Sonnet 66

Yesterday, I walked into the mountains with Michael. Today, my body feels like it’s made of spaghetti. New muscles! Yay!

After our walk, we went back to his house. His host parents have been a bit upset that he comes to my house so often yet I don’t usually go there. So I went and we ate and drank and read Shakespearian sonnets in Georgian. His host mother asked me to specifically read sonnet 66. She said it’s her favorite. I can’t remember all of it, but the gist is that the world is cruel and unfair. The speaker is pained by this situation and is tempted to seek refuge in death. He resists the temptation because he doesn’t want to leave his love alone to face the world. With lines about censorship and distorted perceptions of justice, the poem was not one that I was expecting someone here to point out as her favorite.

The more I learn the language, the more complicated life here becomes. I’m grateful, but I’m also a little scared. Five months is a long time…although my co-teacher did say today, “Easter is close. It’s only two months away. Of course, Saint Valentine’s day is first. But two months is not a long time because time—however long—runs away quickly.”

After lobio and cake and wine, went home and passed out. That hike really tired me out.

At school today, I made macaroni and cheese for all the teachers. I also taught most of the lessons because my co-teacher took some cold medicine that made her very sleepy. We were both pretty out of it today.

Maguala had asked me to bring eggs home after school. She said she would be making a cake and that I could watch and record the recipe. I’m home now, but she’s not here. I’m just going to read until she gets home. Maybe I’ll go to play practice with her again tonight.

I’m sleepy. And I want a dog to cuddle with.

Sonnet 66:

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 
As, to behold desert a beggar born, 
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, 
And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
And folly doctor-like controlling skill, 
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, 
And captive good attending captain ill: 
   Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
   Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

Just an ordinary day...

It snowed all last night, but this morning the weather was clear—if cloudy—just long enough for Eka and I to have our morning stroll. When we got back to the house, we sat down for pre-breakfast coffee and cake. She outlined our day: we would clean my room, clean the kitchen, shower, eat, study PowerPoint, and then go and visit her grandmother. I agreed and then excused myself to my room to change clothes…and to pre-clean.

When I came back from Ukraine, I found that she had very thoroughly cleaned my room. My books were stacked in a different place and she had changed how my clothes were grouped in my drawers. It’s normal for Eka to decide to clean my room, and she insists no matter how I protest so I’ve just learned to pre-clean. Usually I straighten up before leaving for school each morning. She has the best of intentions (I trust) when she goes through my drawers and my books. Aside from having the whole everyone-knows-everything small town lack-of-privacy, I also have this situation at home. It’s…I can deal, but I’m glad I have nothing to hide.

The day didn’t quite go as planned. Eka started cleaning the kitchen and sent me to the store. I needed to pick up a few things anyway, because I’m cooking at school on Monday. I had to go to three stores to find everything on my list, but it was nice to be outside. By then the snow had started again and was falling in huge flakes. When I got home, I unpacked the groceries and made chocolate-covered-pretzels. Eka had already cleaned the kitchen and had moved on to my bedroom. Michael called and asked if I wanted to go play in the snow. What a silly question!

Being a skier, he thought to bring water-proof clothes. We dressed up like plastic penguins and then went to the soccer-field where there was lots of fresh snow waiting for us. We built a huge snowman in the goal. Michael estimated that our snowman-goalie was about 8’ tall by the time we finished. It was epic. We took pictures with it, and then Michael buried me and sculpted wings and a halo. Instead of making a snow-angel, I became one. One of his students showed up while I was buried. The boy traced Michael’s name in the snow and then brought us a carrot for the snow-goalie’s nose. Precious.

We returned to my house for coffee and a few games of chess. Which I lost. Then Eka strongly suggested that I go next in the shower, so Michael said good-bye and I went to shower. My hair has been getting really long. The first time I asked about getting it cut, Eka said the woman who cuts her hair could do it. Then she decided that I need a real hairdresser, so she said we would go to one in Tbilisi. The first time we were in Tbilisi, she went without me. The second time (when I was there alone), she had me stay with her family. I’ve asked Maguala a few times about cutting just the ends, but Eka always manages to throw some obstacle in the way. She’s admitted that she doesn’t want me to cut my hair because she likes it long. Finally today, I insisted that it needed to be cut. So she cut it. She barely took any off, but the dead parts are gone so I’m just going to be amused…and think about what would happen if I disappeared to the city for a weekend and came back with short hair.

After my hair-cut, Eka and I had lunch/dinner. Then we started to study PowerPoint, but we were interrupted by her cousin’s arrival. Giorgi—her cousin—had brought another Giorgi. This new guest is a Rachuli Tbilisi-dweller. At first, I was told that he’s a director. I thought he must do something with the government or schools or something. Then I was told that he’s an art specialist. I still was unclear what this meant, but he was nice enough and we went through the usual routine where a guest asks a nearby Georgian about my background and I answer all the questions. Eka and Maguala petted me and babied me. Then I was excused from our PowerPoint because the Giorgis invited me to follow them and Maguala. I didn’t know where we were going, but any chance to do something different is worth jumping on. Gio laughed as Eka fussed over my hat and scarf. In front on new guests, they fuss over me so that everyone can see how they take care of their guest. And what I little girl I am. I usually play along, but when someone interesting comes along and I want to have a grown-up conversation, I’m always tempted to pat Eka and Maguala on the heads, tell them what good children they are, and then focus on our guest.

Luckily, Giorgi wanted to practice his English. As we walked through the snow, he asked if I like the people here. I answered that of course I do, and then he surprised me by asking if there is anything that I don’t like. I thought for a moment and then answered honestly that I come from a culture where being a guest is about spending time with the other person. It isn’t that I don’t like the guest culture here, but it’s difficult for me because I want to spend time with people here but they just want to feed me…regardless of whether I want to eat or not. He said that there is a very aggressive guest culture in the caucus countries. He understood why I struggle with it, and he explained that it isn’t the culture in Azerbijan or Armenia so he doesn’t understand why it’s so strong here. It was a thoughtful question and a thoughtful analysis of my anwer.

By then we had reached the Resource Center and he was taking out his key. As I followed him and Maguala up to the theater room, I wondered what Giorgi is doing in Oni and why his conversation felt so refreshing. When we got upstairs, he pulled out booklets and set them on a chair. As he continued unpacking, I picked up one of the booklets. It was a script, and a decently long one. By then, he had finished unpacking. The Giorgis started choreographing a fight with some machetes, and then they asked if I wanted to learn. So I joined for a little while. We fought until other people started showing up. These people were all actors. Giorgi is a theater director (and an actor). He was at Keti’s show yesterday, and he wants to dedicate his upcoming show to her father. As people filed in, I asked what this play is about. He explained as best he could, then he asked someone else to explain in German. Then I watched the rehearsal, and the story feels familiar. Probably because I've been reading so many Georgian folktales...Maybe I'll be able to translate it in full at some point. Hope so!

*points to the mountain* "That's mine!" -Jumberi

This morning Jumberi suggested that we walk to the mineral water spring near my school. One of the dogs came with us, and I pet it while Jumberi stopped to talk to some friends. He pointed to the ruin of a house with a red relief trailer in front of it. I’d passed it before, and Eka had explained that the owner lived in the trailer because she has no money. Jumberi added new information: the woman didn’t want to fix her house for some reason or another, and the woman was Eka’s German teacher when Eka was in school. A man passed us on the street and Jumberi explained that he’s an architect. Pointing to a new house just down the block, Jumberi said that this is one of the man’s buildings. He tapped his head and grunted approvingly. I could hear the unsaid Dzalian nitchierie katsia, “He’s a very clever man.”

