Tylenol PM, blew up my inflatable travel pillow, set my watch alarm for 4:15 a.m., put earplugs in my ears, and lay down on the floor. I covered up with a long, jersey dress and leather jacket from my carry-on. The last thing I did before falling dead-asleep was cover my eyes with my travel-eye-cover-thing. It was 8:45 p.m.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When I went to sleep, I was the only sleeper at the edge of the check-in line chaos. But I awoke at 4:08 to a still room and a half-dozen other people who had taken a cue from my lead. Snaked all along the edge of the wall, passengers in a lull from transit, lay sleeping. The cleaning crew were the only people up and moving. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Thank God for Tylenol PM. I felt much better after a relatively decent night's sleep.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Three flights down, one to go.</div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-11506476064339491432011-06-22T12:06:00.000-07:002011-06-22T12:06:05.932-07:00Travel karmaI have a new itinerary to go home. It includes four different flights over two days with 15 hours overnight at JFK. Fun times.<div><br />
</div><div>I want to believe that I am really going home, but, as another TLG teacher in my position observed, this situation is feeling a good deal like <i>Casablanca</i>.... we're all just trying to get out, and there are no tickets. I think a pair of Dorothy's ruby slippers may be more valuable and reliable than an e-ticket right now. I have a taxi scheduled to pick me up in the morning at 4:30, but until that plane is off the ground, I still have some doubts swirling around in my head that my ticket is really going to be valid.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I lit four candles at a church I went to today. If anyone out there wants to light some for me, please feel free. Or feel free to say a prayer or two. Or do a dance under the stars. Or hold your breath. Or cross your fingers. Or knock on wood. Or anything else that you feel will help my travel-karma stay good all the way home. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But for now, I need to consolidate three bags down to two. Anyone have a shrinking ray gun??</div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-57710098607431718892011-06-21T15:01:00.000-07:002011-06-21T15:04:29.778-07:00Back to my first Georgian mantraDid I say that I am not surprised by anything that happens here in Georgia anymore?<br />
<br />
I lied.<br />
<br />
I spent a lovely day in Tbilisi on an architectural tour, a stop into the National Gallery, and a walk around the old town. I got to go into a church that I had been wanting to see and had a friend light some candles for me in another church since I wasn't dressed properly at that moment to go inside. I turned in my phone at the Ministry of Education, had my last lobiani (bean-filled bread) from my favorite lobiani stand, and went back to my hostel to make sure I had everything ready to fly out.<br />
<br />
Another teacher was flying out at roughly the same time as me, so we asked the guy who runs the hostel, Misha, to call a taxi for us to come pick us up after midnight.<br />
<br />
About 10 p.m., I was online looking at a map of Warsaw in preparation for my 10-hour lay-over there. There are some great sights that I am excited to see.<br />
<br />
Suddenly my Yahoo! Mail tab displayed a "(1 unread)" in bold letters. I clicked that tab and was surprised to see an email from TLG Flights. I almost didn't click on it. My first thought was, "I already have all my flight information. I wonder why Alex emailed it to me." But I hovered over the [No Subject] with my pointer for only a moment and then clicked. This is what I read:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Dear Stephanie</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">I’ m very sorry</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Travel agency called me now and they told me than ticket was canceled…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Your flight delayed until <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1308680045_0" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(54, 99, 136); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 2px; color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">June 23 4:40 AM</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">I’m sorry again</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Please please confirm email.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">I’m very sorry again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Please call me tomorrow any time</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Regards</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">Alex</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
I had to read the message a couple of times before I realized what it said -- and that it wasn't a joke. Everyone in the common room in the hostel that I had been chatting with read my incredulous expression. They knew that something very unexpected had happened. The utter shock registered on my face loud and clear. Misha was sitting next to me on the sofa and looked at the email displayed on the computer screen. He said, "Oh wow." I read the email aloud for everyone. Exclamations of disbelief bounced around the room as everyone expressed their horror at my news. Misha poured me the glass of beer I had refused earlier and put on another of the extreme mountain-biking videos we had been watching on his laptop. It was just what I needed to detach for a few minutes while the news processed in my brain.<br />
<br />
After a couple of glasses of beer and a few awesome downhill-biking videos, I sent a reply email to Alex. It read, "Okay. I'll come by the office tomorrow to get my new itinerary." Misha said that my bed from last night was still available -- good -- I'm going to need it. I gathered up my laptop and stepped out of the room to call my brother who would be picking me up in California and my mom who would worry if she didn't know what was happening.<br />
<br />
Back in December I wrote a couple of posts about the time zone that Georgia operates in -- GMT -- which everyone lovingly refers to as "Georgian Maybe Time." It was at that time that I adopted the mantra that kept me sane for the first few months while learning to deal with the lack of regard for time and details and planning: "Flexibility and spontaneity." I have learned to go with whatever comes my way. No problem. No stressing out. No freak-outs. But this one was almost more than I could handle. Thanks to deep breaths, calm words from Misha, and my mantra, I didn't stress out or freak out. It's out of my control. Tonight I will sleep and look forward to an extra day in Tbilisi.<br />
<br />
Who knows what tomorrow may hold?<br />
<br />
(Hopefully, a for-real plane ticket home.)Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-56663265049591288702011-06-20T14:58:00.000-07:002011-06-20T22:49:54.210-07:00TeaShe looked at her silent phone.<br />
<br />
"One hour and a half."<br />
<br />
Her eyes met mine across the table. Over the stuffed eggplant and peppers. Over the khatchapuri and salad. Over the cake and fruit. Over the bread and wine. The trappings of suphra lay witness to the rapid passage of time. Our eyes met in silent affirmation of connection and sadness and love.<br />
<br />
"How can it be so little left?" She voiced our collective thought -- I found it fitting that the word "Time" was not said aloud. We both smiled the same slow, sad smile.<br />
<br />
How could it have been so little time left?<br />
<br />
I wondered this for the last few days that I was in the village. Days that seemed to fly by with no respect to the importance of each moment spent between kindred spirits. Time that should have dragged its feet through the mud of the Present, yet seemed to fly on the wings of the ethereal and eternal, with no thought for tomorrow or the sadness that it would bring as two close friends parted ways.<br />
<br />
What is Time, and how does it pass by with devastating rapidity when all you want to do is hold it back and make it stay still -- not forever, but just long enough to give credence to the importance of the Time that is ending? It's like trying to grab ahold of a stream of falling sand. The harder you try to grasp the flying particles, the faster it sifts through the empty space between your fingers. Falling into the ever-widening Past. Becoming history before you have a chance to process what is Present.<br />
<br />
I know that the metaphor of time as sand in an hourglass is cliche, yet it is fitting. (That's why it's so cliche!) The last few days, I have wanted to grab the proverbial hourglass out of the air and lay it down on its side for just a little while -- just a little "time-out" while the important things are said and held onto. Love and appreciation need to be expressed. The words of affirmation that have gone unuttered need to find voice. Thanks need to be given. The weight of my world hangs in the balance between Past and Present. And "there's no time like the present" isn't staying put. It's flying by faster than I can notice and process and react to.<br />
<br />
That is how I felt during my last few hours in Shamgona.<br />
<br />
Over the last seven months, Tea and I developed a relationship that is as close as kin. She is like a sister to me (I promised to leave her my <a href="http://stefingeorgia.blogspot.com/2011/06/piece-of-georgian-history.html">Cholchis tetri </a>in my will). And I know that I am the same to her. Yet our daily interaction has now come to an end. I will not wake up to her smiling face at the breakfast table. I will not discuss our day's lessons or students with her. I will not make cheese after she has milked the cows and buffalo. I will not giggle with her over the unintelligible things that "Our Grandmother" comes out with. I will not hear her mutter under her breath to the cows or chickens or turkeys or kids or husband..... And I will miss these things. But mostly, I will miss her. I will miss our discussions about education and culture. I will miss our times of silence.... the few precious moments that we enjoyed when they tip-toed in on stocking feet -- we recognized them and barely breathed so as not to scare them away. I will miss our looks of understanding without the need for words. I will miss her laugh. I will miss her heart and her soul and her mind. She is the kind of friend that everyone longs for -- the kind that few actually find.<br />
<br />
And now, Time has separated us.<br />
<br />
But that's the special thing about kindred spirits and friendship -- Time and distance make no difference. We will always be as close as we were yesterday.<br />
<br />
So, although my mind's last picture of Tea is her standing in the dreary drizzle on the railroad platform in her A-line skirt, striped shirt, and flats -- weight on one foot with the other pointed outward, hands clasped on her hip, sad smile on her lips -- she will always be present with me in my heart and in my mind (and on facebook). A true friend that Time cannot taint nor distance separate.<br />
<br />
