Stage two is so annoying!

Culture shock -- I really dislike it. Just when I think I've adjusted, stage two hits for no apparent reason, and I am irritated and annoyed with everything around me.

During our first-week training, our cultural instructor talked a lot about culture shock and its four stages. The first one is when everything is either wonderful or terrifying, depending on one's personality. Being a fearless romantic, for me, everything in a new culture is wonderful. Stage two is riddled with irritability and annoyance at everything about the new culture. Stage three is characterized by acceptance of and adaptation into the new culture. And in stage four, new knowledge and growth brings about on-going changes in the person, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I thought that I had moved beyond stage two, but it seems that I regressed today.

Friday when Tea and I were on our way into Zugdidi, I commented to her that things around me seem much more normal than they did when I first arrived. The style of houses, the rusty fences, the vegetation, the cows everywhere, the horrible driving, the way people dress, the lack of teeth (in other people's mouths, not mine!), the food, the language both written and spoken -- it is all becoming familiar. That was a nice feeling.

Then today hit.

I had no reason at all to be frustrated and annoyed today, but I was. At school I was frustrated that the fourth graders keep pronouncing "th" as an "s" even though I have gone over the pronunciation of that letter combination at least thirty times. One of my co-teachers is still giving very basic commands to the lower classes in Georgian even though we have talked about the importance of using English instead. I was annoyed at being told to eat khatchapuri and drink coffee because it is cold outside. Noise of all sorts bothered me today -- here in Georgia, it is completely impossible to get away from noise at school; and at the house, when it is cold and rainy out like it was today, straying out into the hazelnut orchards or by the river for some quiet is just not enjoyable. And the "ABC Song" is stuck in my head. Grrrrrrrr.

I am a very transparent person. I have a hard time hiding what I think about something. If I like something, it is very obvious -- and if I dislike something, it is equally obvious. I know that I wear my feelings in plain sight. Knowing this about myself makes me feel bad about days like today. I absolutely know that annoyance registered on my face at school today. Even though no one who I was annoyed at was at fault for anything, I couldn't help how I felt. I worked very, very hard at keeping at least a half-smile or a flat expression. I don't want my students or co-teacher to think that I am upset with them for anything  -- it's me, not them! And how would I explain culture shock to someone who has never been anywhere??

One of the most frustrating things about stage two of culture shock is that it completely blindsides me and makes me unreasonably irritated at those who I am supposed to be working with. In my brain, I know that they are not doing anything to annoy me purposefully, yet I am still annoyed -- and that frustrates me further. It can be a vicious cycle of negativity that spirals down endlessly -- I've experienced it before. And not having people who know me -- I mean, really know me -- nearby, I can't vent my frustrations without being taken the wrong way. Getting out of the negative thought-pattern is difficult. I know that when I am in this phase, the things that get me out are physical touch or words of understanding and belonging. And with no close friends or family around, it's hard to find those things. But I actually got them both today.

I went to Eka's house this afternoon to have some conversation with her in English. She wants to spend as much time as she can talking with me so she can better her language capabilities. I didn't really want to walk 35 minutes in the cold rain to her house, but I did anyway. We sat in her kitchen and talked for a while about New Year's, the weather, Istanbul, the news that was on TV, and other random things. Her mother-in-law came in to put out the necessary coffee, candy, and fruit -- she is a very sweet lady, and wanted to know how I was doing. She stood beside me and as she talked through Eka's translating, she put her hand on my shoulder and gave me loving squeeze that spoke volumes. It's amazing how comforting a simple touch is.

Back at Tea's house, I sat in the kitchen with Tea, "our grandmother," and Elene. In the midst of the conversation, cheese making, lesson planning, and dubbed telenovelas, "our grandmother" turned to me and said something. She usually tells me to eat, but this time I caught the words "you" and "family" in her mumbling. I tried to process the rest of what she had said to me, but came up blank. I looked at Tea and asked what grandmother had asked me about my family. Tea said that she hadn't asked me anything -- she had said that I am part of her family. That made me smile a genuine smile, those words of belonging -- and heartfelt ones, at that.

I hope that tomorrow will find me back in stage three -- I am assimilating into the culture here. It is not my own, nor do I want it to be, but I am accepting it as my temporary home. So, even as I cross off the days on my calendar in a subversive count-down to leaving, I am still living here for the present. Accepting my present reality will keep me focused on my goals: teach English, learn Georgian, make a difference.

I've seen this before.....

Ever since I first arrived in Shamgona, I have felt like I live in a movie. My first comparison was to Fiddler on the Roof, and today while I was sweeping up leaves in the front yard with a twig-broom (a surprisingly efficient instrument), visions of that movie flashed in my mind. But later today, I watched the movie that more accurately represents where I live.


Mkhiaruli Romani ("Happy Romance," 1972) is a romantic comedy that had me laughing right out loud several times while Tea and I watched it during lunch. It reminded me so much of life here and now even though it was made the year I was born. I was going to call the movie "old," but that would make me "old," too, and I am certainly not old! 


Anyway, so many things about the movie are what I live, day in and day out here in Shamgona. Today while on my walk, the same large, creaky dump truck passed me that I saw in the film. The same Soviet white "Lada" (a make of car) that got stuck in the river in the movie drives down my road every day (actually, there are several of them here in the village). The basket-weave stick fence around the main character's house is the same kind of fence that several people here in the village have constructed around their properties. The inside of the houses, furniture, decor, and all are identical to almost every place I have been in. Today, before the movie was on, Tea and I went to a neighbor's house to take some fresh khachapuri to them -- the man of the house had stomach surgery recently, so we went to visit. Later when the movie was on, I could have sworn that they had filmed it inside the neighbor's house. 


More than visually, the manner of life around here is the same as what I saw in the movie. The verbal expressions have not changed -- in the film, the women gasped with a breathy "Deda!"closely following the gasp just like I hear from the women around me all day every day as they react to everything that is surprising, happy, or sad. Young people get married without telling their parents -- it happened in the film, and a month ago, here in Shamgona, a girl in college did the same thing. The parents were not too happy about this -- in reality, or in the film! When a guest arrives at a house, the lady of the house immediately sets the table with plates, silverware, glasses, a bowl of fruit, bread, whatever other food is handy, and wine. It has happened every single time I have gone to anyone's house (including this morning's neighborly visit), and in the movie, as well. 


So, what does this say about the movie? What does this say about this country? I think the movie is a perfect portrayal of life here in Georgia -- with a comedic twist. This is a country deeply in love with its traditions. Everyone has done the same things for decades, even centuries, and some things for millennia because it is the Georgian way. It is what defines them as a people. It identifies them in their own, unique culture, keeping them separate from other groups who are geographically close - Turkish, Russian, Armenian, and Azerbaijani. The Georgians fiercely hold onto what makes them Georgian. 


I think that any one who comes to Georgia in the next 100 years or so and watches Mikhiaruli Romani will also feel the same way I did today. There will probably still be Lada cars rattling down the road!

Some random observations

It is taking me forever to get through Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It is such a good book with so many points that I want to process, that I end up re-reading paragraphs and whole pages to fully absorb what Pirsig is saying. Something that I read in the book the day before yesterday is something that I teach my students when I teach art: "The more you look, the more you see." This principle applies to every aspect of life, and it is something that I have been forgetting to do lately; so the last couple of days, I have tried to be intentional about looking more. These are some of the things that I noticed in my observations:

When it rains, the cows' fur goes from wavy to curly, just like my hair.

Chickens move faster than you can imagine when they hear food. Today I was standing on the upper house porch hanging out some laundry when "our grandmother" called the chickens that were all pecking around in the front yard to the back of the house to give them some food. In less than 3 seconds, the front yard was completely cleared out as all the chickens and roosters ran, flapped, and squawked their way to the back. I didn't know they could move that fast!

This may not really be an observation, but a new practice -- in order to keep my place in any line (or, what would be a line in other places), I have to get aggressive and pushy. Georgians don't generally form lines. They just pile around each other trying to get in front of the person who was there before them. So, someone like me who is patient and not pushy will be edged out over and over again. At the bank today this happened to me twice before I decided to act like the Georgians, although I find the behavior extremely rude. It worked, and even though I felt really bad elbowing my way back in front of the woman who stepped right in front of me, she didn't seem to think anything of it. Oh dear.

Winter in a sub-tropical climate is when one of my favorite flowers blooms: camellias! They are in full bloom right now. Beautiful!