We talked about the beauty of the mountains and about the amount of snow. We talked about the dog and about the river. I learned that he has an orchard on the side of one of the mountains I can see from my school and that he can’t wait to take me swimming in the river in the summer. Then he started coughing his missing-half-a-lung cough. He asked for the 100^th time if my father smokes. When I said no, he asked if my grandfather smokes. I answered that I have two grandfathers and that neither smokes. We walked in silence for a minute, and then he asked if I had understood that Maguala’s brother was having an operation. I answered that I had guessed as much, and I asked how the surgery went. He said that it went well and so Eka would be home tomorrow. I told him that my dad had a heart problem and had had surgery when I was younger. He furrowed his brows and asked why this was so. For as often as I find myself frustrated with people here for not working to figure out why and how things work, I also find myself amazed by how often they ask “Why?” If you say you don’t like a food, they ask why. If you don’t speak Russian, they ask why. If you leave America to teach for a low salary in Oni, they ask why. And if you tell them that your dad has a heart problem, they ask why. Often, I just shake my head and say that I don’t know why but this is how things are.

Jumberi pointed to one of the mountains and said that when my sisters visit we can go hike that mountain together. I laughed and told him that my sisters probably wouldn’t visit here. He asked why, and I found myself trying to explain. Georgia is far from America. Plane tickets are expensive. Getting to Oni from Tbilisi is neither easy nor comfortable. My sisters aren’t particularly adventurous and they can’t just leave school to come hike mountains with me. He became sad. Wouldn’t my mother come? I laughed again and said that my mother doesn’t like travelling. Wouldn’t my dad come? I hesitated…I could see my dad flying to Tbilisi, but somehow I couldn’t picture him enduring the 5-7 hour marshutka ride to Oni. Jumberi watched me think. Finally I answered maybe. He smiled, probably as he imagined my father tasting his wine for the first time.

We saw one of my students at the mineral water spring. Mamuka was filling up bottles at the spring while three men stood next to him smoking. Jumberi joined the smoking men and I joined Mamuka, who smiled shyly but didn’t greet me in any language. I filled up our three bottles, and then Jumberi and I headed home.

We ate lunch together, read for a while, and then I went out hiking with Michael. We walked farther than I had thought. At one point, two children came up and told us that we shouldn’t go farther because there were wolf tracks in the snow. We said that we would be ok, and they thought we didn’t understand them. We appreciated their warning, but we saw the footprints and cow tracks in the snow and decided that if the cows weren’t scared then we weren’t either.

The walk was nice. I mentioned that there were times in Berlin when I felt myself changing into someone I wasn’t sure that I liked. At the time, I noticed that most of my problems could have been avoided if I had trusted my instincts and had been more willing to stand up for myself. I became more pragmatic and self-assured, perhaps to the point of being cold and arrogant at times…but I could never tell because I didn’t have old friends around to keep me in check. I spent much of the summer worrying about this (and then worrying if worrying was making me self-absorbed as well). Michael mentioned that he sometimes feels as if he’s becoming more impatient as he lives here. I can see how that would happen. Coming from a different culture to a place where you’re constantly petted, fondled, and force-fed (all this if they like you…imagine if they didn’t!) requires a great deal of patience.

I don’t feel that I’m becoming more impatient, but I do feel that I’m becoming more cynical. An old teacher-friend once told me that she’s fascinated by Eastern Europe but that she has to leave every-so-often in order to maintain her sanity. Otherwise, she said, watching so many people who felt neither responsible for nor motivated towards changing their society made her depressed. Perhaps the social apathy is a survival mechanism: when the big community repeatedly fails a group of people they withdraw into smaller communities. They identify with their regions or their villages or their families; they complain about the government and the state of their streets, but they don’t bother trying to change things. Maybe this is because they don’t know how to start such huge changes. Maybe they worry that change isn’t possible, or that things will get worse and then they will be to blame. Maybe they’re still scared to challenge authority…they carry a social mentality traumatized by its history as a person’s mind may be traumatized by the events in his or her past. I wouldn’t characterize the Georgians I’ve met as apathetic, but their passion doesn’t seem to be focused into anything productive. They love their country and its traditions, but their strange relationship with their government has lead to a strange relationship with their government-run education system. So as much as students may like my school or my lessons, most of them don’t feel that my assignments or my language are worth extra effort on their part. Both stem from the current government…they’ve learned from history that it is safest to play along with the government but also that if they get too involved the next government might decide that they need re-education. People keep asking if I think the Georgians are lazy. I don’t. As always, some people are smarter than others and some are harder workers…Maybe history has taught people here that the best way to protect their culture, language and lives is to make sure they never commit so fully to something that they can be help responsible for it when the winds change. They’ve been taught not to question, not to analyze, not to look for innovations or alternatives. This doesn’t make them bad students; it just makes them difficult students for an American teacher to work with.

I watch the news on the president’s sponsored channel. There’s a segment on Putin making anti-Georgian comments. His Russian speech is dubbed into Georgian for the segment…I can’t help thinking that such editing was unnecessary. As I watch footage of Putin at a supra-like table drinking beer from a huge mug, I think two things: obviously the news station choose footage of Putin drinking beer intentionally, and why isn’t it obvious to them that people would learn more English if they aired programs in English from time to time. Regarding the beer, Georgians have a long history of holding beer suspect. Until recently, one only toasted to one’s enemies with beer. What changed? The patriarch decided to bless beer. Why, I don’t know. Nevertheless, Putin couldn’t be shown drinking wine, so beer it was. Regarding the dubbing, my family watches hours of Russian-language television every day. They watch hours of Georgian television, too, and it’s helped me learn. But I think they’d learn English a little faster if they replaced half of the Russian shows they watch with English ones.

The television is on almost constantly here. It would surely be maddening if I still noticed it. During the day, there are dubbed versions of tella novellas, concerts of Russian singers (lots of re-runs of those), and old Georgian films (I like those). I’ve walked in on Jumberi watching both the Hillary Duff movie and Hannah Montana, dubbed into Georgian. I don’t think he suspected that these are usually watched by pre-teen girls in the US. On weekends, there are shows on which Georgian children in costumes sing and dance. In evenings, we watch some combination of our soap opera, a comedy show, a talk-show, a sitcom (that I actually enjoy now that I understand the dialogue), or a new reality show called Maestro in which conductors compete against each other for the honor of conducting the [national?] orchestra. For most of the rest of the day, someone or another is watching (or listening to) the news. The news is on almost constantly. It gives me many opportunities to watch for themes in the content. Ironically, we watched a special tonight on internet addiction. Of course people here spend a lot of time on the internet. There’s no cinema or roller rink or ice cream parlor or coffee house…but young people have access to computers. There’s a house here where a clever family bought 5 Play Stations and they charge visitors by hour of play. The guests are almost exclusively boys and young men; grown men seem to prefer online gambling and shooting games that they can play at home or at relatives’ homes. After the special, Maguala made a few more comments than usual about how much time I spend at my computer. I wanted to say that I am reading and writing for homework. I wanted to say that spending hours in front of the television isn’t any healthier. Instead I shrugged. Then Jumberi grunted disapprovingly at a news segment about young people giving “free hugs” in Tbilisi. I narrowed my eyes at a series of join-the-military commercials and then a news special about the rising popularity of plastic surgery in Georgia.  I guess we have different sensitivities…

Back to school! Back to school!

Back to school. My co-teacher was late meeting me at the car station, so I got to stand alone in the snow and think a bit about how much has changed since September. Then she showed up and we slowly made our way up the icy path to school. Our first lesson was third grade and sixth grade together. It was difficult to make that a productive hour, but I had them teach me about Georgian holidays. This way, even the third graders could contribute things like “red egg” to a description of Easter. Then we taught fifth grade, in which we had only two students. I wrote B-I-N-G-O in squares of paper, gave each student one of the posters that came with our workbooks, and we played a kind of modified “I Spy”/”BINGO.” My co-teacher liked it, but she was a bit confused. I called out “Do you have something blue? Do you have two of something? Do you have any monkeys?” and the students raced to use all their letters. It worked pretty well. Our only other lesson was in fourth grade, in which we reviewed the last lesson they did from their textbooks. Then we went to the teachers’ room where we were offered chocolate and shots of whiskey to celebrate the first day back at school. One of the teachers mentioned that she had sent me a friend request on facebook. I could tell she was hurt that I hadn’t accepted it yet, and I quickly explained that between Maguala’s birthday and Eka leaving town I really haven’t had any internet. That seemed to make her feel better. I used the school computer to quickly accept her request and then email a friend while the other teachers were huddled around a fire. When they rose to leave, I did the same and we slowly made our way back down into town.