And I love her.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-48534864745036512672011-06-19T22:51:00.000-07:002011-06-19T22:51:57.875-07:00Every end is another beginning<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I hate goodbyes. I prefer to say, "See you later." Even if I don't think I will see that person again, I don't like the idea of never seeing someone again. Especially if they mean a lot to me. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like Tea. There's no way in this world that I will not see her again. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I spent the day (Sunday) doing lots of "lasts." My last breakfast in the village. My last time greeting Tea with a cheerful, "Morning!" My last cup of coffee with Tea, enjoying the silence and the rain. My last run through Shamgona. My last shower in the green-tiled bathroom. My last time to wash dishes in the yard. My last time to pull up buckets of water from the well (inevitably getting my feet wet no matter how careful I was). </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My last supra.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My last toasts to the friends that I have grown to love here. My last time to pack for a trip away from the village. And my last goodbye. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But every "goodbye" to one thing is a "hello" to something else -- another beginning to something new. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Right now I am on a train headed for Tbilisi. I have said goodbye to my wonderful host family who is truly family to me. Then I fly back to the U.S.A., and I will try hard not to have a heart-attack at the range of choice available at every turn in everything from shampoo and bread to cars and TV stations. Living for seven months with few, if any choices will make America's range of available products seem overwhelming, if not obscene.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My new beginning will include a few much-needed improvements in myself. I have written a bit about growth, and those are the lessons that I will strive to live out in my life from here on. Lessons that I have learned from these blessed people that I have lived with and around for the better part of a year. Lessons like generosity, hospitality, selflessness, and helpfulness. I am leaving Georgia a changed person.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For my counterpart in this adventure that has come to an end (Tea), this end is a beginning for her, too. She has also grown. Her English skills have increased exponentially in these months. She is a much better teacher now than she was at the beginning of this year. Her motivation and enthusiasm for her profession is driving her to learn everything she can about education and the best methods to use in her preparation and classroom management. She will pass her certification exams with no problem. I am sure of it. And she will influence many, many students to become the best they can be for their future -- potential, improvement, and possibility are all within their grasp. With a teacher like Tea, they will believe in themselves and fulfill their dreams. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I leave Shamgona with a strange mixture of happiness and heaviness. I am thrilled to be headed home. But I am so sad to leave those that I have grown to love here -- Tea especially. At our suphra tonight, she told me that I am her closest friend -- the one that she can tell anything. My hope is that someday I can make possible for her what she has done for me -- to host her for an extended period of time in the U.S. Spending time in America will improve her language skills in ways that she only dreams of right now. So we have already started planning for that possibility in the future. I just need someplace to live… and a job so I can support her as she has supported me for these many months. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the train pulled away from the station in Zugdidi tonight, I looked out the window. Tea, Koba, Elene, and Zaza stood there, waving goodbye as a few drops of rain fell from the clouds. I waved back and blew a kiss to Tea. How I will miss all of them….</span></span></div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-71925300393080787132011-06-18T13:25:00.000-07:002011-06-18T13:25:59.913-07:00Today was hard........ and tomorrow will be harder.<br />
<br />
After I finished sorting and cataloguing the books in the library at the school, I interrupted the training session that my colleagues were having in preparation for their certification exam in a few weeks. It was time for me to say goodbye. All the ladies hugged and kissed me -- several with tears in their eyes. The lump in my throat pushed its way up and blocked any words from escaping my lips. I could only nod in agreement as each precious friend took my hands, kissed me, looked me in the eyes, wished me well, and said goodbye. When I finally found my voice, with tears in my eyes, I told them all how much I love and appreciate them. They made me promise to come back again, at least to visit. Lika walked me out of the building. Our teary goodbye happened at the front door. Then, for the last time, I walked out of the school building, through the front gate, and up the road to Tea's house.<br />
<br />
Tea had left me several things to do today. We'll be having a suphra tomorrow before I go to the train station, and since she had to be at her training session all day long, I cooked in preparation for the suphra. I know my way around the kitchen well enough now that I can do the cooking with no problem. Several times throughout the day, "Our Grandmother" or Koba popped into the kitchen to see what I was doing. As I sliced up veggies, shredded carrots, fried eggplant, peppers, and carrots, they smiled.<br />
<br />
When the preliminary cooking was done, I collected the dirty dishes from all over the house and took them out to the outdoor sink to wash them. I don't think I'll ever again be surrounded by so many animals while washing dishes.<br />
<br />
After I had cleaned and straightened up everything that I could in the lower house, I went to my room in the upper house. I stood in the middle of the room looking around as if lost. I needed to start packing, but somehow, I couldn't bring myself to do it. As I stood there, wondering what was wrong with me, I realized that I have come full circle. Just before leaving the U.S., I read John Steinbeck's <i>Travels with Charley</i>. In one of my very first posts in this blog, I quoted a passage from the book. It had to do with not wanting to leave what is familiar and comfortable for the unknown. Don't get me wrong -- I want to go home. But is really hard to leave.<br />
<br />
I certainly prefer my lifestyle that is possible in the U.S., but I have grown accustomed enough to village-life to feel comfortable here. Nothing surprises me anymore. I have adapted to the culture and lifestyle. I am loved, appreciated, and accepted (mostly!). And now, I am going to start the cycle all over again...... culture shock included.<br />
<br />
I finally pulled out a backpack and started the process of packing.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-30222463244358198612011-06-17T13:56:00.000-07:002011-06-17T13:56:07.743-07:00A piece of Georgian historyI come by my love of antiques honestly. I grew up surrounded by reclaimed, refinished, and refurbished treasures that my parents brought back to life and put to good use in our house. My favorite book in my personal library is an antique copy of Thoreau's <i>Walden </i>that my parents gave me. Another of my favorite possessions is a 1,700-year-old Mayan jade earplug from Guatemala that I bought in Chichicastenango. <div><div><br />
</div><div>Today I was given another of my favorite antique possessions. But I'll get to that in a minute.</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>I spent a few hours of this rainy day in the school library sorting and organizing and reshelving the books in English. First I sorted them into categories: nonfiction, fiction, and children's books. Then I sorted the children's books by level. The nonfiction books were grouped into a few categories. Then I tackled the fiction pile. From that group, I pitched all of the Harlequin romance novels (not what the teenagers need to be reading) and then divided them into drama, mystery, sci-fi, and classic literature piles. It took me about four hours to get to that point in my organization. </div><div><br />
</div><div>At that point, Lika came into the library and told me that Irina wanted us to go to her house to see her "house museum." She had told me about some of the ancient coins that she has in her collection of antiques, and she did not forget that I wanted to see them. So I left the books where they lay piled around the empty shelves, and went off to see Irina's collection. I can finish my job tomorrow.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Irina's house is situated on the bank of the river that forms the border with Abkhazia. Her house is riddled with bullet holes from the war. There are still ditches dug along the riverbanks that were used as foxholes during the conflict. Sobering.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But, alongside her house sits a small, wooden structure constructed in the fashion of the old days, timbers locked together at the corners like Lincoln Logs with a packed-mud floor, gated door, and fire pit in the center of the room. One single room is all that was needed in those days -- everything happened in one room -- living, eating, sleeping, cooking, and hanging out. Now, this room houses antiquities from Georgia's long and storied history. Everything from cooking implements to photographs to old phonographs and records to weapons to clothing to furniture, and what I really wanted to see, the old coins.</div><div><br />
</div><div>While Irina's husband showed us (Lika, Teona, and me) all their treasures, Irina prepared the table in the museum for a little suphra. After an hour of looking at the antiquities and hearing the stories behind them, we sat at the table and, in true Georgian fashion, ate and drank and toasted for a couple of hours. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Partway through the suphra, Irina's husband left the room after starting the round of toasts for Georgian history. He came back after a few minutes and stepped behind me. He held out his hand and motioned for me to do the same. I did. He put a tiny silver coin into my hand -- one of the first coins used in Georgia -- a coin dating back to the 5th or 4th century BC. Then he put a little piece of paper in my hand, put the coin into it, wrapped it up, and closed my fingers around the package. I looked up at him agape. I couldn't believe that he was really giving me this piece of Georgian history. But he was. He did. I was speechless.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I will never cease to be amazed at the generosity of these wonderful people. In fact, for the toast for guests that I gave at today's suphra I said, "If Georgians ever stop receiving guests with such hospitality, they will cease to be Georgian."</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div>I have been blessed over and over again by this essential quality of this unique culture.</div><div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDw4YECchyphenhyphen1LKrl9X5DOwQvLOx9bCpu32EIOuaNNJh8nt68FFcIuEXcWSFY1PcOMokUc6h1O5hFGqERFEsqAZQRymg5ySLuUyr3OV04k5XQ-3z9-MJZOx486KnbLlKFWeyoZCxb-achCM/s1600/IMG_4381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDw4YECchyphenhyphen1LKrl9X5DOwQvLOx9bCpu32EIOuaNNJh8nt68FFcIuEXcWSFY1PcOMokUc6h1O5hFGqERFEsqAZQRymg5ySLuUyr3OV04k5XQ-3z9-MJZOx486KnbLlKFWeyoZCxb-achCM/s640/IMG_4381.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooking pots hanging over the fire in the museum</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGwP3e8Fmj2mbugH7QjCzRnqkt-6EjJ3uS14iztoAye6fwNM3rtnhS6ZUW4gKw_CWYQSHWuS2YxE6B9Xd2hkrJbfmjlHtuJLrzASmIJSaeCYRvXKgHmLVO5o39IxUNPl9QU9BByomMMM/s1600/IMG_4386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGwP3e8Fmj2mbugH7QjCzRnqkt-6EjJ3uS14iztoAye6fwNM3rtnhS6ZUW4gKw_CWYQSHWuS2YxE6B9Xd2hkrJbfmjlHtuJLrzASmIJSaeCYRvXKgHmLVO5o39IxUNPl9QU9BByomMMM/s640/IMG_4386.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Antique icon -- the bullet hole at the top of the icon is from the Abkhazian war</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkd14ZHqMEpU1kA1_AgvmwMVRh1U1OmWuhHJlxvoKDFVVNeXUJbp8ts4qQDqEt3Ml0pTD65qJikYZAUDn0Ckls9LBgxx_gLwZ_YEE4dMMuNY2BHl-uYcdxE9TZnyzM_zSqJJ76IUY1Oo/s1600/IMG_4415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkd14ZHqMEpU1kA1_AgvmwMVRh1U1OmWuhHJlxvoKDFVVNeXUJbp8ts4qQDqEt3Ml0pTD65qJikYZAUDn0Ckls9LBgxx_gLwZ_YEE4dMMuNY2BHl-uYcdxE9TZnyzM_zSqJJ76IUY1Oo/s640/IMG_4415.