Supraze

Yesterday in the news (which, by the way, is Imedi news…Hope…) there were actually multiple big stories. First, Vaclav Havel was given an award by Saakashvili in recognition of his fight for (I couldn’t actually understand the details…something about freedom and solidarity for Eastern Europe). Next, Google has updated GoogleMaps to include maps of Georgia. They now have streets in Tbilisi listed, along with the appropriate tourist attractions. Sweet. Third, the US senate announced that they support the “territorial integrity” of Georgia and are considering opening a free-trade agreement between the two countries.

In other news, people are still excited about Sarcozy having visited over the weekend, they are recovering bodies and cars from the site of a massive rockslide that happened last week, and Maria from the favorite Spanish soap opera has survived an arson attack.

Most evenings, I come home from school and sit down in the kitchen with a book. Babua sits reading by the window or watching television. Bebia is in Tbilisi, so it’s been just two of us the past few days. At some point, he asks if I want coffee. I make a cup of instant for myself; he makes a cup of Turkish coffee for himself…then we sit back down. He no longer brings me pears each day—there aren’t any left on the tree—but he does ask as soon as I get home about whether I’m hungry. And he doesn’t take no for an answer, refusing to go back to his book/show until I’ve had tomato salad and some bread at the very least. He often gets up for cigarette breaks.  He smokes a lot; I can always hear where he is in the room because he breathes like his lungs are full of holes. I worry a bit, but he’s healthy enough to chop a forest worth of firewood to store for winter. I do giggle a bit because he always goes outside to smoke, but then he brings his butts into the house to throw into the stove fire. So the house ends up smelling like cigarettes anyway. At least momentarily, each time.

Today at school, I played basketball barefoot. My students were very amused (as was the gym teacher) and they begged me to skip my classes for the rest of the day to keep playing with them. Which, of course, I didn’t…but I have to admit I was tempted. Part of me knows that my playing sports and handgames with the students reaffirms the other teachers’ view of me as a “little girl.” But the other part of me doesn’t mind; my language comprehension is increasing and my students are learning new words (like “pass” and “foul”). I’ve asked them to teach me some Georgian rhymes, but aside from one tongue-twister they haven’t mentioned any. One boy even told me he was too old for such children’s games.

I haven’t said much about the children. I get frustrated at times with how they get pushed through the book-prescribed exercises without anyone caring about whether they actually understand what they’re “learning.” I get frustrated with the lack of consistency, scaffolding, modeling…with the favoritism or [whatever the opposite of it is]. But the reason I get so frustrated is that I’ve come to love these kids. They’re smart, even the ones who don’t care about studying English. They work hard…carrying in firewood, helping their families with the fall harvest, memorizing and reciting dialogues (my job is to explain to them what they’re actually saying…). They play-fight, but they help each other with homework (maybe a little too much at times); if someone falls during a basketball game, without fail someone else helps him or her up and dusts them off. They pick apples for each other and for me. They giggle at my grammar mistakes, but they’re patient as I learn. It also follows that hearing their teacher stammer through verb conjugations has helped give them enough confidence to try to converse with me. It’s hard but fun, on both ends I think.

After school, I went to my co-teacher’s house to learn to make her meatball soup. And her recipe:

Take fresh ground meat mixed with sweet red pepper and mix it in a bowl with moistened (but not soaked) rice. Crack and egg into the bowl and mix it in. From the resulting meat-mix, shape meatballs. Meanwhile, brown some onions with vegetable oil in the bottom of a big soup pot. Add a bit of tomato paste, preferably home-made with hot pepper as well. After this smells ready (now I know why my mom doesn’t have any of her grandmother’s recipes!), pour in a few cups of water. Bring to boil. Salt. Mash some garlic with a mortar and pestle. Add this and the meatballs to the broth and let cook. A few minutes before serving, add handfuls of cilantro and dill. If desired (and on-hand) add potatoes. Serve hot…preferably with fresh bread and salty cheese.

I didn’t actually stay to try the soup. Eka had promised a friend that we would attend a supra at her house, so I went home to change my shoes. When I first asked, we were planning to walk to the supra. Her friend lives in the next village over…the village that my school is actually “in,” though this was going to be my first time in the village part of it. We walked to the sadgurze to meet our hostess, who was just finishing work at her shop. Aside from being stopped for conversation three times by different women as we walked there, we were called over to a car upon our arrival. As we talked to the two men in the car, a police truck pulled up and the three cops joined the conversation. Eka’s friend arrived, but we were waiting on one more person. I couldn’t follow all of the conversation, but I caught that at some point they offered to drive me to school each day in the police truck (I said no thanks…I rather like the walk). One of the other policemen was very proud of himself because he could greet me in English. It was actually really sweet, and I know exactly how he feels.

When our other friend arrived, we piled (literally) into the first car. I deduced that someone had accepted an offer to give us a ride. So much for getting to walk! At the supra, our hostess’ mother came in to kiss me hello and her granddaughter (because all 4 generations live in the house) pulled me outside to tell me about her cat and her house and her grandmother…AND that she doesn’t like big dogs because they bite. She sat on my lap through most of the meal.

I’d been told that the Georgians have a miracle hangover cure in the form of a soup made from pigs’ feet. One thing I learned at the supra was that they actually eat a form of pig feet as a dish at the supra. They start with a few pieces of this salty and fatty meat, and then they proceed to drink pitchers of wine without worrying. I’d also been told that at men’s supras, there is one person who is in charge of toasting. I’ve learned that at women’s supras (although it may just be with this particular group of women), before anyone drinks she is expected to make a toast (even just a short one). Common themes so far seem to be to our families, to the health and fortune (luck) of the host(ess), to the souls of the dead, to our fathers/brother/sons and any men we may love, to our countries, to God, and to children.

When we got home, I burned a few CDs of English music for Eka. Then I went to bed thoroughly exhausted.