The government had sent me an email that all schools would be receiving complete sets of the English books. According to the email, I would have to go to my educational resources office, turn in my old books, and sign some papers before picking up my new books. I asked my co-teacher and she said she had already picked up my books. Sure enough, in the back room of her friend’s shop were both student and teacher copies of the books for levels 2 through 6. I already have the level 1 books.

I went to the resource center anyway because Michael and I wanted to talk to the woman there about starting English classes for adults. She’s a sweet woman who understands a bit of English and is very patient with my Georgian. I always enjoy spending time with her and with her kids. Today, though, I’m not sure how the meeting went. Originally, she was the one who suggested that we give adult classes. But suddenly she was asking where and for whom? We responded that we had hoped she knew of a place (this being the educational resource center and all…) and that we were willing to teach anybody who wanted to learn. She suggested a class size of 5 and be suggested 15. She asked what the price would be, and we said that we didn’t want money. She was pretty surprised, but she agreed. Then she used a form of the verb “to write” that I wasn’t familiar with. I think she said she was going to write a list of participants…or maybe she said we should do that…I can’t really do any such thing until Eka gets home or I go back to school on Monday. Maybe I could put up signs…but things around here get done because people use their social networks: they call neighbors, friends, cousins, co-workers and old classmates. It’s a tricky place to live as an outsider. Hopefully these lessons work out…

Teaching with Michael would be very different from teaching at my school. We see each other as equally competent and we can communicate freely. I don’t have to worry about diplomacy, and he understands concepts like re-tests, fill-ins, and modeling. Adult students would be difficult, but the atmosphere could be refreshing. And I do like these books. The books don’t work well in the schools yet because the native teachers don’t know how to intuit the directions or purpose of an exercise. In rural places like Oni, the teachers don’t know English well enough to work effectively from an exercise that says “Ask and answer.” They don’t know what forms to use when asking the questions and they don’t know what answers the students should give. They need more explicit instructions on how to use the books. I’m at a point where I’m thinking about how to make sure my time here has sustainable results. Teaching my teacher will have longer-lasting positive effects than just teaching my students, so I’m going to really focus on that this semester. Reading about Peace Corps volunteers who get 2 months language and teaching method training as well as total control over their classrooms, I wonder if they realize how lucky they are.

When I got home, I sat with the iPad and read more than half of Two Years on the Yangtze. It’s the reason I’m comparing my experience to that of a Peace Corps volunteer; it was written by a man who was a Peace Corps volunteer in rural China in the late 1990s. Sometimes, I feel like he’s describing my life in Oni. Other times, his experience couldn’t be further from mine.

Nona stayed late at work, so Jumberi, Maguala and I were the only ones home. This led to an unprecedented event: we ate dinner together. Even Jumberi. We had fried potatoes and they didn’t talk much and I wondered to myself at how curious a thing marriage is in all of its different forms. The common form here seems to be the “we’re at an age where we’re supposed to marry and we can’t have babies otherwise and that’s the reason we’re alive so I guess you’re pretty enough or a good enough dancer…now whose parents do we move in with?” And then after 40 years or so they run out of things to talk about. Eventually someone dies first (usually the man) and the mother fusses over any grown children and pressures them to do the same thing she did. I know this can’t be the case for everyone, but it seems to be one of the most common patterns.

I read more after dinner until Jumberi came over to the table.

“Let’s play dominoes.”

“Ok.”

“Go get them.”

“Ok.”

“Play well or I’ll kill you.” Then he laughed and we started to play. I had really bad luck, but he didn’t kill me. He just got bored and called Maguala over to play against me instead. She was watching a soap opera and so had minimal interest, but she played a quick game with me and I lost again. She went back to her television and I went back to my reading (I almost said “my book”), and things were quiet again.

"Today all the water is holy"

Eka left for Tbilisi this morning. From the conversations I overheard in the kitchen, Maguala’s brother is having surgery for a tumor on his neck. I heard the words “oncology” and “gland.” I’ve met this uncle, and I rather liked him. I’m a little sad…I don’t expect anyone to think to translate family news to me, but I would think that when something this big is happening they would at least intentionally include me in the Georgian conversations about it. Eka will be gone three or four days, and she’ll call to let Maguala know how the surgery goes. Hopefully all will go well.

Before we knew that today is a holiday, Michael and I had planned to go to Oni’s museum today. It turns out that the museum was closed, but Michael’s host family had planned a special hike and invited me to come. Around noon Michael came to my house to pick me up. He always comes to get me and then walks me home, in part because he’s a gentleman and in part because his host-parents tell him that I need an escort. We walked back to his house, where his host mother was rushing around compiling our picnic basket. She insisted we have some carrot salad, potato rolls, and rose liquor while we waited for her.

Back when I heard that there would be another volunteer in Oni, I was a bit worried. I had expected that I might feel a little jealous about another foreign teacher becoming part of the little world here. In fact, I found that this wasn’t a problem at all; I worried more about whether this new arrival would be someone I could live with. Oni is rather small, and I knew we would be expected to become friends. What a silly thing to worry about! Michael is a bit older than me. He’s lived in mountains before because he’s an avid skier, and he lived abroad in New Zealand—a world away from any of the places I’ve lived. He’s an experienced teacher: he’s one of the few foreign English teachers I’ve met who’s a teacher by profession in his home country. He teaches history, and we are interested in quite a few of the same historical periods. We have a pretty good dynamic. We’re both independent enough that we aren’t tempted to withdraw from our Georgian communities and become dependent on each other. At the same time, we’ve both admitted that sometimes it feels like these next five months will be very long, and I think we’ll be hiking together a lot in the spring.

When Anna (Michael’s host mother) was ready, she called to her husband, Robizone. Saba, the neighbor’s grandson, came with us again, and we set off through the snow.

While talking with Anna, I realized that this was something of a pilgrimage hike. Somewhere at the end of our trail we would find a church. First, though, we hiked up a steep hill and argued about which cars are best for snowy mountain roads. Next, we passed through a place where guest houses had once stood. They had been destroyed somehow, and now only the stone foundations were left peeking through the snow. Nearby were new guest houses. Anna and Robizone were very eager to tell us about how these beautiful cotteges were the vacation homes of Russian tourists and millionaires. Since it’s the off-season, most of them were empty. The building that is supposedly a restaurant was empty, though faint sounds could be heard coming from a carpentry-shop where furniture is made. We passed through and turned right at a fork in the road. That road led us through a small village and then three other villages that were completely deserted.

Robizone and Saba analyzed animal tracks in the snow. Anna murmered about how sad it was that no one lived in these villages. Michael and I speculated about how real estate works in a place like this. Most houses are homesteads, where generations of extended family live together. Families seem to collectively own houses, meaning that someone may tell me she owns a home in Tbilisi and really mean that her husband’s uncle has a home there that they go to sometimes. It’s very important to have someone to stay with in Tbilisi, because often major endeavors (buying a car/a wedding dress/shoes, applying for a visa, seeing a specialized doctor, mailing a super-expensive postcard, buying specialty ingrediants) require going to Tbilisi. Some houses are dachas that sit empty all winter because the families that own them live in Tbilisi during the winter. Some houses are empty because the family died out or fled the area. Anna pointed out a street that she said used to be completely Jewish. Now it’s completely empty. She’s sad about this, but she insists that the families will come back someday. She says they went to Israel, but she explains, “If they weren’t going to come back, why wouldn’t there be new families in the houses?” I look at houses that are falling apart due to bomb damage or earthquake damage. I think about how the young people—and some not-so-young people—all seem to leave Oni in search of higher education and job opportunities. Somehow I doubt that these families will come back, but Anna longs to have neighbors again, so I smile and nod in agreement.