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The suphra table</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pUkDifvYEGUTbnPQX5DErzdyBTtYxXkC0zTFv0HD9XioihlKZKD5taXpPgaiajU89H3Z4zlmtGasg2dyX00sFjDSZpOx-ayBgJKdXOLWeucfwrneyaGb9gApqX5Qqm4KOZjLqjZwrbo/s1600/IMG_4419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pUkDifvYEGUTbnPQX5DErzdyBTtYxXkC0zTFv0HD9XioihlKZKD5taXpPgaiajU89H3Z4zlmtGasg2dyX00sFjDSZpOx-ayBgJKdXOLWeucfwrneyaGb9gApqX5Qqm4KOZjLqjZwrbo/s640/IMG_4419.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Irina and her husband toasting with wine-filled horns</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKa-k4axgmYuZ0th9mii9VEYKVSUDzPIoRbR-WL4Wo4iZFtJpK6_XujgAGENfm6-P1SEds6tjVLzA5WwQ9Fdw4fwLIlay93wVXL-uPItAtTLWoG_Xc10gJF0MkydwlXdGAob8AOZCCdVE/s1600/IMG_4420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKa-k4axgmYuZ0th9mii9VEYKVSUDzPIoRbR-WL4Wo4iZFtJpK6_XujgAGENfm6-P1SEds6tjVLzA5WwQ9Fdw4fwLIlay93wVXL-uPItAtTLWoG_Xc10gJF0MkydwlXdGAob8AOZCCdVE/s400/IMG_4420.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lika and I drinking from the horns "Vakhtanguri" (arms linked)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI9FyvJmVynYZDGYqyg8I3VYs_zclgIzPaNJ_GG69RUWHy0yNfoglNTehzicdDMnlZXC2uBDko_bL2gN_53DWoMAmw0wKa3QGNaDXAYMs8gyZgedMaCQi-vpbonhP1qkk5tAMC5St6SA/s1600/IMG_4422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI9FyvJmVynYZDGYqyg8I3VYs_zclgIzPaNJ_GG69RUWHy0yNfoglNTehzicdDMnlZXC2uBDko_bL2gN_53DWoMAmw0wKa3QGNaDXAYMs8gyZgedMaCQi-vpbonhP1qkk5tAMC5St6SA/s400/IMG_4422.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Irina and husband posed with me outside their house museum</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydKMv8wk-MEM6heZaD5wgZOAZ6wkdavk2R5A4VN7NVC3M0-DbFNuXmqYrLWYj_i5JXWmeD5xM4lhnWbHtiF9qAbqKLIwU_79QTVDlDKRGGv5fZ7q6rv5nkQ5etQ7Ya3yCff4nd8ZCGtI/s1600/IMG_4423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydKMv8wk-MEM6heZaD5wgZOAZ6wkdavk2R5A4VN7NVC3M0-DbFNuXmqYrLWYj_i5JXWmeD5xM4lhnWbHtiF9qAbqKLIwU_79QTVDlDKRGGv5fZ7q6rv5nkQ5etQ7Ya3yCff4nd8ZCGtI/s400/IMG_4423.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My newest treasure</td></tr>
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<div><div><br />
</div><div><div><div><br />
<div><div><br />
</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-65740524853750241182011-06-16T13:08:00.000-07:002011-06-16T13:08:21.139-07:00Finishing wellToday was about as Georgian a day as you can get, including a complete change of plans, lots of smiling children, a bit of dancing, lots of food, drinking alcohol at school, and heart-felt generosity.<br />
<br />
The last day of school was going to be tomorrow. But when I arrived at school a little before my first class this morning, Lika told me that our director was told by the resource center that yesterday was the last day of classes. Nothing surprises me anymore, so I absorbed what she said and answered mildly, "So, we're done with school? We have no more classes?" Lika nodded. "No more classes."<br />
<br />
Okay. That's that.<br />
<br />
Most of the students were at school since we had planned to have classes, and the fourth graders had a big program planned for the afternoon. The fifth-graders came to the teacher's room, knocked on the door, and asked for me. When I went to the door, they were all standing in a semi-circle, beaming collectively as they handed me a bouquet of roses and lilies with a note tucked into the flowers. It read, "Our lovely teacher Stefani! We are very glad to have such a beautiful and nice teacher as you are. We learned a lot from you. Our lessons were very interesting because you took them with our teacher. We love you very much. We will never forget you. Thank you for everything that you made your best for us. We all are very thankful. Love you forever!" There were hearts drawn all over the paper. I kissed them all and we took some pictures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DgKe0FPGbXt_1WzhCAvX3iTkKHgn7LrWbKhvxz72h3YTfZ13BoJq8jZSPrR5wnuv4r7r-aeo2IfRLqgZ4K43vW80zPXeo-mbpbHCvhNwZ_aSRc_aBY0HeJaX_O34dzxKtjGH9eSkIl4/s1600/IMG_4268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DgKe0FPGbXt_1WzhCAvX3iTkKHgn7LrWbKhvxz72h3YTfZ13BoJq8jZSPrR5wnuv4r7r-aeo2IfRLqgZ4K43vW80zPXeo-mbpbHCvhNwZ_aSRc_aBY0HeJaX_O34dzxKtjGH9eSkIl4/s400/IMG_4268.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet fifth-graders</td></tr>
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<div>I took a little intermission and walked home to have some more coffee and put my flowers in water. There were still three hours before the fourth-graders' program. Tea and I hung out with "Our Grandmother" enjoying a little quietness and coffee.</div><div><br />
</div><div>About an hour before the program was to start, Tea and I headed back to school. We had made certificates for each of the third-graders, and we wanted to have a little time with them to present their awards to them. Their homeroom teacher gathered them all into their classroom, and Tea and I gave out Certificate of Participation, Awesome Artist Award, Princess Award, Triers Certificate, Good Attitude Certificate, Good Reader Awards, and Student of the Year Awards. Cuties.</div><div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9Q0uMaTyPt_bHV6RI9C2O1unvrVfcUORg8Emq-Y4LC0JETt8XLA6vvVZsx0w5C6UBJXnQFdob6T8XKDrZd7-ydAh57VAk8mKYoX1IjP_muko-vf5laHP3wW56ZlUKgALK8E6N1BvuHw/s1600/IMG_4290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9Q0uMaTyPt_bHV6RI9C2O1unvrVfcUORg8Emq-Y4LC0JETt8XLA6vvVZsx0w5C6UBJXnQFdob6T8XKDrZd7-ydAh57VAk8mKYoX1IjP_muko-vf5laHP3wW56ZlUKgALK8E6N1BvuHw/s400/IMG_4290.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Third graders and teachers</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div>Then it was time for the fourth-graders' "graduation" program. (In the Georgian school system, students have the same teacher for the first four years [the primary grades] and then move on to middle school and a different teacher.) They had practiced for weeks preparing a very well-done program of skits, songs, dances, and readings. Despite the faulty sound system, they did a great job. They just about brought tears to my eyes when one of the girls read a letter to me that they had written in English expressing their thanks for my coming to teach them this year. They all smiled at me with such beautifully innocent and loving smiles -- I've grown to love these kids.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Earlier this week, the kids asked me if I would dance with them in their program. How could I turn them down? </div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasfCAJ2siEyd49GLvUKOudU5YbfoEsnk6H0M8FtC47rwuDknmovjTH6WwS9fvPlvMQqcpPUm9sO5UKO7VVvBGyBZjH3mpkPfdcHH2-DvWJC16qc3OCExwCaqhwsBWa_wGawFC8H5GoZA/s1600/IMG_4343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasfCAJ2siEyd49GLvUKOudU5YbfoEsnk6H0M8FtC47rwuDknmovjTH6WwS9fvPlvMQqcpPUm9sO5UKO7VVvBGyBZjH3mpkPfdcHH2-DvWJC16qc3OCExwCaqhwsBWa_wGawFC8H5GoZA/s640/IMG_4343.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing with my fourth-graders</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJsRWzCIj1HJP5pnS01UYA6DlAG6nrjKDgj6z_E85YJQkJREi7Fm0kc1a7rkr8vOG022lpG9WhAwD3q4Taupj22Qels03kBekM6gaQ4zI9NbWKaZs3p_W3ANJFlbrWS6D5hfjdzA91o4/s1600/IMG_4354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJsRWzCIj1HJP5pnS01UYA6DlAG6nrjKDgj6z_E85YJQkJREi7Fm0kc1a7rkr8vOG022lpG9WhAwD3q4Taupj22Qels03kBekM6gaQ4zI9NbWKaZs3p_W3ANJFlbrWS6D5hfjdzA91o4/s400/IMG_4354.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Georgian dance</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
They also did some traditional dances. After performing the song they had practiced, they grabbed me and pulled me up to dance traditional dances with them. A couple of the high school boys who dance joined in, too. That brought the house down!<br />
<br />
The director took the microphone at the end of the program and talked about my leaving. She expressed her thanks for everything that I did for the students, teachers, and school -- my second near-tears moment of the day. The teachers gave me a gorgeous icon with Mary and the Christ-child -- a very Georgian, very beautiful gift.<br />
<br />
When the program was over, the boy running the sound system put on the dance music again, and I joined all of the students for a couple of songs. Then the picture-taking started. After lots and lots of photos, I said goodbye to my students, and went back to the teacher's room for the party they had planned -- not exactly a suphra, but the table was full of food, we did toast a little bit. The director poured some glasses of champagne and wine and toasted to Madonna (the fourth-grade teacher) and to me. We only did a couple of rounds of toasts -- not the whole list.<br />
<br />
I asked for everyone's attention and presented the director with a gift I had bought for the school -- a large Georgian-English dictionary for the library (Lika and Tea were thrilled with the gift!) Then everyone wanted to know if I would be at school tomorrow -- I promised that I would be -- I want to organize the English books in the library. All the ladies were glad to not have to say good bye yet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVl6kldROwfXaLx0VLgDIK3mx60bhbFjoCq41Kqp8tduLj_9bCH5AhzW9AGmy1mYIJcnqAiZiVAw2naTjCpA81GK-Sqz7vCdg8L-PGhINtagYp23stwsvBgrzrfpxjY4bvK6x8ZBjo24/s1600/IMG_4374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVl6kldROwfXaLx0VLgDIK3mx60bhbFjoCq41Kqp8tduLj_9bCH5AhzW9AGmy1mYIJcnqAiZiVAw2naTjCpA81GK-Sqz7vCdg8L-PGhINtagYp23stwsvBgrzrfpxjY4bvK6x8ZBjo24/s400/IMG_4374.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gifts from today</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><br />
</div><div>"Good bye" will be here before I know it. And it will be hard.</div></div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-42896178591095336342011-06-15T14:52:00.000-07:002011-06-15T14:52:58.713-07:00Internal vs. external motivationMotivation is a peculiar thing.<br />
<br />
Is it a behavior that is influenced strongly by environment? Or is it more natural -- coming from the character of each person? If someone has little internal motivation naturally, can they be taught to have it?<br />
<br />
Tea and I have discussed internal and external motivation quite a bit lately. Her teaching certification exam will test her on educational psychology, so she has been reading up on and studying the topic. And, as an extrovert like me, she likes to discuss the topics she studies in order to process them well. After much discussion and observation of our students, we have come to the conclusion that most students do not have internal motivation regarding their classwork. Most will respond to external motivation like grades or rewards, but their learning will not be as deep, meaningful, or long-lasting as those precious few students who do display internal motivation. Student who cram a list of facts or vocabulary in order to take a test will forget most of what they learned almost as soon as they walk out the door, whereas those who learn the information for the sake of gaining knowledge will keep that knowledge for years to come.<br />
<br />
Since most students don't have the needed internal motivation to take ownership of their own learning, external motivation techniques become necessary. For some teacher, that is all the motivation that is used -- grades -- not getting into trouble -- some type of tangible reward. But, if a teacher cares that the students develop into whole, complete people, internal motivation needs to be taught. But can it be?<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
Good teachers inspire their students to learn for the sake of learning. But can that teacher inspire every student to develop internal motivation and initiative?<br />
<br />
I don't think so.<br />
<br />