The generation-gap exists here, too. I'll be writing a post about this sometime soon.....

Water buffalo are much snottier than cows. (Is "snottier" a word?)

A 17-passenger marshutka can hold more than 40 people. On my way into town this morning (to pay my internet bill), I decided to count how many people got into the marshutka. Counting the driver, I counted 41. Then I couldn't see anymore. We stopped two more times before getting to town, but I couldn't tell if someone got on or off.

It's almost February, and there are already signs of spring in the village. The rose bushes have new growth. The grass is getting greener. The hazelnut trees have developed some kind of flowery-thing like maple trees. Lots cows and pigs and cats are pregnant. Garden plots are plowed and ready for planting.

Birds are more visible in the leaf-less winter trees. I saw a beautiful one today that I have never seen before. It had an orange head with a beady, black eye and long, slender, black beak. The small body was gray and black. I tried looking up Georgian birds online, but didn't have any luck finding the one I saw.



I am really looking forward to experiencing Spring here in the village. Being so engulfed by nature in all its forms will make the transformation more meaningful and poignant than ever. I want to remember to look more so that I can see more. Noticing what is going on around me will also help me to stay grounded in the present, too -- something else that I have difficulty with!

So, maybe it's time for a new mantra. My previous "Spontaneity and flexibility" is pretty natural for me now, so "Look more, see more" will be my new one.

My first Georgian doctor's visit

[I know you're reading this, Mom - don't worry; it's nothing serious!]

A few weeks after arriving in Georgia, I got a cold. It was nothing unusual, except that it seemed to settle in one of my eyes, causing that eyelid to swell and my eye to water constantly. I have had that happen before, so I didn't really think anything of it. My cold went away after several days, and my eyelid became less swollen, but then a small bump appeared where the swelling had been. It didn't hurt, so I just left it alone, hoping it would go away. It didn't. Tea suggested I see the doctor here in the village just before Christmas break, but the doctor was not in, and then break came and I was away; so, finally, yesterday I went to the village doctor.

The doctor's office looks like the one-room school-house from the old TV show, "Little House on the Prairie" without the bell (that's on my school!). Lika went with me to make sure that nothing important was lost in translation. The doctor, a small lady with gentle hands, understands English and can speak a little. She looked at my eyelid and immediately said that it was nothing to worry about, but I should see the eye doctor. She got on the phone and called an eye doctor in Zugdidi to see if their office would be open the next day. I told her that I have health insurance, and gave her my card. That brought a new flurry of questions and a couple more phone calls -- my Georgian insurance company does not have any offices in Zugdidi, so the doctor wanted to make sure that the eye doctor she wanted me to see would be covered. She called the eye doctor and my insurance company to get everything set up for me. 

This morning, Tea and I caught the marshutka into town to be at the doctor's office a little after ten. I had to go to an insurance-approved town doctor first, then if he felt it was necessary, I would go to the eye doctor with his recommendation. This clinic was in much better shape than Shamgona's office. It was in a large building with heat that actually worked (a rarity around here), and clean, dry floors (another rarity). The town doctor spoke very good English. He looked at my eyelid and immediately said it was nothing to worry about, but I should see the eye doctor. So he wrote up a referral form and stamped it with an old-school stamp that the Georgians love to use to make things official. When Tea and I were on our way out of his office, he told me that their left-over Soviet-style medical practice was probably a bit strange for me, but not to worry, the eye-doctor was very good. That made me only a little nervous!

Tea and I were off again, to the next doctor. We went into the office to register and were then directed up a set of narrow, rickety stairs to a room that had been added as a second floor space over the reception area. Whoever built that room must have been very short -- the ceiling was barely high enough for me to stand up straight. This was the eye doctor's office. It was pretty clean, by Georgian standards. (Mine have been significantly lowered in the last three months!) There were two older people sitting on the examination table. The doctor was sitting at her desk with an old desk lamp as the only lighting besides the small window at the far end of the room. On one wall hung a screen with two eye charts on it - one with Georgian letters, the other with Russian. 

Tea and I entered the room and sat in two extra chairs while the doctor looked at my referral form. She didn't speak a lot of English, but she spoke enough to ask me a few questions. She looked at my eyelid from the outside and then flipped it up to look at the underside. She immediately said that it was nothing to worry about. She knew what it was and said that I would need an injection and some ointment -- yikes! Needles are not my friends. 

Just then another lady came into the room with the same problem as me. She had gone to the pharmacy to get the serum that had to be injected into the growth, and the doctor said that there was enough there for both of us. I was slightly worried about sharing a shot with someone else…..mostly about the needle being shared. The doctor gave the shot to the other lady first, and I was relieved when she threw away that needle. 

Then it was my turn. I lay down on the examining table just in case I passed out (needles often make me faint). Tea stood next to me holding her heart - she was so nervous for me. Her sweet sensitivity showed in her worried expression as she told me that I would be alright - more to convince herself than me. 

If you've never had a shot in your eyelid, I hope you never have to…. I didn't realize how tender and sensitive that skin is. When the doctor put the needle in, I could tell that the needle was really small, but it felt horribly invasive and the liquid that she injected burned. It felt like fire was being pumped into my eye. At the very moment that I thought I couldn't take that needle in my eye any longer, she took it out. Relief. But the burning sensation continued. The doctor soaked a cotton ball in vodka, and put that on my eyelid. A new kind of burning took the place of the previous one. Nice. I wondered if this was the "Soviet-style medical practices" that the referring doctor had warned me about.

The doctor wrote a prescription for some kind of ointment that I would have to put in my eye and blink a lot to spread it around up underneath my affected eyelid. She told me to do this twice a day, and it should be gone in a couple of days. We'll see!

My Georgian insurance is pretty good. After three doctor's visits and a trip to the pharmacy, the grand total of my bill was the equivalent of $6.42. 

Now if the treatment actually works, that will be something!

Changes in the kitchen

I think I've said it before, but the kitchen is my favorite room in the house. It doesn't matter what house I'm in, the kitchen is, for some reason, the one I like being in the best. Maybe it's the warmth - maybe it's because I love cooking - maybe it's because I love food - maybe all of the above. Here in Georgia, the same is true. I spend the majority of my time at home in the kitchen. But the problem with being a guest (no matter how long-term) in a Georgian house-hold is that the guest is not supposed to lift a finger to do anything. Booooo. I love cooking. I love experimenting and making a big mess creating something delicious. Only once since I have been here have I been permitted to help with anything that even remotely resembles food-preparation. Today that changed, and I hope that the change will continue its momentum and that my helping in the kitchen will become the norm.

Tea's sister, Teona came over to the house after school today. It's been raining for two days, and she gave Tea and I a ride home so we wouldn't have to walk in the cold rain (Tea doesn't have a car yet). She hung out for a couple of hours so that she could give Elene, Leban, and I a ride back to the center of the village for the dance concert that was to take place at four o'clock (just to watch, not to dance). After having lunch, Teona started some cake batter - it had yeast in it, so it had to rise a couple of times before being baked. It was more dough than batter - very different from any cake that I have ever made. It was to be layered in a pan with some fig preserves and then topped with rods of the dough criss-crossed across the top. Teona showed Tea what she was supposed to do with the top - after laying the rods of dough across each other, little cuts were to be made and the "tongues" of dough (that's what Teona called them in Georgian) were stretched out to the sides like little leaves sticking out from a branch. Tea is many things, but creative is not one of them. She giggled the whole time Teona was showing her what to do..... she kept making comments about how she wouldn't be able to do it right. I told Tea that I would help. I always offer to help, but I usually get waved off with a, "No, you just sit comfortably." But this time, Tea agreed.

When the dance concert was over (it was fabulous, by the way! My students are so talented!), and I was back at the house, I went in to the kitchen to see how the cake-business was coming along. Tea was baking our daily bread while the cake dough finished rising. She was also trying to do a couple of other things at the same time. She is a lot like me - gets doing more than one thing at a time, and then forgets what else was going on and something ends up burned or forgotten. I sat myself down on the little bench beside the wood stove to tend to the bread while Tea did the other things she had started. She began to protest at my tending the bread, but I waved her off this time and told her that I would like to do this. She grinned, a little unsure, but I told her that I have watched her do this enough to know what to do with the bread. She laughed and said, "Okay." Should I be so excited to work? After months of doing nothing more than reading, writing, and laundry, I say, "Yes!"