Eventually the houses faded away and we were surrounded by trees. Robizone and Saba decided that they found rabbit tracks, wolf tracks and then a place where the wolf ate the rabbit. We walked out into a clearing, and I spotted a single deciduous tree standing amid all the evergreens. Anna said that it was a nadzvis xe…a Christmas tree. There were ribbons tied all along the branches, and because of the snow they were frozen…they looked a bit like multi-colored icicles. Anna pulled out a strand of white ribbon and began cutting it into strips. She handed each of us a piece and Saba took pictures as we tied them to the wishing tree. Because that’s obviously what it was: a wishing tree.  I asked Anna why this particular tree had been chosen:

“Why do people make wishes on this tree?”

“Because it’s the wishing tree?”

“But why is this the wishing tree?”

“I don’t know. Because it is.”

And that was that. We walked on. We passed a few very large and very well-made houses as we went. One especially beautiful home inspired Saba to pause and ask who lived there. Anna and Robizone shook their heads. They explained that it had been built by a very wealthy family, but then everyone in the family except one daughter had been killed in a terrible automobile accident. The daughter owns the house now, but she seldom visits, and so it stands regal and empty on the mountain-side.

Another house that we passed had sayings spray-painted onto its gate. The letters had been faded by time, and even the Georgians had a difficult time reading them. We translated one saying to “Happiness to those who work” and another as “Everything for happiness.” As Anna exclaimed that these were great mottoes, Robizone explained that this was a house shared by a community of communists. Later we would pause by this house again on our way home, with the same reactions from the two Rachulians.

We continued on for a long time, and eventually the path leveled out. We were in the woods by now, but to our left materialized first a cemetery and then a small church building. I fretted about my jeans and pulled my scarf over my head. Anna told me not to worry, then she started handing out the long skinny candles that are used in churches here. Inside, the church was more of a devotion chapel than a proper church. Clearly services were not held in this building; however, all of the walls were covered with icons and marks from candles that long ago burned down to wax stubs and sear marks. Anna, Robizone and Saba went around venerating the icons and saying their prayers. I didn’t watch to see what Michael did, but I went over to a cluster of Mary icons and stuck my candles to the wall. My fingers were cold and I fumbled with the matches. When I go to church with Eka, I just have to stand there and listen, meditating and periodically crossing myself when it’s obvious that the priest is doing something important. This was totally different. I whispered a few prayers, bowed my head, and then decided to wait outside.

When everyone else came out, Robizone pulled out a comb to fix Michael’s hair—totally ignoring Michael’s protests—and Anna set off to a pavilion to set up our picnic. She explained to me that this is where the calves and pigs are slaughtered and prepared. There was a little kitchen area and then a very long table under a wooden roof. Glancing at the rafters, I saw shot glasses, plates, and what I took to be carpets. Robizone pulled down one of these “carpets” and unrolled it along a bench. Then, to my dismay, I was instructed to sit down. Knowing that he just wanted to protect Anna and I from freezing our ovaries, I obeyed, trying to repress shudders as I thought that sitting on a mysterious piece of green shag carpet that was communally used by all the picnickers here and that stayed outside in this pavilion all year could not possibly be better for my ovaries than sitting on a wooden bench.

We had a simple picnic of bread, mchadi, cheese, kartopiliani, carrot salad, cake, oranges, and wine. Robizone made Michael tamada, and he bravely made Georgian toast after Georgian toast. Then Anna and Saba went off to collect water from a nearby mineral spring. A few young men strolled up, but when they saw us at the table they headed over to the kitchen area and started making a fire. Being the only woman, I was the first called over to the fire because they insisted I must be cold. The fire did feel nice. Soon we were all around it. Saba returned and he took pictures of us with the men. Then we said good-bye and set off back down the mountain.

When we arrived back at the house, Anna and Robizone tried to make us eat more. We talked about Georgian history and Anna pulled out some very interesting books. One was actually a calendar with bilingual essays and letters from Georgian history. She showed me a letter in which the people of a mountain region wrote to the American government for protection from the bolsheveks. No protection was offered and the villagers were all slaughtered. Next came the book she’s currently reading about American history. The cover had a picture of the Liberty Bell, and Robizone explained to me the importance of this “foremost symbol of America.” I laughed and reminded him that I grew up near Philadelphia. He told me that his grandfather had lived in America, and Anna handed me new books. These had pictures from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, in which Georgians (in their unmistakable traditional clothes) had been showcased as “Cassoks of the Caucus! The best horsemen on Earth!” Not quite accurate…This was all very enjoyable until Robizone declared that the Aya Sofia had also been a Georgian creation. Anna corrected him, and they debated until Saba arrived. As Saba and Robizone settled down to begin a game of Nardi, Michael and I slipped out and headed to my house.

Once there, we drank tea and talked about books. In exchange for a few of my books, he is letting me borrow his iPad. I’m a little intimidated by the technology, but it’s exciting to have access to new books! He suggested one about a Peace Corps teacher in China. I’ve been reading all night. There was a brief interruption when the news showed a story about Ukrainian male models wearing high heels. The news described it as a scandal, but Maguala called me to stop reading and look at the beautiful men. Jumberi decided that it was suddenly imperative that I go outside for firewood. I love this family.

Maguala's birthday!

Seeing the house change as it was prepared for Maguala’s birthday supra filled me with nostalgia, excitement and dread. The nostalgia came from recognizing that unique pre-party feeling. There’s a certain atmosphere to the two or three days before a large party. It’s created by all the cleaning and planning. Calling guests and friends, gathering groceries, cooking massive amounts of food, counting and re-counting drinks, arranging furniture and pulling out extra chairs…This always was one of the environments in which my mother was happiest and most easily frustrated, so those days felt a bit like  being at home. The excitement came from the fact that this was the second birthday supra at our house since my arrival. The first birthday had been my own: a party I didn’t plan with guests I didn’t know and jokes I couldn’t understand because my Georgian wasn’t very good. This, though, was a party for my host-grandmother. Though Eka still controlled much of the planning, Maguala had a guest-list of family members and friends who have known her for all of her life. The dread came from knowing that I always stop being family when Eka has other guests. As such, I knew I could anticipate watching Nona, Eka and Jumberi work while being politely but firmly instructed to sit with the guests.

Having off school for the two days that I was home before the supra was a treat. Eka and Nona had work, so I sat in the kitchen with Maguala. Her usual routine is as follows: she gets up at 6, gets dressed, and starts cooking breakfast. In reality, breakfast doesn’t usually (unless she’s making some kind of bread) take very long. Sometimes when I’ve been sick or unable to sleep, I’ve wandered into the kitchen in these early hours. Inevitably, I find Nona softly snoring, the macaroni noodles cooking over the fire, and Maguala sitting by the fire, staring out the window. The rest of the house gets up between 8 and 9. Eka and Nona drink coffee. They eat with me and head off to work. I help with dishes while Jumberi eats alone—which he does at every meal, usually eating from a bowl with all of the previous day’s leftovers mixed into it—and then I sit down to work. As I read, write, or study, Maguala cleans everything. She washes the floor with a wet rag on the end of a long pole. She sweeps. She irons shirts, trousers, socks, underwear, skirts, tablecloths, dishrags, window curtains…everything. Then, around 12, she sits by the fire. If a neighbor hasn’t come visiting by then, she calls one or two of them and says “You don’t want coffee today?” Usually at least one friend comes, but sometimes she turns to me and decides that I need a study break. She makes Turkish coffee and eats some sweets or fruit. After at least an hour, the friend either insists that she must go home or she starts doing dishes. I usually help with the dishes and then return to my books. Meanwhile, Maguala (and possibly another visitor or myself) begins cooking. She cooks constantly, and she’s very good at it. She spends the day cooking, cleaning, watching TV, gazing out the window, yelling at her husband or her daughter, singing to herself, or eating with friends.