I've been teaching for a long time. At times my enthusiasm for the subject matter I teach has waned, but overall I find that my enthusiasm for the material is contagious. Some students will learn to love what I love just because I show how much love it. Yet, no matter how excited I may be about the language I teach, not all students will catch my enthusiasm. Some still hate the subject. Does that mean that I am an ineffective teacher?<br />
<br />
No. It just means that not all subjects are for all students.<br />
<br />
But teaching/inspiring internal motivation goes beyond mere subject matter. It also applies to character as it relates to morality and integrity.<br />
<br />
In a couple of the classes that I teach with Tea, we have dealt with the students cheating on tests. (A common malady in schools across the country.) While I initially questioned the reason for the lack of school rules and consequences for this behavior, I have since shifted my focus to the need for teaching integrity -- in terms of internally-motivated character development. Doing right just because it is right. That's a tough thing to teach. But Tea and I both feel that it is an important part of education.<br />
<br />
After the last cheating episode in the 11th grade class, Tea and I talked with the class (after throwing out that test and writing a new one for them to take) about moral character and uprightness and the importance of doing what is right throughout all of life -- not just in school. After that class discussion, the boy who had spear-headed the methods by which they had cheated on previous tests handed Tea a piece of paper from his backpack. It was the answers to the final test.<br />
<br />
At first, Tea was not happy with him for giving her the cheat-sheet, mostly because his attitude of superiority and "look what I have" got under her skin. Yet, as she and I talked about his surrendering the guaranteed good grade, regardless of how he did it, he still did it. Something that we said to the class stuck with him. He ended up failing the test, but I would rather my student fail a test honestly than pass it dishonestly.<br />
<br />
I call that progress.<br />
<br />
But, is that a sign of developing internal motivation or just an isolated incident of a guilty conscience?<br />
<br />
Only time will tell.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-5898444532920775912011-06-14T12:34:00.000-07:002011-06-14T12:34:33.790-07:00Anyone hungry?The first time I climbed a mountain, I had no idea what I was in for. The adult in charge of the group of young adults of which I was a part was less than communicative and didn't have lots of common sense, so he did not give us any information regarding what we might need for the trek up the tallest mountain in Maine -- a 13-mile hike that would take us all day long (although we didn't know those little details). The only words of wisdom that he imparted came when we stopped at a convenience store on our way to the trailhead that morning. He mentioned in passing that we may want to grab a drink and some snacks to take with us. I don't remember exactly what I bought for sustenance, but I do remember that it wasn't much.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the hike down and back to the vehicle was a hungry one. I'd consumed everything that I had bought before leaving the peak. If you've ever climbed a mountain, you know that hiking makes you very, very hungry. We each burned around 3,000 calories that day, and only took in about 1,000. On the hike out, my friends and I were so hungry, we started naming foods that we wanted to eat, which only made our predicament more unbearable. With each food listed, we all groaned and "ooooo'ed" and "aaahh'ed." Why we tortured ourselves that way, I do not know; but we kept it up for most of the final 5 miles. (When we all got off the mountain, we went to Subway. I ate 2 foot-long sandwiches.)<br />
<br />
Last weekend while hiking back from the castle on the mountains above Zanavi Village, I was reminded of this scenario. It was raining and cold, and our group was a bit hungry. Mattias mentioned how great it would be to have pancakes when we got back to the house. (There are no pancakes in Georgia.) I stopped dead in my tracks...... "Ooooooo, pancakes!" I've missed pancakes. Nothing ever sounded so good.<br />
<br />
Although the food in Georgia is good and I live with an incredible cook, there are foods that I am really, really looking forward to eating again. And just to torture myself like I did coming off of Mt. Katahdin, I will list them and "ooooo" and "aaaah" at each one. It's been over 7 months since I've had any of these things....<br />
<br />
Pancakes<br />
<br />
Blueberry pancakes<br />
<br />
Blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup<br />
<br />
A bagel with cream cheese<br />
<br />
Quesedillas<br />
<br />
Chips and salsa<br />
<br />
Cheese enchiladas with mole<br />
<br />
Broccoli and olive pizza<br />
<br />
Spring greens with goat cheese<br />
<br />
Lasagne<br />
<br />
Mac and cheese<br />
<br />
Grilled portobello mushrooms<br />
<br />
Triscuits with cheddar cheese<br />
<br />
Biscuits with jam<br />
<br />
Corn chowder<br />
<br />
Home fries drenched in Tabasco<br />
<br />
Granola with soy milk<br />
<br />
Good coffee<br />
<br />
Spinach quiche with feta<br />
<br />
Curried kale with chickpeas and tomatoes<br />
<br />
Sauteed summer squash with escarole and pine nuts<br />
<br />
Spaghetti with fresh pesto<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah. That will just about do it.<br />
<br />
Anyone hungry?Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-71981451284637932082011-06-13T12:52:00.000-07:002011-06-13T12:53:42.060-07:00CountdownI promise that I am staying present.....<br />
<br />
But, since I now know that I will be leaving Georgia on June 21 (if all goes as planned....), I made a little list of the things that I do regularly.... and how many more times I will do them before I leave.<br />
<br />
<br />
2 more dance classes<br />
<br />
4 more days of school<br />
<br />
1 more conversation group<br />
<br />
1 more pronunciation lesson<br />
<br />
1 more timed-speaking practice<br />
<br />
4 more runs<br />
<br />
3 more cheese-making episodes (as long as the cows come home)<br />
<br />
1 more trip to the library<br />
<br />
2 more trips to Zugdidi<br />
<br />
2 more rides on the Shamgona marshutka<br />
<br />
1 more trip to Tbilisi<br />
<br />
7 more blog posts (or 8....)<br />
<br />
1 more Georgian weekend<br />
<br />
1 more suphra (I think)<br />
<br />
1 more monthly report to send to TLG<br />
<br />
2 more times to hand-wash my laundry<br />
<br />
5 more mornings to wake up to my tiny, battery-operated, Target-specialty alarm clock<br />
<br />
8 more days until reverse-culture shock starts its cycleSteffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-28399935524943205862011-06-12T14:19:00.000-07:002011-06-12T14:19:41.219-07:00Storming the castleI can't imagine how difficult it was to storm a castle back in the medieval days. I wasn't even wearing chain mail or carrying a broad sword or mace, and the trek up to "okros tsikhe" (Gold Castle) was tough work. In trail-running shoes and lightweight tech-gear, the two-hour climb gave me pause to wonder at the difficulty of life when this castle was inhabited back in the 13th century. (Although I don't think much of the difficulty has eased up for the villagers who still live on the mountain.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGfEKJ0TO24bHNxdPSDQXYnAdkXeIzNCWS8tVSSBHWcr0AC10FCc7pCS2ULsRmuFvyBD4z8VLDEK4cvUYfOIBVebQfsNtH1dLKomIx-ZsjTj-oxyr8aosnpXcJ1_kYRcyRGaZ_6v_gvA/s1600/IMG_4196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGfEKJ0TO24bHNxdPSDQXYnAdkXeIzNCWS8tVSSBHWcr0AC10FCc7pCS2ULsRmuFvyBD4z8VLDEK4cvUYfOIBVebQfsNtH1dLKomIx-ZsjTj-oxyr8aosnpXcJ1_kYRcyRGaZ_6v_gvA/s400/IMG_4196.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castle ruins on the hilltop</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The day after James' epic birthday suphra did not dawn with the best of weather. We all wanted to hike to the castle up the mountain above where James lives. But as we sat on the front porch watching the storm clouds roil over the mountains across the valley, dropping rain on their way to us, then on us, we thought that maybe we should wait for the thunderstorm to pass and see what the weather looked like on the other side of it. The other side of it was still gray, but the rain had stopped, so we decided to take the window of opportunity while it lasted.<br />
<br />
We put on whatever water-proof gear we had or whatever we didn't mind getting wet in, and headed up the muddy road through Zanavi Village. At the top of the village, we left the road and started hiking up the sloping hills following the lines of trails that the cows and sheep had worn into the grassy expanse over centuries of grazing on that land. We passed several herds of cows, munching on the new spring grass contentedly despite the drizzle that started to fill the air. The bells that hung around their necks sounded across the valley in a chorus of tinks and tongs.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2MvyW8hbowEHLDBkRUvK2_3nRjre_gJH2xq1yTGsq6uMlPpOembvI3RG03vx-Ua-UEhNszGRbTaNGxK1QzrhtZGKDJK0VUJYHAkhoqyVY0oo0DQUlyzl2opR5tRfRisUBOzJS_XMQQM/s1600/IMG_4200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2MvyW8hbowEHLDBkRUvK2_3nRjre_gJH2xq1yTGsq6uMlPpOembvI3RG03vx-Ua-UEhNszGRbTaNGxK1QzrhtZGKDJK0VUJYHAkhoqyVY0oo0DQUlyzl2opR5tRfRisUBOzJS_XMQQM/s640/IMG_4200.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Maria, Katherine, James, and Mattias on the final push up the hill</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The castle ruins rose into the gray clouds, half disappearing from view, as if history were trying to reclaim it, out of the present, back into the past. The dismal weather lent an air of mystery to the mass of rocks piled on top of the bedrock jutting out of the verdant pinnacle.<br />
<br />
The final climb up to the entrance of the castle was slick and rocky -- that was what sparked the conversation about storming the castle. We tried to imagine what it would have been like to actually attack that very castle, trying to steal the gold that was kept there (hence, the name). We decided that it would have been nearly impossible -- probably why Queen Tamari had that castle built there!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJS5AOjM1ETc6DAWYQmMmMHx1Yni8Q7rRHdvuyXtHXibn0OC3KEa33nwfmZ5HtuDydYbF3eLLesN50j-eCdrS7KiSwcLGWbdoh7HkWi1faI8rc6-tKrIooAoV5poGWAvMlwf9TQ-PhO8/s1600/IMG_4210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJS5AOjM1ETc6DAWYQmMmMHx1Yni8Q7rRHdvuyXtHXibn0OC3KEa33nwfmZ5HtuDydYbF3eLLesN50j-eCdrS7KiSwcLGWbdoh7HkWi1faI8rc6-tKrIooAoV5poGWAvMlwf9TQ-PhO8/s640/IMG_4210.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">From "inside" the castle, overlooking the valley</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>We climbed around and explored the interior of the castle that is now very much outdoors until the next think bank of storm clouds overtook us, engulfing the castle in their chilly dampness. Cold and wet, we decided to head back down the mountain for shelter, dry clothes, and hot tea.<br />
<br />
So much for storming the castle.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-41870476617356797272011-06-11T12:29:00.000-07:002011-06-11T12:29:15.388-07:00English toastSo, the birthday suphra.<br />
<br />