Working with a wood stove that is all cast iron takes constant attention. It's all too hot to touch. Tea has some large pliers that are the tool for everything on, in, and around the stove. It took a little practice to unlatch and open the stove door with the pliers, and a little more practice to pick up the large, heavy bread pans with them. But after dropping the pliers only once (which brought surprised looks and exclamations from "our grandmother," although she drops them all the time), I got the hang of it. Two pans of bread are in a constant do-si-do between the stove top and the inside. One loaf sits in a pan on the top covered with a large, heavy lid to cook the bottom sufficiently. When the top of the dough is dry, the pan goes inside the stove, uncovered, until the top is golden-brown.

After the shuffle of bread-pans was finished, we tended to the cake. Tea put the layers of dough and preserves in order, rolled out the rods of dough, laid them across the top, and then handed the pans over to me. With a pair of medical-tape scissors cleaned with boiling water and rubbed with oil, I cut the "tongues" of dough and stretched each one to the side - first to one side, then to the other - up one rod, then down the next, until they had all sprouted these little "tongues." The finished result was an intricate lattice of dough over the fig preserves. The first one didn't look so great, but by the third pan, I got pretty good at the spacing. The longer we worked together, the more comfortable Tea got with me doing things in the kitchen. I really hope that she continues to let me help out more from now on.

There was one other new helper in the kitchen today - Koba! I was very pleasantly surprised to see Koba in the kitchen when Tea and I got back from school. He had boiled some potatoes and was making some kind of meat stew. I know that most men in Georgia don't cook - at least not in the villages. I am fortunate to live in a progressive household!

You never know, soon I may be cooking my own khachapuri!

A word picture from Sunday's suphra

Last Sunday I experienced the Georgian mega-suphra that is equivalent to our wedding receptions. While I was waiting for the party to begin, I sat in the lower-house living room with other ladies who had arrived early and were waiting as well. Since my Georgian is still pretty limited, the conversations that I had were pretty short. Mostly, I just sat and watched and listened. There was one moment when I wished that I had brought my camera, although I probably would not have taken the photo that I really wanted. Sometimes I can't bring myself to impose a camera on a scene that I find truly beautiful or deeply human. (This gets into the whole camera-objectification philosophy, but I won't go into all that....) Since I had no camera and can share no photo, I will do my best to paint a word picture of the moment that I found so emotive. 

The room was small for the number of people in it -- maybe 12' x 15' at the most. Every surface of the room - walls, ceiling, and floor - was covered with a heavily-varnished yellow wood that brought the sense of a "cabin in the woods" to the space. In all this expanse of wood hung only one picture. A small picture of Christ hung over the door into the kitchen. (The homes I have been in are not real big on art.) Along one wall stood a large china cabinet packed full of sets of porcelain tea cups and tea pots,  cut-glass decanters and tumblers,  painted goblets, champagne flutes, and cordial glasses in every shape imaginable. (The Georgians have a thing for sets of cups and glasses. Each household has more sets of glasses than I have ever seen in one house, anywhere.) Beside the china cabinet stood a piano - another piece of heavily-lacquered wood in the room. The rest of the wall-space was completely covered with chairs - cushy chairs, arm-chairs, kitchen chairs, dining chairs, and a sofa - any chair from anywhere in the house had been dragged in and crammed in line with all the others. And every one of these was filled with at least one person. I was sitting on the sofa with some of my colleagues. I think five of us were on a sofa that seats four, comfortably, and another of my colleagues was sitting on the arm of the sofa with her arm around my shoulders. We were packed in almost as tightly as in a marshutka. In the center of this ring of female humanity stood the lone dining table, devoid of its partners on which multiple ladies were presently sitting. The table, like every other piece of furniture, was gleaming in its varnished glory under the crystal chandelier hanging above. The only things sitting on the table were two cakes. One of the cakes was nothing special - just a chocolate cake. But the other one was gorgeous. It was a very large, round cake covered with a base of white frosting. A design of curlycues had been drawn into the frosting on the sides, and small, silver candies were placed at intervals in the swirls. Huge, pink roses sculpted from frosting formed a bouquet on the top of the cake and spilled over to ring the bottom as well. Little sprigs of green candy grew out from between the roses. It was a sight to behold; only, no one was beholding it.

That is, until a little girl came into the room. She was probably four years old, and may have come in looking for her mother when her attention was completely arrested by the wonder in the center of the room. I watched her step toward the table slowly, eyes growing bigger the closer she got to it. She was just tall enough to see over the table, putting the cake directly at eye-level. I can imagine that, to her, the cake seemed to rise up like a mountain of sugary beauty over her head. When she reached the table, she gently grabbed the edge of the table with both hands so that she could support herself as she rose up on tip-toe, nose perched over the table top, to have a better look. From her curly hair to her black flats, pudginess ruled supreme. Her chubby cheeks and chin matched her round belly. She stood there, transfixed by the delectable dessert beckoning to her. Her eyes gave away her longing, and I was half-expecting her to reach up and put her finger into the pink-frosting roses. But she didn't. She just stood there, wanting, wishing, and hoping. 

That was the picture I wanted to take: pudgy little girl staring down the cake with rapt adoration. But it will have to live only in my mind's eye along with the few other moments that I couldn't bring myself to photograph. Maybe it will be better preserved in my memory than on glossy Kodak paper!

A "Dutch-uncle talk," Georgian-style

There is a lot that I want to say about the educational system here in Georgia. The government has great plans for change in the country's education, but their methods are a little screwy. I am daily making notes to myself in preparation for crafting an email to the Ministry of Education sometime before I leave Georgia to tell them my view of how things are really going in the country's educational system. Government agencies don't always have a clear picture of what is really happening. Although their vision is noble, there is a lot that needs to improve before the president's wish to have every child in Georgia speaking English becomes reality. But that's not the point of today's post.

While there is much that still needs to change here, I am glad to say that I do see change happening. The educational system that has been in place in Georgia for decades harkens back to Soviet times when rote memorization was the method of learning and ear-pinching was the method of discipline. The Ministry of Education has started training their teachers in "new methods," including discipline. The old ear-pinching, head-whapping, knuckle-rapping, berating, and criticizing is being eradicated (although it still happens at the hands of the old teachers), and the teachers are being taught to be loving and positive instead of harsh and negative. I saw this change in action today.

Ninth-grade boys. If there is any group of students that inevitably gives me trouble, it is the ninth-grade boys. It was true of every freshman class I had in Pennsylvania, and it is true here, too. Granted, my present students do not behave as badly as some I have heard about in other parts of Georgia, but they talk and distract the other students. Today five of the boys were especially disruptive. Lika and I had to reprimand them several times during class.

After class was over, I went with Lika to the teacher's room to write our lesson plans for tomorrow. We got to talking about the ninth-grade class and what we could do with the boys who don't pay attention. When we named specific students, the other teachers in the room asked what we were talking about. Lika told them what had gone on in our class that day. The school assistant director and the ninth-grade homeroom teacher wanted specifics on the boys' behavior. We gave them as accurate a description as we could of their general disregard for the material, their fellow-students' ability to learn, and our ability to teach. The homeroom teacher disappeared. Five minutes later, the door opened and in she marched, trailing the guilty parties behind her, heads bowed and eyes down like whipped puppies. I had no idea what was going to happen - I am no good at confrontation, especially unplanned, and I was hoping desperately that I would not have to accost the boys via translator in front of all the teachers in the room. Thankfully, I didn't have to say a word. The homeroom teacher and assistant director did all the talking that was needed. I was very glad to see that they spoke to the boys with care and concern (with all the fervor and emotion and volume of the Georgians) - they demonstrated the needed change from the Soviet-style punishment - it was much more like the Mennonite "Dutch-uncle talk," informing them that their behavior was not appropriate for school and admonishing them to respect their classmates' right to learn and the teachers' right to teach. The boys apologized and with heads hanging low, promised to work harder and pay attention in class.

One of the boys just about broke my heart. He is the one who never, ever pays attention - never brings his book to class - never answers a single question - doesn't take the tests - he is physically present in the class, but that's it. In every class, Lika and I have to call him out for distracting the other students. I don't know why he is in our class, except that he has to be somewhere during that period. When he was standing there with the other boys in the teachers' room, the look in his eyes tore at my heart. There was so much hurt and sadness there. His father died the day he was born, and he has no father-figure in his household. For a boy-turning-young man, it is so important to have strong, male role-models. I could see in his eyes that he has just about given up. My heart was breaking because I wanted to tell him that he has great potential if he would only believe in himself. I have no idea if he ever gets any encouragement to work hard to better himself. From his normal, daily behavior, I would guess no. After the boys had apologized, I stood up and told them that they all could be very good students if they would just apply themselves. I encouraged them to work hard to give themselves the best chance for a good future. Lika translated for me. I hope they understood.