With her birthday party looming, Maguala’s schedule changed to focus almost exclusively on cooking. Instead of one or two friends coming by for a coffee hour, we would have 7 or more older women come and bustle around the kitchen. I like the old women with their humor. They are earthy and worn and sometimes as pushy with me as they are with each other. They are amused by my attempts at their language and my insistence that I really don’t have time for a husband. They insist that I must find life in Oni boring. Twice I’ve been asked to marry someone’s grandson because a Georgian surname would suit me and a visa to America would suit the boy. More often I’m asked if I like Georgian food and if I want to learn how to make beautiful supras. Food presentation is taken as seriously as food preparation here. The women cut cucumbers and carrots into flower-like bowls for pomegranate seeds. These garnish plates on which eggplant strips and carrot salads have been arranged to look vaguely like sunrises. Sometimes the women look over at me and laugh. “Look what a good girl she is,” they call to Maguala, “See how she’s studying how we make these dishes!” Kargi gogo var. Vitsi…an…ese minda viqnebi…

The day of the supra, I actually left to go hiking with Michael—the other English teacher—and his neighbor’s grandson Saba. It was snowing, but we went up into the mountains without too much trouble. Periodically Saba threw fireworks ahead of us or took out his lighter to play with. We talked a bit about our vacations, and then we asked Saba about his school and his interests. Saba is 12 and lives in Tbilisi, which for all intents and purposes is the center of the world. He studies English, Russian and French. English, he claims, is his favorite, while Russian is the easiest. He likes Justin Bieber, Eminem, 50 Cent, Tupac, and The Beatles. He likes “Tom and Jerry.” He likes mountain walks, books, and sniper video games. He also likes my Georgian; he said my American accent is very funny to listen to but that my grammar is pretty good.

It was nice to finally have some exercise, but soon I had to go home. I had been told to be home around 3 to help set up for the 6 o’clock supra. There were lots of women running around the house, but Eka didn’t get home until 5. She brought gifts from a friend: extra glasses and two new wine jugs. Over the course of the evening, Maguala also received a mug with an onion soup recipe on it (in English), chocolate, a set of coffee cups, a new set of wooden spoons and spatulas, and a cake stand. People kept coming into the kitchen and then it was time to move into the big room for the supra. Usually, we don’t  use this room because it’s so cold. However, the door between the big room and the kitchen had been left open all day so that some of the heat from the fire would creep through and warm things up. Beyond that, guests who were cold could only dress up and drink faster, both of which they did.

At first I was at a table with only the old women. They were family members and close family friends, and I was rather happy to share their company. After my first piece of khachapuri, the only male guests arrived: cousin Giorgi, his friend Tornike, and our previous houseguests Zaza and Merabi. The old women told me a few times that Tornike is a dzalian kargi bitchi. Sometimes this phrase sincerely means a “very good boy.” Sometimes it means that he can sing, dance, play a few instruments, that he has a handsome face and that he doesn’t have a wife. The old women insisted I change tables, so soon I was seated with the boys and two of Eka’s girlfriends from Tbilisi. They passed horns of wine. Maguala’s mother danced with Giorgi and I danced with Jumberi. Merabi decided to teach me Georgian swear words. Maguala laughed with her friends, and it was generally a good time.

When the evening ended, I had drank more than I wanted but not too much. I had also eaten more than I wanted but somehow managed to avoid eating too much as well. Between the excitement, the hike, and then wine, I was exhausted. I helped clean up, dried the dishes (this is almost always my role because the well-trained house-wives don’t typically trust me to wash the dishes well but they know I want to be useful), and then went to bed.

I’ve learned to be very careful with supras. First, there’s the obvious fact that they drink a lot of alcohol at these things. Being able to drink well is a sign of strength. It’s one of the few times I can convince anyone that being unmarried does not make me a child. Since most people make their own wine and tcha-tcha, drinking is also a compliment to the family. They take pride in the wine they make and in their toasts, so properly expressing appreciation for both is very important when one is a guest. All of this considered, I’m a 120 lb. 5’4’’ foreign teacher in a small village. So even if I liked being drunk (which I don’t), it really isn’t an option.

Staying sober is complicated a bit further by the fact that Eka and Maguala like to tell people that I don’t eat bread. Women here do all sorts of little things to display how important their appearences are to them. I don’t take part in these rituals simply because they’re things I’ve never done even at home. I don’t wear make-up. I like practical shoes. I don’t wear much jewellery, don’t get manicures, don’t see  a hairdresser every week. One of the few ways that Eka and Maguala can reassure people that I’m not completely alien is announcing that I don’t eat bread. This implies that I’m dieting, which means I care about being pretty, which makes me a good girl. Usually, the hostess will respond with half-hearted protests that I don’t need to worry; at the same time, she decides to forgive my unruly ponytail and her eyes show her approval.

Then she will force food on me. People here don’t seem to be comfortable spending time together without eating. Michael speculates that this has to do with the fact that the people here have known serious hunger and so now they take great pleasure in eating. Maybe this is so, but for me the pleasure of eating is lost when I’m constantly ill from too much polite-eating.

Ah supras: slowly destroying my liver, my stomach, my waistline…at least all of the toasting is good for language practice!

The day after Maguala’s birthday, I studied and drank mineral water and watched the falling snow. Eka had cancelled our morning walk because she didn’t feel well. Shortly after she left for work, I noticed Maguala setting the table. Within 20 minutes, I found myself at a totally different kind of supra. This was just Maguala and her close friends. They enjoyed the leftovers from the night before, including the cake and two bottles of wine. I had been working on an essay and was startled by the appearance of so many guests. I could study through Maguala’s coffee breaks, but continuing work with this many people over would have been considered very rude. So I tried to remember that I should be grateful for these experiences, filled my wine glass with lemonade (to stop the tamada from filling it with wine) and joined the table.

The ladies stayed until it began to get dark and then they politely excused themselves. Two stayed to help Maguala and I clean up. When the cleaning was done, they had tea together and I went back to work.

When Eka and Nona got home, we ate dinner, watched our soap opera and then set about taking down the holiday decorations. Tomorrow is a holiday. No one will explain to me the name or significance of this holiday beyond saying “We cannot have the New Year’s tree still up tomorrow. Ar shiedzleba. It cannot be so.” The rain had washed away the paper doves that had been hanging on the tree in the yard, so we only had to undress the tree in the kitchen and the balloons that were on the ceiling.

Did I ever mention that we had two trees? One is a real pine tree that Eka brought home and planted in the yard. It’s under the grapevines which makes me think 1) that corner of the yard will have particularly acidic soil and this may change the taste of the grapes and 2) the tree won’t be allowed to stay there. It stayed bare until Orthodox New Year, for which paper doves were hung on it. Maguala had written our names on the doves, and Eka kept calling them pidgeons.

Our second tree is a little fake tree (“permanent tree” for marketing purposes) decorated with gold and red ornaments. It’s been in the kitchen, and often Eka would respond to other trees by turning to me and saying that ours was better. I will never have the discipline for a single-color tree, but on our little tree it looked very nice.

Onshi var, kide...ukve?

Finally settled in at home. From Kiev I flew to Riga. The plane was super small. It even had propellers on the wings, which I’ll admit made me a bit nervous. My flight was late landing, so I was worried that I would miss my connection. I followed the signs to my transfer gate and found myself at a different gate…staring at a locked door and a sign saying “transfer bus to D terminal here.” A man came up and told me to wait 5 minutes for an airline worker to come. So as my flight time drew nearer I stood and waited for something to happen. It was nerve-racking. The woman did come eventually. She told me that the current snowstorm in Riga had delayed a flight from Moscow. 4 passengers from the Moscow flight were also trying to fly to Tbilisi, so I was to wait for them with her and then she would call a bus to take us to our plane. And that’s exactly what happened: the 4 girls showed up, the airline worker explained the situation to them in Russian, called the bus for us, and then said to me in English, “Now we can go.”

I slept through the flight to Tbilisi. When we landed it was 5 in the morning. I was the first person out the “Arrivals” gate, to the disappointment of the crowd waiting for friends and loved ones there. A friend told me once that her favorite thing to watch is the moment where a person walks through a door, searches the crowd, and then spots the person they’ve been waiting to see. It was strange to have so many people looking hopefully at the opening door, so many people who then looked away when I walked out instead of the travelers they were searching for.