I anticipated that it would be one of the best that I have been to; I was not disappointed. I think that Zanavi Village will never be the same -- nor do I think there have ever been so many foreign guests there at the same time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuwUCd9p2GHKrRxZifF_gOxGDt9I7cDcdnoc_DA186J4bSELZA2pX6iawStlIPwBH5PUQTR5Wrm0Sfnf77rNwdiuUHNXSz8nKetemjSFGbC_gfvd9THQ-KjrtbkLB9FNsxE7BlHHY3iI/s1600/IMG_4158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuwUCd9p2GHKrRxZifF_gOxGDt9I7cDcdnoc_DA186J4bSELZA2pX6iawStlIPwBH5PUQTR5Wrm0Sfnf77rNwdiuUHNXSz8nKetemjSFGbC_gfvd9THQ-KjrtbkLB9FNsxE7BlHHY3iI/s400/IMG_4158.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zanavi countryside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Zanavi is a tiny village (smaller than Shamgona, I think) that sits perched on the side of a mountain in the southern part of Georgia, close to the Turkish border -- where my friend James has been living and teaching for the year. And, for his birthday yesterday, there was, of course, a suphra which I would not have missed for the world.<br />
<br />
I left Tea's house at 7:45 a.m. on the first marshutka out of Shamgona. In Zugdidi, I hopped the bus to Tbilisi, got off in Khasuri, found a marshutka on its way to Akhaltsikhe, then got the last marshutka to Adigeni where I called James and was directed to the dirt road that would lead me up the mountain to his host-house. It was about 5 p.m. when I headed up the road, iridescent purple umbrella raised to shield me from the blazing sun. By 5:45, I was greeting James on the balcony and being ushered into the main room to greet my friends and meet James' host family. Katherine and Maria were there -- our Belgian friend, Mattias who we met in Kazbegi was there along with James' host family and some extended family. I put down my backpack and joined the suphra, already in full swing.<br />
<br />
After an hour of eating and drinking, we took an hour pause in the festivities for James and Katherine to go down the mountain to pick up the last guest for the weekend, Katherine's hostess in Tbilisi who also made the trip out for the celebration. In the meantime, I meandered around outside, shooting photos of the beautiful countryside and picking wildflowers for James' host "mom."<br />
<br />
Once we were all gathered anew, the tenor of the party changed. It felt more relaxed. I don't know if that was because the rest of the relatives had left so all the toasts were now given in English, or that the immediate family (the women) had finished serving so they were able to sit with us and enjoy the rest of the night. Regardless of the reason, it was very nice.<br />
<br />
As Georgian as the birthday suphra was, there was something unique about it -- at least, compared with any of the other suphras I have been to. The main difference was the toasts.<br />
<br />
Toasting is what makes a Georgian suphra, a Georgian suphra. There are rules to toasting regarding the order, who gives them, when each person speaks, what must be in the glass with which one is toasting, and how much should be drunk. I've become accustomed to the rules, and I know which ones can be broken without offending anyone. Since I have figured that out, I have enjoyed being at suphras (I really disliked them before my revelation). But none so much as last night's. I was trying to figure out what it was that I liked so much -- and finally I realized what was so special about this one: the toasts (most of them) were given in English.<br />
<br />
Men usually give the toasts, and I had not been to a suphra with an English-speaking man as "tamada" (toastmaster). So when the toasts are given at those suphras, I either glean what little I can from my Georgian knowledge or ask Lika or Tea what was said. It's always the same translation, "This person wishes whomever the best in everything -- health and happiness and success and long life...." Bland, generic, and vanilla. No poetic, flowery language. No heartfelt words of affirmation.<br />
<br />
But, toasting in English to those who have become near and dear to me is quite another thing. James' host speaks English well, as does Katherine's hostess, so the two Georgians who were involved in the toasting (once the extended family had left) switched to giving their toasts in English. For me, it changed everything about toasting. It made it meaningful and pertinent. Sometimes it was difficult to think of something meaningful to say, but since we all participated in each round of toasts, we could play off of each other's words, echoing the sentiment, or building on what the previous person said. It was a wonderful time to tell each other how much we all mean to each other.<br />
<br />
No wonder the Georgians have kept this tradition for centuries.... maybe for millennia.<br />
<br />
In American culture, we don't often tell each other why we love, respect, and admire each other. We don't express our feelings about and connection to things like family, school, country, history, culture, or God. But when surrounded by people who can share (in a common language) their thoughts on the meaning of life and each other, hearts are filled and spirits are refreshed.<br />
<br />
I think that we all felt that way last night. I sure did.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AtcJ3tY78Dn7dci7oevd1aOD1ceULwqqoNNRpp79UKqf1Kj-DMsjyh9oO0GPfmh2To-H0O9jxTa-eeQULwdLguK-FMPIi2zpl6mwKYf41tjG8NMeA2LoqfKR-8K-Ntegmndt_5tWUTQ/s1600/IMG_4174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AtcJ3tY78Dn7dci7oevd1aOD1ceULwqqoNNRpp79UKqf1Kj-DMsjyh9oO0GPfmh2To-H0O9jxTa-eeQULwdLguK-FMPIi2zpl6mwKYf41tjG8NMeA2LoqfKR-8K-Ntegmndt_5tWUTQ/s400/IMG_4174.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">At the suphra-table -- James' hosts, Kate, James, Mattias, and Kate's hostess</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-57495188112926372432011-06-10T13:48:00.000-07:002011-06-10T13:48:23.593-07:00Another night of suphra-ingThere is no way I can write a well-written post tonight. I will write tomorrow about James' birthday suphra. <br />
<br />
It has been a day of traveling and celebration -- after the bus, three marshutka, and a 45-minute walk up a mountain in amazingly beautiful countryside, we spent the evening and night eating, drinking, toasting, dancing, and talking. It has been a great way to celebrate James' birthday. But it is almost 1 a.m., and I am exhausted. Tomorrow I will share some thoughts about the importance of marking life's milestones.<br />
<br />
For now, sweet dreams..... and happy birthday to James!Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-10761176603143406262011-06-09T13:18:00.000-07:002011-06-09T13:18:01.469-07:00Focus on growthWhen I first arrived here in Georgia, I felt overwhelmed at the amount of work that needed to be done to reach the Ministry of Education's goal to raise the level of English in classrooms across the country. At the small school I was assigned to, over 90 students with varying degrees of English skills were placed in my care. My two co-teachers' English was decent enough, but their teaching methods needed some modernizing. I wondered how in the world I was going to make any difference whatsoever in the level of English spoken in this small village. I am only one person!<br />
<br />
I made the decision to focus my attention on my co-teachers. After all, they are the ones who will remain here long after I am gone. They are the ones who will be teaching the classes for generations to come. I felt that my efforts would have the most far-reaching effect with bettering not only their English language skills, but also their teaching skills. (I know that I blogged about this decision months ago....)<br />
<br />
And after seven months of hard work, I am very happy to say that my goal has been achieved. I'm not done yet -- there is still another week of school, and two or three more weeks until I leave. I still have some speaking and writing classes with my co-teachers and pronunciation classes with my best students. But this past week, my teachers received compliments that have let us all know that my work here has been worthwhile, valid, and successful.<br />
<br />
In Zugdidi, there is an Educational Resource Center (ERC) that holds training sessions for the teachers to learn how to change their teaching from Soviet-style to Western-style. It has been done with mixed success. I am proud to say that my teachers have improved tremendously. They have changed the way they do lesson plans and assessments, and have focused on running learner-centered classrooms, not teacher-centered ones. Back in November when I first arrived, the TLG trainers (my employer) told us volunteer teachers that if we went along with our co-teachers to these trainings, we would know what the Ministry is trying to get the teachers to do, and that we could then help them understand how to put what they learn at the ERC into practice. It's one thing to sit in a seminar and hear what should be done. It's another thing to do it. So, since November, I have attended the workshops with Lika and Tea. Then I have helped them do what they have learned. (Sometimes this felt like an uphill battle..... especially the assessment and homework-accountability issues.)<br />
<br />
This week we had our final training session at the ERC. Our trainer, Peg (an English Language Fellow from Georgetown U partnering with the U.S. Embassy) had a "final exam" of sorts for the group. It was a practical skills test of how well they learned what she has taught them about planning, assessing, and managing the classroom. (I act as a teacher's assistant at the trainings, because I know all the answers.) Lika was in one group and Tea was in another as they completed the tasks to test their skills and understanding of the Western teaching concepts. Peg was so impressed with Lika's and Tea's work -- she was thrilled to see their improvement and that they really understood what she had been teaching them. I was so proud! Peg complimented them and told them how much it means to her to have Georgian teachers who understand Western methods and are actively using them. I beamed like a proud parent!<br />
<br />
After the session was over, we walked through town with a few of the other teachers from the local schools. A couple of them talked with Tea and told her that they were impressed with how much better her English has gotten over the last several months. Tea looked at me and smiled. Again, I beamed with pride for her accomplishment.<br />
<br />
I know I made the right choice in focusing my energies on Lika and Tea. The strides they have made in both their language skills and teaching skills is astounding. I am fully confident that these two very motivated ladies will pass their certification exams and go on to be very, very effective English teachers.<br />
<br />
Growth is good!Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-78939029079306975182011-06-08T13:16:00.000-07:002011-06-08T13:16:02.017-07:00Reflections on growthNothing will yank you out of a reverie faster than inhaling a cloud of tiny bugs.<br />
<br />
While running yesterday evening, I lost myself in daydreams of where I hope to live and work in a couple of months. My body was moving down the Shamgona road, but my mind was thousands of miles away, arranging the yet-unknown details of my life. When suddenly, I ran through a thick cloud of no-see-ums. Sucking down about ten of them through both my nose and mouth, the miniscule insects snapped me back to reality. Choking on little, fluttery wings and spiky legs, I stopped dead, coughing and spitting out as many of them as I could. I'm sure that I swallowed at least one, (protein, as my dad would say) and I aspirated another far enough into the top of my windpipe that I couldn't cough it out.<br />
<br />
That's what I get for ignoring my present mantra to stay present.<br />
<br />
With my consciousness restored to what was in front of me, I noticed one of my fifth-grade boys riding a bike. Although the bike is too big for him, it fits him better now than it did when I first came. Back in the fall when he rode the same bike, his feet lost touch with the pedals when they bottomed-out on their revolution. He pushed on the top pedal when the other dropped out of reach and caught the opposite pedal on its way up. He had to shift his weight from one side of the seat to the other as he applied enough pressure on the rising pedal to propel himself forward. But now when he pedals, he can almost sit still in the seat and his feet just about touch the pedals through their entire cycle up and down. He has grown.<br />