One of the most difficult things I face here is just this: my teaching-style is relational, and it is tough to build a relationship on such a small base of understandable communication. There is so much that I want to say to these students to encourage them for their future. I will have to settle for whatever they can understand and continue to show them that I care about them through actions beyond words.

A repeat of yesterday....

The power goes out here relatively often. I knew this before coming to Georgia; so before I arrived, I bought a small, battery-operated digital alarm clock so that I would not have to depend on electricity to wake me in the morning. The clock is small enough to hold in my hand. When it went off this morning, I hit the snooze. Five minutes later, it sounded again. This time I picked it up and pulled it under the covers so that I could hit the snooze a couple more times without having to move. It's winter, and there is no heat in my room -- if I don't have to let cold air into my cozy cocoon, I won't! So, two more times the snooze let me doze a little longer before getting up.

I didn't want to get up. I was still so tired from the mega-suphra last night. I felt like neither my body nor my mind had rested - there was still residual noise coursing through me from the ridiculous decibel-level. Regardless of what I wanted, I got up.

Today was Lika's (one of my co-teachers) birthday. I found out only yesterday that it was her birthday, so I had nothing to give her - nor even time to make her a card (with getting home so late last night). So when I got to school, I found her in the teacher's room and sang to her "American-style." She and all the other teachers loved it.

When we were finished with our last class for today at 1:25, I said goodbye and again wished her a happy birthday. She smiled, said, "Thank you," and then said that she would wait for me at four o'clock. I paused, searching my shaky memory for some shred of recall of what had been planned that I had forgotten..... nope. Nothing. So I asked her what I was supposed to do at four?
"I'll wait for you to come to my house for my birthday suphra. Won't you come?"
I know that every inch of my face read "Seriously?" and big, fat "NO!" simultaneously. There was no way I wanted to go to another party - I hadn't yet recovered from last night's! However, this invitation was one that could not be refused. There was no way I could miss her birthday suphra. Georgian culture mandates that I must go. So I took a deep breath, smiled, and said, "Of course I'll come. I'll see you at four."

Thankfully, the suphra was a nice, quiet time with Lika's lovely family and some of my sweet colleagues. There was no loud, pounding music. No one was yelling toasts into a microphone from atop a table. There were no platters of pig or cow heads being paraded around the room. No flaming skewered beef teepees. (Thank God!) Just some friends and family enjoying each other's company. Don't get me wrong: we gave lots of toasts and drank bad, homemade wine. But it was a relief to be in a small house full of care and love after the craziness of last night.

And tonight, I'm going to bed early!

What a day!

I will say right up front that I know I am not going to do this post justice and it is going to be raw and unrefined. It is 12:35 a.m., and I have just gotten home from a baptism/wedding-that-didn't-happen/suphra. I'm tired, my throat is killing me from inhaling too much second-hand smoke, my feet are tired from dancing on concrete, and my ears are ringing from the unbelievable volume of the music and mic'ed toast-giving. But what an experience!

A few days ago, my co-teacher Lika told me that her godchild would be getting baptized, and she invited me to go with her to see what the baptism was like. I love seeing new things, so, of course I agreed to go. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.

I got up a bit before 9 to get my hour-long run in, shower, have breakfast, and be ready to go by 11. My ride (one of my colleagues and her husband) showed up about 11:20, and we drove to Zugdidi to meet Lika in town. We hung around town for almost an hour and a half before going to the church. I'm not sure why we left Shamgona so early, but I didn't ask. I've learned better than to ask that question - there is never a real reason -- it just is. Lika told me that there was going to be a wedding at the church today, too. I finally figured out that she was talking about the parents of the child getting baptized - that they were getting married. She explained that they had a civil service two years ago, but had never had the religious ceremony, so they were going to have that service along with the baptism.

To make a long story short, the baptism was 45 minutes late and the wedding didn't happen -- this was right after Lika assured me that things in Georgia start on time. HA! At any rate, the baptism was a nice service. I didn't understand any of it - the minister spoke so low that I could barely hear him. There was lots of candle-lighting, anointing with oil, praying, crossing, and pouring the water over the baby's head. The Christian Orthodox must baptize more than once, because there were older people who got baptized today, too, not just infants. (I still don't know much about the Christian Orthodox faith or practices.)

We left the church around 3:30 and drove to the family's house (the ones whose child was baptized and who didn't have their wedding). We hung out for almost three hours before the suphra (in honor of the wedding that was supposed to have happened) was ready.... To entertain myself, I talked with Lika, read the book I had with me, and watched the suphra-preparation. From where I was sitting in the living room, I could see beyond the curtain hanging in the kitchen doorway that was pulled back partway. The activity in the kitchen was ceaseless. My favorite person to watch was the little old lady in a sequined sweater and long black skirt shuffling around in slippers back and forth carrying pots of steaming something or wood or utensils or bread or whatever else she needed. I really wanted to be in the kitchen helping, but I don't bother asking that anymore, either - guests don't help in Georgia.

Finally, around 6 or so, we were all ushered into the large dining hall that had been set for over 250 people. There were five rows of tables that ran the entire length of the large room with benches that were  nothing more than 5-inch-wide boards covered with paper on metal stands. The tables were laden with food, drinks, plates, glasses, and silverware in typical suphra-fashion meaning that there was not an inch of table showing! The amount of food on those tables was staggering. I wondered how long it had taken to prepare all of it, and how many ladies had made it all -- there's no Costco around here to order it all from, nor are there any catering services! When I stepped into that room, I wished that I had my camera with me. You really have to see it to get the full understanding of the vast quantities of everything! We ate. And we ate. And we ate some more. Everything was delicious as always!

I was sitting with Lika and the other teachers from my school (such sweet ladies!), and we just happened to be sitting right in front of one of the large speakers that broadcast the sound from the microphones that the two singers and Tamada (the suphra-leader) had. I have written in previous blogs about how loud the Georgians are.... Well, tonight they took it to a whole new level. Even the ladies who I think are loud were cringing at the sharp sounds bellowing out of the speaker. Let's put it this way: I couldn't just hear the sound, I could feel it - not even the music - just their voices talking.... or rather, yelling into the mics. It was a true assault on the senses. There were several times that I had to close my eyes against the noise - I couldn't stand to have any sight coming in while my ears were working hard at functioning at such an intense level. I eventually resorted to pressing my finger against my ears to partially block the sound so that I could at least listen without pain!

Aside from the uncomfortable seating, the horrible loudness, and the cigarette smoke, it was a great party. The singers were really good, and a few people performed some traditional dances for everyone. After about an hour of food and song and dance, the dance floor opened up and as the night went on, more and more people got up to join in the dancing -- not just traditional dances, but all kinds of dance. At first I didn't really feel like dancing; at 8:30, I really wanted to go home, but the party was just getting started then. Finally one of the girls pulled me up to dance, and I went. That was that - I was on the dance floor for most of the rest of the night. I danced with all sorts of people to all sorts of music. I danced with the older gentleman who had helped me with my backpack and paid my fare the day I came back from my Christmas break travels. He must be about 70, and he was so sweet! I danced with some of the teenage girls. I danced with a man who was the best dancer there - he was a strong leader, so he was easy to follow and so much fun to dance with! But as the night went on, and more toasts were given, and more wine was drunk, there were a few men who became very bold and were practically fighting to dance with me. At that point, I tried my best to extricate myself from their grasps and call it quits - no small feat! It took about 5 minutes of me pulling my hand away and turning out of their arms before Lika (who doesn't dance, so she wasn't on the floor with me) came over to rescue me. One of the men, in particular, wanted me to dance with him - Lika translated for him: he wanted to know where he could meet me tomorrow and if I would go and meet his parents. HELP!!! I didn't let go of Lika's hand the rest of the time we were there. Even when we were leaving, he kept after me. Unfortunately in Georgia, "no" doesn't mean "no." Thankfully, he doesn't live in my village, so I don't think I'll run into him - actually, he probably won't remember anything about me tomorrow! I hope not, anyway.

