Wine culture

Who 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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

A senior giving a toast to the teachers while his proud father looks on

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.

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.

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 (Drinking Village with a Georgian Problem and Toastmaster) 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.

A senior and the computer teacher drinking "Vaktanguli" --
linking arms and drinking their glass to the bottom.

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.

Cheer for me

I 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.

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!

You can blame me for your behavior!

Graduation

Yesterday was the last day of school for the seniors. It was graduation without the "Graduation."

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

We ate and toasted and drank and danced until 2:30 a.m.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So humbling.

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.

Cheers.

Another late night

Today 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!

Until tomorrow....

Being present

So, it's June.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A surprise running partner

Sometimes 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

So, I may have a new running partner. She wants to run with me again tomorrow. I think it's great!

Ice cream for all, but not tolerance

I'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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 New York Times 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.

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.

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.

Whatever I said must have been diplomatic enough. The man smiled and went away happily eating his ice cream.

I don't understand people who believe that violence can solve anything.