Eka had told me that I could get a taxi to the bus station for 15 lari. I talked to the taxi drivers and they laughed at this price. They showed me an airport sign that set the price for a ride to the city center at 30 lari. As the bus station is farther than the city center, it was absurd of me to ask for such a low price. So I gave in. At 6 am I found myself alone at the Didube Sadguri. I stopped in a shop to buy a Snickers bar and some cherry juice for breakfast, and then I waited at the cold, dark bus station for over an hour. When my marshutka pulled up, I was surprised to see that the driver was not Eka’s uncle. I didn’t recognize this man, although he knew me by name and knew I was staying with Eka. He suggested I sit in the marshutka and wait there where it was warmer. I fell asleep waiting. When I woke up, it was 9 and the sun was up. We waited a half hour more and then finally started on our way home. I fell asleep again, and this time when I woke up Eka’s uncle was driving. The two men must have stopped off somewhere and switched cars. Petia laughed to see how surprised I was.

I had hoped to get home in time for Keti’s puppet show. Instead, I got home at 3 and found that we had guests. I texted Keti asking if I was too late, but she didn’t answer. I helped hostess for a bit, then I unpacked and showered. Maguala took my laundry, which means the three pairs of actual pants (as opposed to sweats or dress pants) that I brought have all been washed, hung out to dry but rained on instead, frozen when the rain turned to snow, and now hung (still wet, two days later) by the wood-stove.

We had more guests in the evening, because it was Orthodox New Year. They looked at my pictures, we ate dinner, and then we watched our soap opera together. At one point, one of the women mentioned that her husband’s niece was very sick. I was told that this girl is beautiful but that she always wants to diet. Recently, she decided on a new diet: coffee with lemon juice and nothing else. Needless to say this didn’t end well, and she passed out in the shower after few days like this. In other news, a drunk driver hit two children who were playing next to the street in front of a market two streets over from us. The children are in bad shape; one was taken to a hospital in Tbilisi. The aunt of a close friend’s husband passed away so there will be a funeral supra for her soon. And lastly, Maguala’s birthday is coming up so our home is preparing to have a supra for her. All the things I missed in one week…

After talking a little more about the coffee-and-lemon-juice diet idea, Eka and I decided to go walking to the mineral water spring together every morning from now on. It’s about a 40 minute walk. On the way, Eka practices English and I get to ask questions. For example, the first day she learned “war” “bomb” “curious” and “mud.” I learned that there will be a big fast before Easter and then on Easter Monday we will have eggs died red and we will picnic in the cemetery. Eka asked why Americans don’t go to the cemeteries on Easter. I explained that (aside from the fact that not everyone celebrates Easter because not everyone is Christian) families tend to be spread out in the US and I don’t know which cemeteries I would need to go to in order to find my family members. Thinking about it, I would probably be most likely to go to Mary Lynch’s grave, if I could figure out where it is.

Eka says that the mineral water at the spring we walk to is known to be good for the sinuses. It’s also good for the skin and eyes, so we drink it and wash our faces in it. Apparently the mineral water near my school is good for the stomach, if I drink a liter of it slowly. I’ll remember this…

Maguala and Nona think we’re crazy for taking these walks. They say it’s unhealthy to be out exercising in the cold. Just like it’s unhealthy to sit on the floor or the ground (apparently my ovaries will freeze) but it’s perfectly ok to breathe in the smoke from the wood-stove as we toss cigarettes and plastic in with the logs. Women here often say that they are dieting and so are not eating bread. That said they still eat oatmeal, khachapuri, and pasta. They fry everything in lots of oil, dump heaping spoonfuls of sugar into their tea and put lots of salt on all their food. Then they say exercise is unhealthy. What a diet!

The food we eat in my house is very healthy. We have a lot of veggies and fruit juice, and everything is delicious. With the holidays, though, I’ve been able to share a table with many different people, and I really want to laugh every time someone claims to be on a diet. Until recently, the manifestations of the people’s lack of knowledge about health were harmless and amusing. Recently, though, my encounter with food poisoning, Nunsa’s diabetic crisis, and now this story about this girl’s extreme diet have me wondering what can be done to help educate the people here about how to take care of themselves. I’m teaching Eka how to stretch before and after our walks, but beyond that I wonder if there’s anything I can do?

Refocusing, I should also write a bit about yesterday evening. I was in the middle of writing an essay on Ukrainian politics (because that’s the most recent thing I’ve learned about) when Eka’s cousin showed up with another relative, his wife, and their new baby Dmitry. Everyone gathered around Dmitry, passing him around and fawning over him. Even my host-grandfather and then neighbor family’s 9-year-old were playing with the baby. It warmed my heart. Then Giorgi spotted my computer (which I had put on the window when our guests arrived) and asked Eka if she had her internet modem. She did, and he then spent the next 4 hours online. During dinner (when he was tamada), he was chatting on Odnoklassnik (Russian facebook…). Then he looked at cars with the neighbor’s husband, and when everyone left he stayed behind to watch videos of Georgian folk singers and play internet billiards. This is the internet modem with which I’m not allowed to download, watch videos, or video chat because Eka doesn’t want the bandwidth to be used up. I had other work that didn’t require the computer, but it was a little frustrating to not be able to work on my essay because Gio was playing video games and eating the internet bandwidth. Yet no one said a word (myself included).

Now it’s Monday morning. Eka and I had porridge and coffee after our morning walk. Eka went off to work and I’m home writing while Maguala continues to prepare food for her birthday supra. Usually I watch and learn, but right now she’s making a dish wish chicken livers and pomegranate seeds. I’ve found myself eating things like chicken liver and veal feet out of courtesy, but I have to say that I don’t really like these dishes and don’t feel a need to learn to make them for myself. I’ll stick to shkmeouri and mtsadi.

Day-to-Day Notes (from my last-minute trip to Kiev)

Happy Christmas Eve! It was a bit strange. On the night of the 5^th, I went out with Alex for mineral water. He told me that he was actually born in New York and goes there often to visit his parents. He claims that he is learning Georgian and Russian, and so hasn’t learned English. I’m not sure how much of this I believe, but it was nice to be able to converse. He said he was leaving for New York the next day, and I told him that I would be leaving for Kiev zeg.  Then he pulled out some home-make cognac (this is normal here) and insisted that we make the traditional 3 toasts. I agreed, so we toasted to our countries, to each other, and to our travels. The cognac wasn’t strong—I didn’t feel a thing—but I don’t think it was ready for consumption. It knocked me off my feet for the whole next day and night… Between the homemade drinks, unrefrigerated leftovers, and mystery fish, I’ve been sick more this holiday that I’ve been in my life. Maybe my stomach will come out of this year a bit stronger. I can only hope, right?

I forced myself to go to Keti’s puppet show rehearsal on Friday, thinking that I could lie down until it was time to record my lines. Instead, everyone tried to feed me and then I sat with them while they practiced the opening a few times. I felt a little dizzy and so decided to go sit outside where it was cool until they needed me. When I got outside, however, I had a searing pain in my side which was so sharp that it made my eyes water. A few other cast members came out and were alarmed. They had me follow them back into the rehearsal room, and I laid down by the fire while they debated what to do with me. One woman covered me in jackets while another protested that I had a fever and so shouldn’t be kept warm. I tried to explain that fevers are ok because they’re my body’s way of burning off toxins. The ever-loving Georgian women were very worried. They suggested everything from water with apple-cider vinegar to an ambulance and emergency injections to cake and vodka. I think they’re trying to kill me. One of Keti’s friends is a doctor. She said that my gall bladder is in the process of becoming Georgian. She gave me a strict diet (which I was so grateful for) (//which Keti and the doctor’s husband immediately tried to convince me to break) for the next three days. Boiled potatoes and porridge. Hot water 20 minutes after every meal. No matsoni (raw yogurt) or “savory foods” or fried things or coffee or tea. And she gave me the names of two Russian medicines to pick up from the apotheka. Abebi for Abi(bi). Abi is Georgian for “pill” and Abibi is Arabic for “my love” (though I think it’s usually male…).