The suphra-to-end-all-suphras..... that's what I experienced tonight. And now let's just hope I can get up when my alarm goes off in the morning. Thank God school doesn't start until 9.....

The look of understanding

If you have ever traveled outside of your language-area, you know what I am talking about -- that visible recognition of your words or charades! It is a look that tells you that the person with whom you are communicating knows what you are saying. This look became part of daily existence for my recent travel companions and I in the various countries we visited where we did not speak the languages (Armenian, Turkish, and Arabic). We used some small phrase books sometimes, but usually just spoke English or mimed what we needed. And it is amazing to me how obvious the "look of understanding" is. You can actually see the moment when what you want registers in the understanding of the other person. It's like a light in the back of the eyes that switches on at that very instant when the connection is made. I don't know how else to explain it, but it is undoubtedly recognizable.

And, just as recognizable, is the lack of understanding. If the person we were speaking to did not understand what we were saying, the dull glaze over the eyes said so, loud and clear. There were a few times when whomever we were speaking with tried to tell us that he understood, but no light had come on in his eyes. We knew that he didn't really get it.

The same thing happens all the time in Georgia -- even in my house with Tea. I can always tell if she doesn't understand what I am saying. It's amazing to me how something as abstract as understanding can register on someone's face in such an obvious way. When Tea doesn't get me, first I try repeating what I said more slowly and clearly - sometimes that does the trick. Or if her expression is still blank, I re-word my statement a couple of times, in a couple of different ways until she gets it. And I know without a doubt that she gets it! I can see it.

Today I went into town to tell the bank that I need to replace my ATM card......I lost it in Armenia. Oooops. I walked into the bank after looking up the words in my Georgian phrase book for "card" and "to be lost" and went to the first open teller that I saw. I asked if she spoke English, and she nodded. (But there was no light in her eyes.) I told her that I had lost my bank card and needed a new one. She asked for my passport and after looking at it for about a minute, she handed it back and pointed to the other end of the bank. Okay. I walked to the other end of the room and stood behind the man who was being waited on at the window where the teller had pointed. But when the man left, that teller put on her coat, picked up her bag, and walked away. Okay - break time, I guess. I stepped to the right and stood behind another person until they left. I asked this teller if she spoke English, and she shook her head, so I told her in Georgian that I had lost my card and needed a replacement. No look of understanding. She pointed to the teller to her right. By this time I was only slightly worried that I would be passed from teller to teller without success, but when it was my turn with this fourth teller, she asked me what I needed. I told her in both English and Georgian, and there it was - the look of understanding! In a combination of the two languages, we got things taken care of. Well, I think we did. In ten days, I have to go back to the bank, and hopefully my new card will be there.

I am fascinated by this visible proof of understanding. It is something that I hadn't noticed so readily until traveling to a place where I can't speak the native language. Up to this adventure, I have always been able to communicate in either English or Spanish in every country I gone to. Does the look of understanding happens within the same language as evidently as it does between languages? Maybe it is there, just more subtle. The nuances of body-language are not so evident when words are so easily understood. I want to observe this look of understanding in my own language..... I guess it will have to wait until summer!

It was bound to happen

I knew it was going to happen. In the last two months of living in the village I've had several close-calls, and it was inevitable. But I have been as careful as possible, ever-aware and conscious as possible. I guess I couldn't avoid it forever. It was bound to happen, and today, during my run, it finally did.

I was out for my normal, out-to-the-bridge-and-back, 40-minute run. It was rush hour, Shamgona-style, so the road was full of animals waiting for their people to let them in their own gates. Since it rained recently, the potholes and craters in the road were full of water, making my footing even more tricky if I wanted to stay dry. I had reached the bridge and turned around to head back to the house. The sun was getting low and glaring off the wet road and puddles, making it even more difficult to see clearly what was in front of me. Dodging cows, pigs, and puddles is good for exercising responsiveness and nimble-footedness! I was in a good rhythm, focused on the road, feeling my heart beating and my lungs working, my mind wandering just ahead of my steps. I had only semi-consciously seen it two steps ahead, when a little, high-pitched voice called to me from a yard I was passing, "Hello, teacher!"

That was it. My focus went up like a poof of smoke, and as I turned to smile and wave in response...... Squish.
Crap.

Thankfully, my toes had sensed the massive pile of steaming-fresh cow droppings, and seemed to recoil of their own accord when my firing synapses had been interrupted at the little greeting that couldn't be ignored. I felt my foot try to miss the pile, and I just caught the edge of it with my toes. That was enough. Squishy. Slimy. That slippery viscosity that lets one thing slide too-easily across another. Just plain gross. I headed for a clean mud puddle - it's all relative, isn't it? - a puddle that hadn't been stirred up too recently so the sediment was mostly settled. Some rocks along the edge of the puddle helped to clean off the muck as I washed the crap off my sneaker.

Well, it happened, and at least I didn't have good shoes on headed to school or somewhere important. And thank God for clean mud puddles!

Nasty, nasty, nasty - some random thoughts about......

Pigs. They must be one of the most vile creatures alive. Right up there with vultures. (Or should I say, right down there...) They will eat anything, and I mean a-ny-thing. I saw one little pig nosing through some cow droppings today. I don't know what it thought it would find in there since a cow regurgitates its food a few times and keeps on chewing it until the food is nothing but pulp. I've seen plenty of cow droppings around here, and there is nothing substantial in there.

There are pigs everywhere in the village. I walk past at least 20 on my to anywhere, and on longer runs I probably pass 50 of them. They come in all shapes and sizes and combinations of white, black, and light brown - even dalmatian-pigs. The small ones might be cute if they weren't rolling around in the mud or nosing through dung. Their skin is very wrinkly, visible under the thin, bristly hair that doesn't quite cover them. They have small, beady eyes without a spark of personality.

They make a mess out everything around them. They tear up the grass and eat the roots, probably looking for grubs or other bugs, leaving large craters of roughed-up dirt where smooth, green grass had been. They walk through their food trough, dragging scraps of who-knows-what behind them. They tromp through the mud and trail it along behind them, too. Fence posts hold the evidence of a back/side/rump scratching-session in the form of left-behind, usually muddy hair.

I watched some little tiny pigs today looking for something cute about them. They couldn't have been more than a week old. You would think that something about a baby pig would be redeeming..... Their eyelashes are kind of cute. But not nearly as nice as cows' eyelashes. One little pig stood and looked at me for a minute as I analyzed it, and I almost thought it was cute, but its nose had such an old wrinkled look, it took the cuteness away. When it turned around a trotted away, the half-curled tail almost wagging was almost cute. But not quite.

Pigs even sound nasty. They snort along in the mud, chew with their mouths open, grunt with each step down the road, or squeal with blood-curdling shrillness if scared. I even heard a pig oink and snort in its sleep.

They pig-pile in the mud, sleeping in a mass heap of bristly grunting.

I was also reminded of the story in the Bible about the Prodigal Son who took his inheritance early, blew all his money on partying, and ended up working with someone's pigs. What a low place to sink to! I don't think anyone could get any lower. And he must have smelled horribly when he finally went home. His father certainly loved him to greet him with a hug and kiss in his condition!

If anyone calls someone else a pig, it is a true insult. I won't ever call anyone a pig again after observing them, up close and personal!

And a run makes everything better

I slept like a rock last night. Although it was only about 45 degrees (F) in my room last night, I was so glad to be back in my bed. It may not be the Tempurpedic that I used to have, but it felt pretty close after sleeping in hostels, airports, and moving vehicles for the last two weeks. I finally woke up at 11 a.m., feeling a bit groggy, but well-rested.

After a wonderful breakfast, I spent over an hour washing the clothing I'd been living in during my travels. Hand-washing is not an easy task, but can I just say that I am glad to have hot running water in the bathroom where I do my wash, and I don't have to cart my clothing down to the river like they used to do here! Three loads of plastic-tub wash - each load holds around 6-8 articles of clothing - a little powdered detergent in the tub, warm water to dissolve it - then the clothes go in. Each piece of clothing gets personal attention - plunge, scrub the material together, turn to a new spot, plunge, scrub the material together, repeat until its as clean as it's going to get - dump out the nasty, dirty water - then rinsing happens the same way - twice - wring everything by hand as hard as possible - take the basket of clothing to the line on the porch - snap out as much extra water as possible - hang. The clothing that I wore in Egypt was the dirtiest - no surprise there!!