<br />
Growth. It's something that I have noticed all around me lately. The tiny, fluffy chicks are now gangly, teenage chickens who wander further and further from their mother hens in search of bugs to eat. Kitten has doubled in size, although he still hasn't grown into his ears. His lanky body stretches out the length of my lap when he sleeps there. The spring shoots in the gardens and orchards are now full-grown plants already flowering with this season's tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, kiwi, mandarins, and persimmons.<br />
<br />
The kids have grown, too. Levan has grown at least five inches, stretching out his little-boy looks to beginnings of a handsome man. The third-grade boys are now wearing capris -- pants that covered their ankles and reached their shoes on the shorter versions of themselves at the beginning of the school year.<br />
<br />
Physical growth may be the easiest to notice, but I've seen growth in other avenues, too. Of course, my friendship with both Lika and Tea has grown -- with Tea, especially -- she is like a sister to me now. Both of the ladies have grown in their knowledge and use of English. The community's growing acceptance of me is most noticeable through a contrast of looks -- especially when I run. Most of the villagers are very familiar with me and are used to seeing me. The growth is noticeable when an old "bebia" or "babua" who has not ventured out of the house since last summer sees me running down the road. They stop and stare like everyone else used to do months ago.<br />
<br />
I've also seen growth in myself. I have grown out of the cynical, sardonic attitude I had adopted over the last few years. I have grown to accept those things about my nature that I thought were signs of weakness (femininity, sensitivity). I have grown in my understanding of variance in culture and tradition, and given credence to the importance of both. I'm still working on growing in humility -- that's a tough one.<br />
<br />
Growth. I know that this is a topic that I will continue to develop in my remaining posts. It is something that is at the forefront of my thinking right now as I observe and measure it all around me. And if I can stay present in my thoughts, I will see more and more of it in everyone.<br />
<br />
And I won't inhale any more bugs.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-24370704630520065732011-06-07T13:34:00.000-07:002011-06-07T13:34:52.672-07:00Summer.... almostIn the sultry heat, it's hard to remember how blasted cold it was around here just a few months ago. But it is definitely summer now... except for the school-part for the next week and a half. Then it will be full-blown summertime. Here are a few of the changes that have come with the change of season....<br />
<br />
The water in the hot water tank only takes a half-hour to heat up. In the winter, it took at least three hours. That's what happens when the bathroom is the same temperature as outside.<br />
<br />
The cows (and water buffalo) don't come home when they used to. In fact, if Tea wants to milk them at night, we have to go looking for them and bring them home. But I like strolling around the village with Tea in search of the wayward bovine.<br />
<br />
There are finally fresh vegetables to eat!<br />
<br />
With the change in diet, I have lost about half of the weight that I had gained over the starch-and-oil-laden winter. I feel much more like myself again.<br />
<br />
The sky is light until after 9 p.m. Tea and I often stop whatever work we are doing around 8:30, amazed that it is so late and wondering why we are so hungry..... lunch having been at least six hours before.<br />
<br />
I often do the dishes in the outdoor sink. It is funny to wash dishes surrounded by pigs, chicks, hens, roosters, a baby water buffalo, cats, turkeys, and the dog all nosing around for scraps of food. Today I had to shoo a hen out of my clean dishes.<br />
<br />
Evening thunderstorms are common. After a humid day, the clouds roll in off the Black Sea, and when they hit the mountains of Svaneti, a storm erupts over the region. I love it!<br />
<br />
I often sit outside and read with Kitten sleeping on my lap. "Our Grandmother" sometimes wanders by, chuckles, and calls Kitten "sheni shvili" (your kid).<br />
<br />
Most of my students have brightened up their wardrobe.... not so much black.<br />
<br />
At least once a week students bring me flowers -- this started back in the spring, but now I am receiving bouquet after bouquet of gorgeous roses from their flower gardens.<br />
<br />
So many more people are out in the evenings, and they all greet me as I run. Today I was stopped four times by various groups to chat for a minute or give me flowers. (I'm back to running with flowers like when I first arrived,)<br />
<br />
The village is full of beautiful flowers and trees and vegetable gardens. It doesn't look like the same place I moved to over six months ago.<br />
<br />
So much of what has changed about the village has to do with growth. I have been thinking about growth for the last few days, and I will put my thoughts together for a post about growth. But not tonight. Tonight I am going to read for longer than I should with school first thing in the morning.... my library book is due and I need to finish it!Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-53688498122391798392011-06-06T14:10:00.000-07:002011-06-06T14:10:46.360-07:00MantraBe present. <br />
<br />
(breathe in -- breathe out)<br />
<br />
Be present. <br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Be present. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(breathe in -- breathe out)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Now, if only I can remember that.......</div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-46585018586276676142011-06-05T13:19:00.000-07:002011-06-05T13:25:36.138-07:00Wine cultureWho doesn't love a glass of great wine? For me it doesn't get much better than a glass of white wine (in the summer) or red wine (anytime) that compliments a lovely meal. Full-bodied, complex, earthy, fruity, with notes of chocolate, mushroom, cherry, or citrus -- of course, not all in the same wine -- but any glass of a well-balanced combination can make any occasion feel like a special one.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Georgia claims to be the birthplace of wine. (So do Turkey, Armenia, Cyprus, and a few other places.) Whoever was first, I don't know, but archaeologists have dated the wine-making industry in Georgia to over 8,000 years ago. And for all of those 8,000 years, wine has been an important part of the culture.<br />
<br />
There are many legends that have arisen throughout Georgia's history dealing with various aspects of Georgia. One of my favorites that includes the Georgians' love affair with wine has to do with how Georgia came to be located where it is. The story goes something like this...<br />
<br />
On the day that God parceled out land to the peoples of the earth, the Georgians were, of course, late. By the time they arrived, all the land had been divided up and given away. God told the Georgians that all of the land was spoken for and then asked them why they were so late. They responded that they had been at a suphra, toasting with wine to Peace and to God. But they had toasted so much and so heartily, they arrived at God's meeting late. God was so moved by the Georgian's devotion to Him, that He decided to give them the small slice of exquisitely beautiful land that He had reserved for Himself, and He moved up to Heaven instead of living on Earth.<br />
<br />
Is it any wonder that this country holds wine and wine-making as a central part of its culture? Of course, the legend is not factual, but it does say something about how the country views wine if they feel that God Himself places importance on it.<br />
<br />
Even though I know how important wine is to them, as an outsider, I still find it a bit odd to drink with students. It's legal, but weird.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83rwAHHzv2KFfMoc6jZUVBqA_5dR8TmtWsKBGEqizOB_LZRuyCGWExZBkPRDtm_oUAmCdfWGMAKrHGi3Xvmi0myf0h1rr7ZPdZW_O2XjRKOX8Ovws4U_jOeuIkEct0pdrsfHO_87J4bk/s1600/IMG_4090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83rwAHHzv2KFfMoc6jZUVBqA_5dR8TmtWsKBGEqizOB_LZRuyCGWExZBkPRDtm_oUAmCdfWGMAKrHGi3Xvmi0myf0h1rr7ZPdZW_O2XjRKOX8Ovws4U_jOeuIkEct0pdrsfHO_87J4bk/s400/IMG_4090.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">A senior giving a toast to the teachers while his proud father looks on</td></tr>
</tbody></table></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I mentioned in my post a couple of days ago, that the graduation suphra included all the traditional toasts, with some additional ones thrown in to honor the graduates and teachers. Through the first half of the event, the boys who gave toasts (most girls don't give them), took only sips from their wine glass instead of drinking the whole glass. But as the night wore on, they started downing half the glass, and by the end of the night, they were drinking to the bottom ("dalie bolomde"). Needless to say, they were pretty drunk by the time we wrapped things up and called it a night.<br />
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Had this party taken place in the United States, every teacher there would have lost their job, and probably been arrested. The principal, too. The parents would have been in trouble - fines at the very least. Maybe some prison time. But the Georgian culture dictates that it is not only okay for us to gather and celebrate with wine, but necessary. A toast cannot be given with anything other than wine or tcha-tcha (homemade vodka/cognac-nastiness). Raising a glass of anything else is disrespectful. So although I prefer to drink wine "European-style" (sipping it slowly), when I toasted the seniors and their future, I drank the whole glass of wine. For them, there is no greater show of respect and meaningfulness.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Do I think it is okay for young people to drink? Yes. But responsible adults need to model for them how to drink in moderation. Do I think that there is a major problem of drunkenness in Georgia? Yes. My friend James has written a couple of great posts about the issue (<a href="http://experimentinginhappiness.wordpress.com/2011/02/17/drinking-village-with-a-georgian-problem/">Drinking Village with a Georgian Problem</a> and <a href="http://experimentinginhappiness.wordpress.com/2011/01/04/toastmaster/">Toastmaster</a>) and has explored the issue more extensively (and with hilarity) than I will here. I will say that drinking in moderation is not normal in this culture. People either don't drink at all or drink in excess. Maybe in the city, things are changing. There are bars and restaurants where people go out to have a drink or two. But here in the village, drinking only happens with toasting. And once toasting starts, the full round of toasts has to be given. By the end, anywhere from 8 to 15 glasses of wine will have been consumed by each person toasting. Do I think this kind of drinking is okay? No.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp8Lyjd-rc_UhB8LuSf_JEMcNFL9pje2-kNlzq4LW1lg4BgjGKx030gBa2kjqZuLaqhrYtwoaEleM-6n5nKs5USqrR2VZHcPlGBPFNlV4Qfp77-UVP0F36cPTeN-qvgYjgE4Hy41H5Mqc/s1600/IMG_4098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp8Lyjd-rc_UhB8LuSf_JEMcNFL9pje2-kNlzq4LW1lg4BgjGKx030gBa2kjqZuLaqhrYtwoaEleM-6n5nKs5USqrR2VZHcPlGBPFNlV4Qfp77-UVP0F36cPTeN-qvgYjgE4Hy41H5Mqc/s400/IMG_4098.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A senior and the computer teacher drinking "Vaktanguli" --<br />