Our Nona works at the apotheka, so off I went to see Nona. She gave me different dosage instructions for the medicines than the doctor did, but at least I know I have the right ones. Even as my Georgian gets better, buying candy and medicines is still difficult because the labels are all in Russian.

When this Kiev trip was being planned, I decided to fly out the 8^th so that I would be home for Shoba, Georgian Christmas, on the 7^th. James and I found a late flight for me so that I could take a marshutka in the morning and go straight to the airport…but I should know better than to plan things myself. When I got home from the puppet show rehearsal on Friday, Eka informed me that she had planned out my journey to Tbilisi for me. I would be leaving early on the morning of the 8^th via her uncle’s marshutka. When we were approaching the city, her uncle would phone to her cousin’s husband, who would then meet me at the sadguri. Giga, Eka’s cousin’s husband, would then take me to his parents’ home and I would stay overnight with them. Then, in the afternoon on the 8^th Giga would drive me to the airport. So much for being home for Shoba or having a few hours to explore Tbilisi. People here tend to be surprised that I as a young woman would travel alone and go so far from my home. They are surprised that I’m here. They are surprised that I’ve lived abroad before. And they are surprised when I do things like arrange to fly solo to Kiev. Eka is a little horrified—and she told me that she feels much better knowing that I’m being cared for by her family members en route. Someday I will have to get into Tbilisi by myself for a tourist trip, but for now I do enjoy spending time with her family. And spending time alone with them forces me to practice speaking Georgian, so it teaches me a lot.

Friday night was Shoba’s eve. Maguala boiled wheat (perchance with milk?) in celebration. At 9 pm, we ate special bread with butter (Eka thus broke her fast) and we ate the boiled wheat with ground nuts and honey. Before we ate the wheat, though, we all laughed into the pot. If I understand correctly, this will bring happiness to the family over the next year. They drank toasts to the family, and Eka stuck lit candles to the 4 walls of the room and the street-facing window. Meanwhile, children came to the house. Shoba’s eve, children go door-to-door singing Alilo. Neighbors (Jumberi and me in this case) then go outside and give them bags of fruit and candy. The kids put the bags into a big sack, and at the end of the night they divide the spoils. It’s a little like Halloween mixed with the old version of caroling. We had 4 groups of children come by the house. I saw two of my students, who were surprised to see me. Holidays are nice, but I do miss those kids.

After our special meal, of course, we watched our soap opera. This was a very big episode: an epic fashion-show faceoff. I wonder if the Mexican producers knew that Georgian television station executives would time the progression of the series so that this episode would double as an advertisement for the Victoria’s Secret fashion show and the Miss Universe competition…both of which will air over the next week.

Even with my medicine, I was wretchedly sick Friday night. So instead of packing or sleeping then, I packed Saturday morning and then slept on the marshutka ride into the city. Giga picked me up and brought me to his parents’ home. It was an interesting set-up: one building had bedrooms, a living room and a balcony, and then a second building had the kitchen, dining room, and bathroom. Giga’s parents live there full time. His sister, her daughter, and occasionally her husband live there, too. Then there’s Giga, Ia and Nunsa, their daughter. And there was one older woman who is either Giga’s grandmother or his sister’s mother-in-law (I’m not sure). I ate dinner with Ia (Eka’s cousin) and her sister-in-law. Then, I played with Nunsa and Maria. My Georgian is good enough that I can converse with small children. This may seem like a silly thing to be proud of, but I am rather excited about it. We played for a few hours and then we decided to go into the city center to see the big Christmas tree. As we got in the car, Giga’s rather drunk cousin/neighbor decided to come with us. Nunsa, much to our amusement, first told her young cousin “Fuck you” in English (Ia to Giga: “Who taught her that?!?”) and then informed this new arrival “You’re very drunk” in Georgian. I think Nunsa is 5 or 6 years old. It was priceless.

Then Zaza, the drunken cousin, learned that I’m American, young, and unmarried. He immediately declared that I have eyes like stars, causing Giga and Ia to burst out laughing. For the whole rest of the outing, the two little girls enjoyed being adorable and sassy while Giga and Ia laughed at Zaza’s attempts to convince me to marry him. The little girls got their faces painted, had pictures taken with Tovli’s Babua, went on a “sleigh” (Barbie jeep) ride, and jumped in a balloon castle. We had a lot of fun. My sides hurt from laughing so much.

When we got home, we said good-bye to Zaza. For a while, Giga and I played with the little girls. Similar to the way American parents tell their children “I’ll send you to Timbuktu” or “I’ll sell you to the gypsies” to threaten them into behaving, Georgian parents typically tell their children “A wolf is coming to eat you.” Giga, however, tells Nunsa “I’m calling the doctor. The doctor is coming for you.” As a result, the child is deathly afraid of the doctor. She’s a diabetic toddler; they should be teaching her that the doctor is her friend…

Giga left later, and I sat in the living room with the grandparents and the children. There was this curious show on television that some of my friends have told me their families watch together. One friend described it as “family-friendly porn.” It’s a hidden-camera show where women in everyday situations suddenly drop all their clothes. Then the camera shows viewers the reactions of all the surprised men who pass by. Families watch this show together: husbands and wives with their children and their parents…in this case, the grandparents with their grandchildren. One of the little girls even turned to me and said, “See how funny the men are!” I didn’t know what to say…

Later, I went to get ready for bed. I was sharing a room with Nunsa and Ia. Giga sleeps somewhere else, but he wasn’t home yet. When I walked into the room, Ia was crying. Nunsa’s sugars were dangerously low and Ia couldn’t understand why. After waking Nunsa for some cola and candy, Ia turned to me and said that she just didn’t understand why this had happened. I asked if she has a good doctor. She answered ra vitsi, “What do I know?” She explained that they’d had a bad doctor for two years but that she thinks the one they have now it better. She is very careful with Nunsa: the child is fed bread, cheese, yogurt, and fruit in carefully measured portions at specific times of day. The parents understand that they have to be careful with what Nunsa eats and that they have to test her sugars. They understand that certain numbers are good and certain numbers are bad. But I don’t think they understand how this illness actually works. I suggested to Ia that Nunsa played and exercised a lot today but didn’t eat more than she normally does. Ia asked ar sheidzleba? “She mustn’t play and exercise so much?” I replied that she should play and exercise but that when she is more active she should eat more. How has no one ever said this to this family before? Of course one worries about a diabetic child, but Ia would worry so much less if someone took the time to explain to her what diabetes actually is. I explained how J brought fruit juice with her when we were hiking around Berlin, and I suggested that juice would probably be better than cola when Nunsa’s sugars drop. But what can I say more than that? What do I know? I wish so much that I knew how to help.

Sunday

After playing with the little girls all morning, I looked up at the clock and realized that it was time to be off to the airport. This was a little startling because it both reminded me that I had only been with this family overnight and it brought home the fact that I had tickets to fly to the Ukraine. If you had asked me a week ago where in Eastern Europe I would be visiting next, Kiev would not have been on the list. Ukraine scares me a bit: between what I’ve heard about the sex-slave trade there and what I’ve been reading about their politics, the country just doesn’t seem like one where I would go for holiday.

But suddenly it was 4 o’clock and Giga was searching for his car keys. We drove to the airport, and I was surprised when he pulled into the regular parking lot instead of the drop-and-go lane. I was even more surprised when he took my suitcase and came into the airport with me, through the first security check-point and up to the check-in counter. I thanked him and said he really didn’t have to trouble himself. His response was that I would be alone soon enough and I would be alone for a long time so he wanted to keep me company as long as possible. Sweet, right?