It was raining off and on all day (and for the last three days, Tea said), and I wanted to run. But I didn't want to run in the cold rain. That's the worst. Warm rain is great - cold rain is not. So I cleaned off the travel dust from my boots and puttered around getting things ready for school tomorrow. Then I got online and uploaded some photos to facebook and checked my email. That's when I got weepy again. I love getting messages from friends back home, but sometimes I miss Home more than ever when I get emails. (But please don't stop sending them!) One message in particular brought tears to my eyes. Sometimes I hate being so sensitive. I shook off the tears and determined to go for a run. Thankfully, the rain had stopped and the sun had started to peek through the clouds, so I knew I had a good window of clear weather. I changed my clothes before I could get weepy again, and headed out the gate and down the road.

I was amazed to find how familiar this village is to me now. Although I liked the experience of running along the Sea of Marmara in Istanbul and along the Nile in Cairo, I was glad to be running down the horribly broken-up road here in Shamgona - it's familiarity was comforting. I knew where the worst potholes would be. I knew which side of the road would be less muddy in certain places. I knew the faces that I passed and greeted with a smile and "gamarjobat." I even knew some of the cows who had come home and were waiting for their people to let them in the gate. I knew which dogs would run along the inside of their fence and bark at me the length of their property. I knew the smell of the wet ground, especially by the river. I knew the police sitting in their truck at the beginning of the village, and I knew they would smile and wave at me both times I passed them. While I was thinking about all these things, I came upon two of my high school girls. They smiled and called out to me, so I stopped to greet them. They each gave me a kiss on the cheek, and we talked for a few minutes about what we had been doing over break and how ready we are for school to start again. They are so glad to have English classes this next semester, and expressed how they want to learn as much as they can. I said I would see them tomorrow and waved a farewell with my heart feeling much lighter.

I keep forgetting why I am here. When I get down and missing Home, I lose focus on what I am doing. I start questioning what in the world I am doing so far away. Then I see my students who love learning - and they love learning from me. That's what I am doing here - I am teaching. I am giving these kids a chance to learn as much English as they possibly can so they will have a better chance for a good job in the future. And I am here for Tea - she wants to better her language skills, and I am here to help her.

Now, if I can just stay focused.....

After almost 40 hours of traveling.....a true welcome.

"Welcome to Egypt!"
"Welcome to Cairo!"
"Welcome to Alaska!"
While in Egypt, Katherine, James, and I heard all three of these exclamations over and over again - yes, even the Alaska one. The first time we were greeted with a hearty, "Welcome to Alaska!" it was mildly funny. By the 20th time, it got old. I asked someone who said the Alaska bit why they said Alaska when we very obviously weren't in Alaska. "It's just a place," was the reply - interesting. I think those welcomes are the first English phrases Egyptians learn, because even those who couldn't speak any other English could welcome us to their country or city. But now we have said goodbye to Egypt and Turkey....

Forty hours is a long time to spend in transit. The modes of transportation that I listed yesterday (or the day before) was missing one: tram. So in the 40 hours that it took me to get back to Shamgona, I was on one overnight train, two taxis, one bus, one subway, one tram, one funicular rail, two planes, and two marshutkas. I slept in the overnight train, one of the planes, an airport, and one of the marshutkas. None of those places make for very good sleep. It is only 9 p.m., but I am ready to fall into bed now that I am finally "home."

The in-between-ness of the last two days was beginning to take its toll on me. I was on the verge of tears for most of the day today. Living in the present moment was not at all what I wanted to do, so I let myself wish I were somewhere else while listening to U2 and the Beatles on my iPhone. Bad idea. Tears were inevitable if I kept that up. Sleep was a better use of my time, but it was so constantly interrupted, the attempt was almost worthless. By the time I arrived in Zugdidi at 2:45 this afternoon, I was in such a foul mood, I'm pretty sure a little black raincloud had formed over my head and was following me to the marshutka. I didn't want to be in Georgia. I wanted to be Home. Then the first of three welcomes changed my attitude.

While walking to the marshutka that would be the last leg of my journey, I saw one of the ladies who teaches at my school headed that way, too. I stopped and waited for her to look up. When she did, I waved, and her smile instantly warmed my aching heart. She walked up to me, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, then rubbed my cheek with a look of warmth and gratitude that was almost tangible. She was honestly glad to see me.

The second welcome came in the marshutka - once enough people had gotten off that I could finally see more than a few inches in front of me, I noticed one of the older men from Shamgona sitting in the seat across the aisle from me (whose name I always forget). He saw me at the same time and he beamed. He took my free hand in his (I was balancing two backpacks on my lap) and squeezed it in both of his, again with the warmth and affection that I so desperately need. He took my large backpack off my lap and held it for me the rest of the way to Tea's house. At my stop, he paid my fare, helped me off the minibus with my bags, and blew me a kiss goodbye.

When I walked into the house, "our grandmother" just about fell over with joy that I was home. She smiled and laughed and took me by the arm to sit me down by the fire in the kitchen, then went yelling out the back door for Tea to come and cook me some food. The whole family was so excited that I was back. They wanted to know about where I had been and what it was like, but mostly they were just glad to have me there. I could tell that Tea was glad to have me around to talk to again. Elene wanted to play games with me, and "our grandmother" went back to telling me to eat and drink.

I miss my excellent travel companions, James and Katherine. They are inventive, spontaneous, and fun, and we had some wonderful adventures the last two weeks. But I am glad to be staying in one place for awhile. Moving around gets old and tiresome. And even though the place I am is not where my heart is, there are people here who are glad to have me around. I feel genuinely welcome.

In-between

This is the part of traveling that gets me down -- that in-between nowhere-ness. I'm not where I was and I am not yet to where I am going. Taxis, airports, planes, buses, trains, metros, funiculars, and marshutkas - those will be my interior spaces for two days. We left Luxor at 10:30 last night (Sunday) and I should be in Shamgona by Tuesday evening. And I am going to have been on all of those modes of transportation by the time I arrive home.

Home is something that feels far away when I am "in-between." Where I am headed right now is not really home, but then, I don't really know where Home is right now. So I guess I'll have to differentiate between "home" = temporary and "Home" = permanent. Permanent Home will have to wait.

Being in-between is rough on the psyche. Carting around my belongings from one place to another while in transit is work. My bag seems to get heavier the longer the day wears on. There are no Sbarro Pizza places in the airports here (the ones I love to encounter in airports....). My mind is tired of thinking and my eyes are tired of looking. Processing all I see that is different is past being fun while "in-between."

So Turkish Airlines is calling our flight to board and I won't have wireless access until I am in Georgia at 3 a.m. Tuesday morning. I may or may not post then depending on whether or not I can find a quiet enough corner in which to catch a few hours sleep before finding a bus to get me to Zugdidi.....

Until then.... I exist in-between.

The daily call

Several times a day it happens. The first is before the sun comes up. Then a few more times throughout the day, the sound breaks the constant clamor of the traffic and other sounds on the street. Eerie. Haunting. Beautiful.

Traveling in Islamic countries for almost two weeks, I have come to not only enjoy, but also expect the call to prayer, (adhan). Five times a day (more sometimes.... not quite sure why the extra ones happen) the call goes out from the minaret for prayer time. The call is heard most clearly from the closest mosque, but with every mosque in the town or city sending out its own adhan, the sound echoes in layers across the space. Right now I am in Luxor (with James and Katherine), a town in the Nile River Valley. The hostel we are staying in has an open roof-top cafe and lounge area. From there the minarets all across town are audible. The layers of voices overlap in harmony and discord all at the same time. Everyone is singing the same thing, but they don't all sing it the same way. Some muezzins have great voices, others not so good, so we focus on the ones that we like. In Istanbul, the call from the Blue Mosque was my favorite - it was the one we could hear the most clearly, too. We heard from someone that the muezzins in Istanbul had to take singing lessons not too long ago because they weren't very good. With so many tourists in Istanbul and the adhan broadcast from loudspeakers at the top of the minarets, the city felt that the adhan should be nice to listen to! The lessons worked! The callers in Istanbul sing with haunting lilts and beautiful tones.