linking arms and drinking their glass to the bottom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, here in Georgia, I will drink when I must. But, thankfully, as a woman, I can refuse to drink and not be hounded too annoyingly. (Men drink much more than women.... the women are always running around serving the men.) But I will never get used to seeing teachers, parents, and students standing in a circle, some more drunk than others, downing glass after glass of wine.</div>Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-68463351908409241342011-06-04T13:47:00.000-07:002011-06-04T13:47:03.278-07:00Cheer for meI love sports. The New England teams are my favorites since I am a true-blooded Mainer, but I also love the Philadelphia teams. But being on the other side of the world, I have not been able to watch any of my favorite teams play this latest season. The most I have been able to do is log onto the NFL, MLB, or NHL web sites and check the schedules and scores.<br />
<br />
And now the Boston Bruins are in the Stanley Cup finals, and I can't watch them play. I would love it if someone would watch the games and cheer extra-loud for me. Feel free to talk some trash on Vancouver. Drink a Sam Adams for me. Put on your lucky jersey. Tell the ref he needs glasses when he makes a bad call. Hoot and holler at an awesome check into the boards. If there's a hat trick, chuck your hat for me. If the game goes to overtime, sit on the edge of your seat and bite your pinky nail. And when the Bruins win, go wild!<br />
<br />
You can blame me for your behavior!Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-40537730801275264682011-06-03T13:36:00.000-07:002011-06-03T13:36:02.661-07:00GraduationYesterday was the last day of school for the seniors. It was graduation without the "Graduation."<br />
<br />
For the last six school days, the seniors have been taking their final exams. In the Georgian educational system, in order to exit high school, the seniors have to take and pass exams in all their subjects. Their overall score on the exams dictates which university they will be able to attend. The exams ended on Wednesday, and yesterday was their final day of school.<br />
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After the last class of the day, the teachers pulled all the chairs out of the teachers' room into the wide hallway. As usual, I had no idea what was happening. When I asked Tea, she shrugged her shoulders and said they must be having a program of some sort for the seniors. She asked if I wanted to stay. Even though I was starving, I said that I would like to see what was going on.<br />
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The general hubbub of the day after classes are over was multiplied ten-fold. Everyone was still at school. (Usually classes trickle out of school over the course of the afternoon.) The seniors passed around white shirts to be signed by students -- sort of like a yearbook, but without the pictures. The throng worked its way to the hallway where the program would take place -- parents, friends, teachers, students, and the seniors.<br />
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I almost didn't recognize the seniors; they were dressed up. The boys looked very grown up in their suits, and the girls looked beautiful in their party dresses and stilettoes. Before the program started, Tea and I sat together, deciding whose dress and shoes we liked the best. I commented that the girls all looked like they had just stepped out of the Mexican telenovelas that everyone here watches. Tea cracked up. (As an aside, there is something to be said for old-fashioned finishing school. Parents don't teach their children how to behave when they are dressed up. Decorum should be an accessory to a dressy occasion. There is something very unattractive about a young person acting as if they had on a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers when they are dressed up.)<br />
<br />
The seniors lined up at the end of the hall, and the other students gathered around behind and beside all of us teachers who were seated in the middle. The program began.<br />
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Students from various classes spoke, sang, danced, and recited original poems. One of the elementary teachers stepped forward with a stack of papers in her hand. She had been their teacher for grades one through four, and she read the notes that she had made about each student at the end of their fourth grade year. I understood some of what was said, but mostly I enjoyed everyone's reactions to what was read. Halfway through some of the descriptions, everyone knew who was being described; and at the end of others, they all hooted with laughter and surprise when the name was announced. The seniors' homeroom teacher said a few words, and then one of the senior girls read a speech, thanking the principal and the teachers for all their hard work and dedication. And then the huge, antique bronze school bell rang and rang and rang -- pealing out a resonant proclamation to the whole village that these students were finished with their high school days.<br />
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It wouldn't be a Georgian celebration without a suphra to finish off the day. All the teachers were invited, but Tea opted out of going. She knew how late it would be and had too much work to do, so she didn't go. I did.<br />
<br />
At 7 p.m., I hopped on the marshutka that the teachers hired to take us all to the hall in Zugdidi that the seniors' parents had rented out for the graduation suphra. We arrived at the hall at 7:45 and sat in the marshutka waiting for the students to show up. And we sat. And we sat. And we sat. For two hours. Finally, at 9:45 they arrived. We piled out of the marshutka and followed the students up to the second-floor banquet hall where the long tables were already set and the sound system was set up next to the dance floor.<br />
<br />
We ate and toasted and drank and danced until 2:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
This was one of those times when I wished that I knew more Georgian. I would have liked to understand fully the toasts that were given -- from parents to the students and to the teachers -- from the teachers to the parents and to the students -- and from the students to their parents and to the teachers. I gave one toast (in English) for the students and downed the whole glass of wine. I won't do that for just anyone, but for students, I will.<br />
<br />
Drinking with students is something that takes a little getting used to. In the U.S. legal drinking age is, of course, 21 (which I think is too high -- at 18, kids can join the military and kill people, but they can't have a beer? Incongruous). But here in Georgia, where drinking is such an integral part of the culture, the legal drinking age is 16. Sitting around with students, toasting and drinking is normal here. This is a topic that I may explore a little more in a later post.<br />
<br />
As always, I danced with the students and dragged some of the other teachers out onto the dance floor. The kids love having their teachers dance with them. Each teacher who either came out on the floor of their own accord, or were reluctantly led there, was received with cheers, applause, and intensified dancing in a circle around them. It was great fun -- dusty disco ball and all! One of the funniest parts of the dancing was the music set-up. One of the guys sat with someone's MP3 player and scanned through the songs to find good ones to dance to. So often, he put on a song that everyone started getting into, only to switch it off abruptly -- everyone groaned and hollered to at him to turn it back on. We really needed a real DJ.<br />
<br />
A few of the students came up to me at different points through the night and either in English or Georgian (with Lika translating), thanked me for coming here to Georgia. Even though I did not have any of them in class, they were thankful to me for working with their fellow-students and their teachers. They expressed gratitude for what I have done for their community and their country.<br />
<br />
So humbling.<br />
<br />
There is something to be said for marking Life's milestones. Finishing school is one of those times in life that should be celebrated. Whether with a "Pomp and Circumstance"-accompanied march down an aisle wearing robes and mortarboards or a traditional-Georgian-music-accompanied suphra -- a celebration is necessary to place weight and importance on the completion of one part of Life and the beginning of another. So raise a glass to the graduates and their futures -- bright and full of promise.<br />
<br />
Cheers.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-2533632269980853302011-06-02T16:17:00.000-07:002011-06-02T16:17:14.652-07:00Another late nightToday was the seniors last day -- it was sort of a graduation, which, of course, ended with a suphra. It is now 3:15 a.m. I just got home, and I have to teach fourth graders in five hours and forty-five minutes. So, for tonight, I will only say that I have some great stories to tell from the night....but not tonight!<br />
<br />
Until tomorrow....Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-42252833799988411602011-06-01T12:00:00.000-07:002011-06-01T12:00:12.904-07:00Being presentSo, it's June.<br />
<br />
There are two and a half weeks of school left, and I'm down to looking at the calendar in terms of weeks instead of months. In order to view my time here in mentally manageable chunks, I have not looked at the calendar in terms of days -- there have been too many. And there still are. Not until there are fewer than twenty days will I start looking at my remaining time here in terms of days. But I don't yet know when I will fly home. While my return date remains a mystery, I will continue to think in terms of weeks.<br />
<br />
At the same time, I am working at staying present, enjoying every moment here that I will not get back, and being self-reflective in all respects.<br />
<br />
Staying present is a difficult discipline to practice when my heart is someplace that my body is not. There is a constant pull inside of me leading my thoughts to fabricate some kind of future. But dwelling on the future is futile. It is completely unknown.... especially since I have no idea what I am going to do or where I am going to live when I return to the U.S. To bring myself back to the present, I have to involve myself in a conversation and make eye contact with the people around me. Focusing my attention on those who are physically in front of me is the only way to ground me in the present moment. The minute I am alone or drift inside my head while staring off into space, I start wishing to be Home. That is not the way I want to spend my last weeks here in Georgia, because I will not get this time back.<br />
<br />
My friend James and I were talking about this last weekend. He made a statement that stuck with me -- he said that before we know it, we'll be sitting in our families' houses, shaking our heads and saying, "Whoa, that was a weird dream!" I know how true that is. There have been other times when I have looked forward to something happening for so long, but when it finally arrives and then ends, it feels like a dream. This time it will be a 7-month-long dream! But I know that when I am sitting in my brother and sister-in-law's house where I sat just before flying half-way around the world, it will feel like I was there yesterday. These seven months will feel surreal -- like an alternate reality that may have been a movie I saw. But, unlike a movie, I won't be able to replay this time. When it's over, it's over.<br />
<br />
Knowing that this time will end is helping me to be intentionally self-reflective. I know that I have a lot of growing to do. My life has completely fallen apart. The life that I wanted evaporated in front of my eyes. Starting back a square one is a tough place to be, and I want to know myself better than I did before I came to Georgia. Noticing what makes me tick while surrounded by foreign-everything will help me to know why I think the way I think and do the things I do. I have found out what is important to me, and keeping those important things in the foreground is going to aid me in re-prioritizing my life when I get to putting it back together.... whenever and wherever that may be.<br />