Hearing multiple adhans is an experience that touches the soul and stays in the mind. In Cairo, the evening that we were aboard the felucca, prayer time came and the call went out from a thousand minarets. As we floated on the river, the cacophony of voices reverberated off the buildings and water, back and forth across the river, all around us, echoing and replying in what seemed an endless wave of sounds. Near, far, faint, loud, bold, quivering -- in every possible tone, the call sounded. The sound was so spectacular, we stopped mid-conversation and had to listen. We were spellbound. It is an experience I will not forget.

I've been thinking a lot about this adhan - this call to prayer -- being in this part of the world, it's hard to ignore. I'm not converting to Islam anytime soon, but I like the public call to prayer. My own faith does not have this prevalent a reminder to turn my thoughts to God. The closest we get is a church that may ring its bells on Sunday morning. Other than that uncommon occurrence, there is no obvious admonition broadcast publicly. Even though the adhan is not calling from my religion, it reminds me to thank God for the things He has done for me - every day, many times a day.

I'm leaving the predominantly Islamic world, so I won't be hearing the call to prayer anymore. I'll have to find something new and tangible that will remind me to talk to God. I always mean to pray, but I forget. Maybe I should pick up some prayer beads before I leave....

Proof

I'm tired today. Maybe I'm just road-weary. Maybe it was the hours of sun and walking at the Temple of Karnak. Maybe it was the interrupted, bumpy sleep on the train last night. Or maybe a combination of all three. Regardless, I don't really feel like writing tonight. The post I wanted to write is going to require a decent amount of time to compose well, and I know I won't do it justice tonight, so I will write instead about a comment that I made today.

The morning was spent at the Temple of Karnak - a temple complex built over a few hundred years dating back to around 1500 BC. Several Pharaohs added to it over the centuries during their reigns. It is a huge complex of red and gold sandstone that is in the process of being restored. Almost every square inch of the walls and columns and doorways are covered in hieroglyphics or figures carved into the rock. In many places the paint is still visible, too. The main hall called the Hypostyle Hall in the Precinct of Amun-Re is a forest of 134 massive stone pillars. This was my favorite part of the temple complex. No matter where I looked, there was a series of pillars receding into the distance. The light changed the colors of the columns from every different angle, sometimes more golden, sometimes more red, sometimes a little gray. But always gorgeous!!

While we walked around and looked and shot photos, James (facetiously) made a remark about the importance of having a photo of himself in the space because "you aren't really there unless you have a picture of yourself there." To which I replied, "Yeah, the proof is in the photo, not the pudding!" Although I don't really believe that, I do like having photos of myself in the places that I go. I shoot so many photos of everything and everyone else, I have to be deliberate about having a shot of me wherever I have gone. When I go back and look at the photos later I know that I really was there -- I didn't just dream it! Often, after I've been someplace really amazing the memory of it feels a little surreal -- like it may not have really happened. It was just a virtual-reality dream or something intangible. But then I look at my photos - of me in the space interacting with the place - and I remember the look and the feel and the smell and the sense of it. Then I know it was real.

So, here's my proof for today....

Me next to the columns in the Hypostyle Hall, Karnak Temple, Luxor, Egypt

A day of non-tourism in Cairo

Two days ago I had a thought while walking around Cairo: This whole city could use a good power-washing! And it could - Dust and dirt clings to everything dingy-ing up every surface. The closer a surface is to the ground, the darker the dingy-ness gets - like everything is painted with a gradation to mud-brown. Well, today the city got the closest it will get to power-washing -- it rained! 

The rain had a couple of effects that were immediately apparent. First of all, everything moved off the street to the indoors. Normally the sidewalks are littered with small stands or blankets spread on the ground covered with whatever wares the sellers have that day. But as soon as the first few drops started, everyone packed up and moved....someplace that wasn't the sidewalk. When the drizzle began, Katherine, James, and I were at the main train station finally procuring overnight train tickets to Luxor which we had attempted to get yesterday, but couldn't, because we couldn't find the right ticket window amid the unbelievable construction happening in and around the station and the complete lack of English signage. Once we had our tickets, we dodged the raindrops to a bakery for some chocolate croissants and a fig-filled pastry and dropped down into the subway system. We only went a couple of stops up, but it must have poured while we were underground. The streets and sidewalks were drenched and there was standing water everywhere. Where the sidewalk merchants had gone was anyone's guess, but they weren't around. Everyone was in the business of cleaning up after the rain. Shopkeepers had out long-handled squeegees vigorously sweeping the muddy water away from their shop doors. That's the other thing that changed about the city post-rain: mud. 

When the city was dry, the dust was bad enough - once it rained, oh my -- all that dust turned into a slimy sludge caking everything on the ground. And I think the dust that had been clinging to all the vertical suffices washed down to the road (natural power-wash). We made our way out to the bazaar section of Cairo - the non-touristy bazaar that has been in existence forever where people who live in Cairo shop. Most of the roads were not paved, so the way was nothing but mud. We picked our way along through the stalls and stands and shops dodging scooters, motorbikes, and people carrying packages of all shapes and sizes. We attracted a lot of attention - I don't think too many Westerners frequent that market area. It was difficult to look at everything there since we had to pay such close attention to where we stepped. I stepped as deliberately as possible avoiding any large globs that could squish up my boots and pant legs. It was tricky going!

The bazaar area was entertaining and visually stimulating. I loved the colors and textures - pyramids of ripe oranges with some leaves still attached, stacks of stick-crates full of leafy heads of lettuce, more stacks of crates full of live chickens or rabbits, rows upon rows of fine-thread scarves in every pattern and color (my weakness), shiny leather hassocks stacked up in descending order, buckets of fresh, shiny eels in front of trays of fresh, shiny fish, burlap bags bull of powdery spices glowing in reds, oranges, and golds, piles and piles of fresh pita bread waiting to be filled with baba ghannouj or falafel (another weakness), and everywhere, people, people, and more people.

I had the opportunity to spend about an hour watching people today. After we had meandered through the bazaar, we passed a barber shop, and James decided it was time for a haircut. So Katherine and I sat in a couple of chairs beside the road to watch Cairo go by while we waited. We saw some crazy things pass by. Aside from the myriad cars, trucks, minibuses, buses, scooters, motorbikes, taxis (white - metered, black - unmetered, so you have to bargain for the fare), cats, merchants with goods for sale, shoppers, men out for a stroll, and mothers with children in tow, I made a list of the things that I found unique or interesting:

 - a car with a large, rolled-up carpet sticking out of the sunroof

 - a man walking along the road carrying a twenty-foot long ladder 

 - a man pushing a massive cart piled high with whole loofahs

 - a turbaned man walking along texting

 - a woman with a bag balanced on her head running to catch a bus

 - a man riding a bike while carrying a large (at least 6' by 4') tray piled with a mountain of pita loaves, smoking a cigarette (now that's talent!)

 - two guys on a motorbike: one driving, the other holding a rocking horse up on his shoulders so that the horse stood over his head 

 - KFC delivery motorbike

 - Pizza Hut delivery motorbike

 - mini flat-bed delivery trucks carrying various things: mountains of empty stick-crates from the bazaar, bananas, furniture (four layers high), garbage, boxes, crates of oranges, crates of rabbits, sheets of foam-rubber, and rolls of carpets with a few people on top. Each load was ratcheted-down as tightly as the ropes would go so that (hopefully) nothing would fall off the tower of goods.

The rain certainly changed the look and feel of the city today, and it was nice to be in the middle of it all, seeing how those who live here deal with it. I liked being in Cairo-proper, not touristy-Cairo -- seeing where and how everyone lives on a daily basis and goes about business. We were more of a spectacle for them today than they were for us!

Everyone has to do something.....

.....but why do some have to annoy me?

Today James and Katherine and I went to Giza to spend the day at the Great Pyramids. The weather was perfect - not too hot, not too cool. We found the right bus to take, no thanks to a local with ulterior motives who took us away from the right place to catch the bus to show us a "better spot" for the bus, but really he wanted to try to get us to go to his shop. We finally realized what he was up to, extricated ourselves from his manipulation, and made our way back across several lanes of traffic to the road-side where the bus to Giza would pass. Thanks to James who learned the Arabic numbers yesterday while at the Egypt Museum, we flagged down bus #357, and spent all of 35 cents for the 45-minute bus ride to Giza.

The pyramids are a true wonder of this world. I think I prefer the Mayan's pyramids (the jungle is more mysterious than the desert), but these were pretty fantastic! We had nothing else planned for today, so we were able to take our time as we worked our way around each pyramid, wondering at the size, the perfection, the engineering marvel, the durability, and the sheer mass of each one. I was fascinated by the way the perspective changed as we came closer to one and then further away.