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But for the next few weeks, I will notice the little things and take joy in them -- the heady scent of roses from the neighbor's garden, the fireflies flickering around the yard at night, my students excitement at everything, Tea's brilliant smile and musical laugh. They'll be mere memories before long.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-39686073534770434102011-05-31T13:39:00.000-07:002011-05-31T13:39:27.460-07:00A surprise running partnerSometimes I feel like I write about running too often. I know that most of my readers are not runners, and when writing, one should always keep the audience in mind. But it is such an important part of my life, I can't ignore the things that happen while I'm out for a run. After all, it may be the thing I do for the most amount of time after sleeping and working. So, if you are bored with my running posts, feel free to skip them. I won't be offended.<br />
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Yesterday was my day to run. I had contemplated running in the morning since my train arrived from Tbilisi at 6:30 a.m. and I didn't have to be at school to teach until 9:45. But when I got to the house, I started talking with Tea about the weekend's adventures and ran out of time. No problem, I would run in the afternoon, as usual.<br />
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Afternoon came around, and because it was hot and sunny, I put off going out until the sun had started going down. Tea and I sat in the living room talking while Elene bounced around from one place to another. I mentioned that the sun was low enough to keep me from sweltering in the heat, so I was going to change my clothes and head out. Elene piped up and said that she wanted to run with me -- this was a first. Tea and I both chuckled incredulously, but she insisted that she could run with me. Tea was ready to tell her, "No," but I said that she could come with me until she got tired, and then she could come back home. I told her that I was going to run to the bridge (20 minutes away), and I would not carry her home if she went further then she should. Tea translated for me to be sure that Elene understood the deal. She nodded in agreement and bounced off to find her sneakers.<br />
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Five minutes later, we walked out the front gate. Dog bounded out behind us, smiling a big dog-smile. I thought that maybe he would join us, but instead, he loped off into the cemetery across the road to pee on the gravestones and fence posts. I looked down at Elene who, at almost 8 years old, comes up to about my elbow and said, "Are you ready?" She gave me a bright-eyed nod, and we started down the road.<br />
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Since her legs are half the length of mine, I slowed my normal pace to a jog. Elene's legs were churning at the pace mine would usually be hitting. She looked up at me and smiled.<br />
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I expected her to tire about the time we reached the school (a half-mile away), but when we reached the school, I asked her if she was tired. She shook her head, still keeping pace with me. We ran on, greeting everyone who exclaimed in surprise to see Elene running with me. They are all used to seeing me out on the road, but not with Elene in tow.<br />
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When we got a mile down the road (a little less than halfway to the bridge), Elene started to get winded. I asked her again if she was tired. And again, she said no. I started thinking that she would be able to run to the bridge..... but back to the house? Probably not. I could also tell that she was not going to turn around on her own to go back home. I decided to turn around with her, run back to the house, drop her off, and go out for another couple of miles.<br />
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Another quarter-mile out, I told her that we were going to turn around and that I would run back with her. She didn't argue as we doubled back toward the house. She did point to her cheeks and ask (in English), "Is it red?" I said yes and asked if mine were, too. She said yes. (She rarely speaks to me in English even though she knows a lot. The exercise must have tightened up a connection between her brain and her tongue.)<br />
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We ran back to the house -- she was tired on the return run, but I encouraged her along. She was very proud of herself when we got back to the house. I congratulated her on a great run, and went back out to pick up the pace for my last two miles.<br />
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So, I may have a new running partner. She wants to run with me again tomorrow. I think it's great!Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013907449881395185.post-49064214778681427602011-05-30T13:46:00.000-07:002011-05-30T13:47:05.555-07:00Ice cream for all, but not toleranceI've written before about how I always find kindred spirits everywhere I go. People who are like-minded, tolerant, open, and willing to put themselves in someone else's shoes. People who can think beyond their own individual situation and see something beyond themselves. People who have begun to see themselves in relation to this big, wide world -- our global community -- and understand the need for diversity and acceptance. This past weekend in Kazbegi was a wonderful experience of gathering different cultures together and finding commonality and like-mindedness there.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But for every few kindred spirits that I find throughout the world, I run up against one or two people who are not. That is, who are not like-minded, not open, not tolerant, not accepting of diversity. Last evening, one such person found me and our group.</div><br />
James, Katherine, and I had traveled back to Tbilisi with Mattias (our Belgian friend). Kieran (our Irish friend) arrived in the capital a few hours behind us, and we all met in the evening to prolong the great weekend with new and old friends.<br />
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After dinner, our global group decided that dessert was in order. We walked to the best ice-cream shop in the city. As we stood on the sidewalk amid the throng of Georgians out to enjoy the lovely, warm evening, an older man, obviously NOT Georgian stepped up to me and said, "You're speaking English! I'll talk to anyone I can find who is speaking English!"<br />
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His accent told me that he was North-American. He was probably 65 or so -- white hair sticking out from under his bright red baseball hat emblazoned with "CANADA" and a maple leaf. He was wearing a blue "FDNY" t-shirt, blue shorts, white socks pulled up to mid-calf, and sneakers. I smiled and said, "Hello," then pointing from his hat to his t-shirt, I added, "Are you Canadian or American?" He ignored my question (or just didn't hear me over his own thoughts) and went on talking about how he has been stopping and talking to anyone he can find who speaks English.<br />
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He asked us where we were all from. I started saying that some of us were American and was going to add that others were Belgian and Irish, but at "American," he interrupted me and asked where in the United States I was from. I told him I was from the Philadelphia area. His ensuing story about driving down to Philadelphia and D.C. from Toronto told us that he was Canadian.<br />
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We exchanged some pleasantries about the places in the U.S. that he had been, and then he wanted to know if we were in Georgia for rugby. The way he asked was more like an affirmative statement -- as if there would be no other reason for anyone being there. Aaaahh, no. He seemed a bit surprised that we didn't know that the U.S. and Canadian rugby teams were in Georgia for a two-week tournament -- his son plays for the Canadian team, and that was the only reason he was in Georgia.<br />
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He didn't have too much good to say about the country, and wanted to know, if not for rugby, why were we all in this backward country. When we told him that some of us were working here, one was doing research for his ph.D. dissertation, and the other was just traveling, he was only mildly interested.<br />
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He changed the topic of conversation to something that I can't remember -- I do remember watching James take over the replies with this man who kept inching closer and closer as if he were sharing confidential secrets that the Georgians passing by shouldn't hear. I was beginning to wish that he would say goodbye and let me finish my melting ice cream.<br />
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That was when he again changed the conversation. This time he stepped within a foot of my face (why is it always me?) and made a nebulous remark in low, hushed tones about how proud he was of what the U.S. had done. I looked at him blankly. Granted, I have been out of the country for over six months, but I do watch the news and read at least the headlines and sometimes full articles on the <i>New York Times</i> web site. I don't remember if I asked what he meant, or if he read my puzzled expression, but it came out that he meant the U.S. killing Osama Bin Laden.<br />
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Great. That was not a conversation... or rather, disagreement that I wanted to have with this man. I stood there silently, wondering what in the world I could say that would neither start an argument nor betray my pacifist beliefs. He went on and on about how good it is that the man is dead. I just looked at the ground while he rambled on, still at a loss for how to close this conversation politely and without offending his convictions. I tightened my lips and looked to the side in disagreement. I finally came up with something to say back to him, although I don't remember what it was -- I don't think I even acknowledged his statements about Bin Laden -- I think that I just told him that it was nice to meet him and wished his son's team luck in the tournament.<br />
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Later on, I thought about this man. On one hand, I believe that everyone is entitled to his own opinion. I have no right to tell anyone how they should think or what they should think. But on the other hand, I don't know what to do with intolerance, bigotry, egotistical nationalism, or hatred. If I really believe that every person should be able to express their feelings and thoughts, then someone who's beliefs completely go against mine has as much right to share them as I do my pacifistic and inclusive ones. The catch is that the minute I make any kind of statement that shows my tolerant attitude, I will be caught in an onslaught of angry, accusing, maligned arguments hurled at me, but meant for the offending party who is not present -- in this case, Bin Laden and the Taliban. There will be no mutual conversation. There can't be when one person is close-minded.<br />
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Whatever I said must have been diplomatic enough. The man smiled and went away happily eating his ice cream.<br />
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I don't understand people who believe that violence can solve anything.Steffi Park Egerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00551287334493637254noreply@blogger.com2