This is not high tourist season, so there were not too many people around to be able to enjoy the view..... well, not on account of the number of tourists, anyway.....

The park is swarming with merchants trying to coerce tourists into buying postcards, beaded headdresses, statues of the pyramids and sphinx, head scarves, horse rides, and camel rides. I would have loved to ride a horse - at a full gallop across the dunes with the wind flying through my hair - but there was no way they would let me do that! Over and over and over again someone approached us on horseback, on camel-back, or with arms laden with goods, offering us "good price" for whatever they had. At first it was easy enough to be polite and smile and say, "No, thank you." But as the day went on, and the same approach was used time and time again, our patience wore thin. The drill went something like this:
"Hey! Hi! Hello! Where you from? Hi! Hello! Where you from? English?"
"No, we're American."
"Ah! Obama! Good man!"
"Yes, he is a good president."
"Where in America you from?"
"Pennsylvania and Colorado."
"Oh? I have cousin in New York! New York is great place!"
"Yes. Yes, it is."
"I will give you good price to ride camel. You want to ride camel? I take you to panorama and Sphinx on camel. Good price. What price you want? 40 Egyptian pounds."
"Thank you, we don't want to ride a camel today."
"No? I give you good price. Good price just for you - 35 pounds. Good price. No one give you better price."
"No, thank you, we don't want to ride a camel."
"Okay, you nice person. I give you good price. 30 pounds Egyptian. For 30 pounds I take you and your friends to panorama and Sphinx on camel. No one give you better price."
"No, thank you."
"Okay, maybe later. Is this first time in Egypt?"
"Yes."
"Welcome! Welcome to Egypt! How long you been here?"
"Three days."
"And how long you staying?"
"One week."
"Just one week? That not long enough. There is much to see. And to ride a camel. I give you good price. Just for you - 25 Egyptian pounds......."

And over, and over, and over, and over, and over....the entire day we repeated this conversation. It felt so rude not to answer them when they came trotting up on their horse or camel, so at first we answered their questions. Eventually we figured out that ignoring them was the best way to get them to stop pestering us. If we continued the conversation, they kept badgering us to ride their camel. It was difficult to enjoy what we were looking at while being hounded for business. After several hours of this, it became extremely annoying.

Then I had a thought: these guys are just trying to make a living. People do pay them to ride their camels and horses. People do buy their plastic pyramids. People give in to the badgering, otherwise that wouldn't be their business tactic. Just because I don't want to ride their camels doesn't mean that other tourists don't want to either. Everyone has to do something to make a living. These guys have camels and live in Giza. So why wouldn't they spend their days around one of the Wonders of the Ancient World talking people into riding their camels? That's not a bad way to spend one's days! It's not a job I'd want - I'm not business-savvy nor a good salesperson! But it works for them. So I was less annoyed when the hounding started anew. I ended up telling the last few that we were not going to change our minds, so they were just wasting their time trying to sell us a camel ride and that they should try someone else. That worked!

"No" may not mean "no," but "wasting time" is not good business, and the camel-ride sellers know it!

Floating down the Nile River on a felucca is not only a leisurely way to spend an evening, but also a good way to gain a new perspective on the importance of the river. Water is vital for survival (of course!), and here in Egypt, where there is little other water, life revolves around the river. 

Before arriving, as the plane flew into Egyptian air, I was amazed to see how brown everything on the ground looked - the color of mud everywhere. Well, everywhere except for two thin strips along either side of the river and where irrigation canals had been dug. Aside from those few emerald-green squares the vast expanse of land was brown, brown, and more brown. As we flew over Cairo, the brown remained, changing only in texture - instead of brown ground, I could see lots of brown roofs and roads. Everything is dirty, dusty, and dry. Yet here in the desert thrives a metropolis - one that has been here for thousands of years. Without the Nile, Cairo would not exist. The water has been used for everything throughout history: for drinking, for washing, for cooking, for watering crops, for transportation, for fishing -- and although the way of life has changed dramatically over the millennia, the river is no less important. 

Tonight while Katherine, James, and I were walking to the felucca docks in Maadi (a suburb of Cairo) we passed a church with a sign out front that said that when Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus were fleeing from King Herod, they came to Maadi and got onto a boat to float down the river to safety. It was interesting to think that this evening we boarded a boat onto the same river in the same place. Was the river as calm then as it was tonight? Was the moon just as beautiful? Did the cool night breeze comfort their fears? If this was the place that the holy family floated to safety, I feel blessed to have experienced the same thing that they did - not under the same circumstances, certainly - but on the same line of life-giving water that threads its way through the sand.

Blessed? Yes, I am.

Turkish food

Maybe I shouldn't try to critique the food in Turkey since I don't eat the majority of the most common foods - namely, "Kebaps." Being a vegetarian is a little difficult in Istanbul, but, as always, I did find some great things to eat and drink in restaurants, in dessert shops, and on the street.

One of the restaurant foods that I liked the best is Pide. It is like a pizza, but boat-shaped. This one (on the right) had some veggies and cheese on it, and the crust was sprinkled with sesame seeds. I had another one in another restaurant that had spinach and egg - it was interesting - kind of like a quiche.

Another spinach dish I had was something like Greek spanikopita - layers of spinach and filo dough.... baked with some crumbly cheese sprinkled in....

Yogurt is a main ingredient is many dishes and drinks. I had some wonderfully velvety yogurt soup that had a little rice in it. The fresh mint leaves gave the soup a nice fresh flavor.

The strangest-looking thing I had was a pillow of bread with yogurt-dill sauce. The "pillow" was essentially a large pita that was puffed up like a pillow. Dipped in the sauce, it was delicious.

I could subsist exclusively on Istanbul's street food. Every food-group is covered! Simit is what I ate the most on the street. The simit carts are always close by, no matter where in the city one goes. A ring of bread crusted with sesame seeds, baked until it is almost toasty. That's it - basic, but delicious!

This photo (to the left) shows one of my favorite street foods - on the pier these guys fry up fresh fish filets and put one in a long crusty bun with fresh greens and lemon juice. It's way better than a hoagie!

Corn on the cob is another staple of street food. The corn is yellow, but not sweet - more like Mexican corn (elote).

Another Mexican copy - churros..... sort of. I don't know what the Turks call them, but they look like a churro in a ring and they are soaked in honey. Yum.

Speaking of honey, baklava is to die for! I sampled several different kinds, but this (in the photo) was my favorite - with little bits of crushed pistachio layered into the pastry and honey.

Another amazing dessert is called profiterol - a mountain of creme puffs smothered in dark chocolate sauce. Katherine and I went to a dessert shop called Inci to try some. Inci is the oldest dessert shop in Istanbul and was the first one to create this sinfully delicious concoction!

The first time I remember hearing about Turkish Delight was in my childhood - from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - Edmund's fixation with Turkish Delight was his downfall. I never knew what it was -- now I know what it looks like and tastes like, but I still don't know what it's made of! It's sweet. There are kinds with nuts and without. It's coated in confectioner's sugar. It's cut into little cubes. My favorite is rose-flavored. That's all I know. (The photo is rose Turkish Delight.)

Turkish beer is decent enough - there aren't micro-breweries like in the States, but their national brand, Efes is pretty good. I tried both the pilsner and the dark - I like the dark the best - creamy, a little bitter, but with a good, rich flavor.

More people drink tea than anything else. The photo to the right is Turkish tea - or, rather, çay. Tea is served in little glasses set into a little saucer with a little spoon on the side and two lumps of sugar. I always wanted to say, "One lump, or two?" every time I was served one of these Turkish teas. I'm not an avid tea-drinker other than herbal tea, so I can't really compare the Turkish tea to anything else. It's hot. It's bitter without sugar. It's tea!


What I loved more was the coffee - not all the coffee, and not even Turkish coffee (thick, sweetish mixture served in a tiny mug). No - I loved that I was able to get the kind of coffee that I love - Americano! This final photo was the most delicious cup of coffee I have had since I left the U.S.! Not that the beans were anything special.... I just miss that certain flavor. In Georgia all they have is instant coffee and Turkish coffee - not my favorites. But when this particular cup of coffee arrived at my table, I breathed in the hot, familiar scent, closed my eyes, and smiled! Then I snapped a photo before enjoying every single drop --- all the way down to the last one!

Anybody hungry?