Eventually, though, we said goodbye and I headed to passport control. Eka called for the 6^th time since I left to see where I was and if I was ok. I reassured her and then shut off my phone. I’ll admit, I was a little relieved to finally be en route. I get nervous about new adventures until I start moving. Once there’s no turning back, I’m fine. Next thing I knew I was on a plane to Kiev. The magazine on the airplane was almost bilingual. The articles were all in both Russian and in almost-English. I did rip out a page of quotes that amused me. Hopefully someday I’ll be able to read the Russian *crosses fingers and presses thumbs*

Usually, I’m not as down on airplane food and most people. So long as I ask for the vegetarian option, the food is always stomachable. This time, though, I opened the little lunchbox the stewardess handed me and I almost laughed out loud. Aside from the bread, butter, chocolate, and meat slivers, I had one olive, one tomato slice, two cucumber slices, and half of a lettuce leaf. Who goes through the trouble to cut lettuce leaves in half for airplane “salads”? I was pretty amused.

When I got to the airport in Kiev, my friend James was waiting for me. As we walked to the bus that would take us to the city center, he handed me a blueberry pastry. I should explain that blueberries have always been one of my favorite fruits. When I was young, we had an elderly neighbor whose blueberry bushes leaned over into our yard. As she hardly ever went outside, she let us pick the berries and I loved her for it (and for a few other reasons, of course).One of my favorite foods in the world is my mom’s blueberry-peach cobbler. And now I’m living in a country where blueberries just don’t exist. I had explained this to James a few weeks back, and when he saw a blueberry pastry in a shop in Kiev, he remembered. Ra kargi bitchia!

We checked in at our hostel and then decided to go out walking along the Kreschatyk, the main street in Kiev. It was about 8 pm, so we couldn’t really see the buildings but we enjoyed people-watching and admiring the holiday lights. At one point we walked through a group of tents with signs and flags all over them. I found a sign in English which explained that the demonstration had been organized by Tymoshenko’s  party, “Batkievshchyna.” At first, James was skeptical. He insisted that the people who had been there earlier were selling cookies and sweets just like at the Christmas market across the street. Then we found a second sign in English: “Thank you, people of Donbas, for the President jackass!” This is a slogan that was started by soccer fans a few months ago. There’s a huge story behind it, and I’ll write more on that next week when I’m home with time to focus.

Anyway, we were also a little bit hungry, so we were looking for some dinner. As we were looking around, we spotted a khachapuri shop. I pointed it out to James, and the shop-keeper smiled in amusement. He greeted us in Russian, and James responded in Russian but I greeted the man in Georgian. He switched into Georgian immediately, called his wife to come meet us and asked us all about how we came to be in Kiev. He was a student there in 1983 and just never left. After talking a bit, we figured out that he’s James’s host-family’s uncle. Following this exciting discovery, the man called to his family and Batumi and handed James the phone. Imagine how surprised his host-father was to get that call! As the couple got ready to close their shop for the night, they gave us fresh (and free and delicious!) khachapuri and invited us to their house for dinner tomorrow. We agreed and they wrote down their address. Then we said good-night.

We wandered around on the Kreschatyk for a little while longer, and then we went into a grocery store to buy fruit for tomorrow’s breakfast. James spotted some cream puffs and got very excited. Apparently, his grandmother used to feed him cream puffs when he visited her as a child. I was in the Ukraine to see Kiev and keep him company; he was in Kiev in the first place because his grandparents had emigrated from there. Originally he had been hoping to find long-lost relatives, but when his parents wouldn’t help him and he realized how huge the city is, he decided he would be satisfied to get acquainted with his ancestral home. He was a little disappointed about not finding his family, so finding the cream puffs made his night. And I was happy for him.

Monday

After a slow (but happily fruit-filled) morning, we headed out to see two of the main cathedrals in Kiev. Kiev is a pilgrimage destination for many Orthodox Christians, because of the number of important cathedrals located there. First we went to Saint Sophia. This was my first sight of an Orthodox cathedral of this age and size. I was awestruck by the decorations outside, but then we went inside and I was completely breathless. Mosaics, gilding, and frescoes covered every surface. We tried to decipher the names of the saints on the paintings and icons. There were also smaller exhibits in the cathedral museum showcasing decorated eggs, amber jewelry, and mosaic work salvaged from other cathedrals that had been bombed during WWII.

From there we walked to another cathedral, Saint Michael’s of the Golden Domes. Outside stood a memorial to victims of Stalin’s famine. There were also two large paintings of saints flanking the tunnel through the bell-tower. Inside, the cathedral was again stunning. This one was not as big or old as the first. It was destroyed in part during WWII, and then what survived was razed by the Soviets as part of their anti-religion program. The buildings we visited are reconstructions. Also unlike the first cathedral, this one is still active. So I got a crash course in being a female tourist in Ukrainian Orthodox churches. From Georgia, I already knew that I would be expected to wear a scarf or cap to cover my head, and that when making the sign of the cross I should use my thumb, index and middle fingers together to touch my head, stomach, right shoulder and then left shoulder. Unlike in Georgia, I didn’t have to wear a skirt in Ukraine. Then James taught me (and I observed) that Ukrainian Orthodox Christians bow upon entering and leaving their churches, and that I should do the same.

By the time we finished in both churches, we were freezing and it was starting to get late. We didn’t know exactly how long it would take us to get to the Georgian’s house, so we left about an hour and twenty minutes to get there. We walked a very very long way. To my amazement, we found their apartment building and then were able to call up to their apartment…but no one answered. We were a little late because we had gotten lost, but we weren’t any later than people usually are when visiting in Georgia. We ducked into a market to warm up, and we practiced reading labels in Russian for about 15 minutes. Then we went back to their apartment and tried to call up one more time. No one answered.

So we started on the long walk back, cold, disappointed, and a little worried about how we would get in touch with this kind couple to explain that we didn’t blow them off.

A friend of James’s had recommended that he go to a certain restaurant to try traditional Ukrainian food. We decided to go there for dinner. Upon arrival, though, we were surprised to find a menu of hamburgers and salads. We did manage to order one Ukrainian dish. I’m not sure what it was called, but here’s my guess at how it was made: mushrooms and cheese were rolled inside slices of chicken. The chicken was then breaded (so presumably coated in egg and then rolled in bread crumbs) and then the rolls were baked. They were served with baked potatoes that had been carved into mushroom shapes, with mayo “spots” on the “mushroom caps.” Yum…

As we walked back from the restaurant, we passed through a small Christmas market. I spotted a trdlnk stand. Trdlnk is a special sweet that I first tasted while living in Prague. It’s sweet dough that gets rolled around something like a metal rolling-pin and then roasted. It’s best eaten hot, coated with cinnamon-sugar and then sprinkled with nuts or chocolate chunks. I left Prague thinking it would be years before I would have one again, and here they were in Kiev. Needless to say, we joined the line so that we could share a nut trdlnk on our walk back. It wasn’t quite hot, so I think we’ll try again another day.

Tuesday

Today we went to a monastery complex that is one of the main destinations for pilgrims to Kiev: Pechersk Monastery and Lavra Caves. First we walked between two huge 18^th century paintings and through the arch of the bell tower. We walked to a Cathedral and were surprised to find that the space inside was very small. The rest of the Cathedral was closed to visitors, but the part we were allowed to see had a small brick chapel and then a slightly larger room with icons and an alter-gate for Orthodox services. Our guidebook said that the brick chapel was constructed at the behest of the Virgin Mary herself.

As we tried to enter a few of the other buildings, we found that the doors were always unlocked but the museums were always closed. We would tentatively try the door, walk in to the building, and then encounter a guard/hostess/cashier who would turn us away. One building did have a sign on the door, but the sign said “Technical Break” so we figured that door was broken and we entered through the other door. Inside, two women were sitting at a desk eating, and they looked at us as if we were idiots for not understanding their sign.

There were three other buildings open in the first part of the complex. We explored a large Cathedral which was painted with dark, somewhat art-nouveau-style images of angels and saints. Photography is understandably prohibited in most of the cathedrals; however, in this one we were allowed to take pictures for a fee of 50 grivna (about $6.25). For Christmas, there were decorated trees and garlands around the room. Then there was a second room with a small alter and an icon shop in it.

From there we went into a small building that used to be a dormitory for monks. As we walked in, we entered a room with color photographs of peasants and of Ukraine from the early 1900s. At the end of the room was a large map of the Russian Empire. Of course, we found Georgia on the map and looked to see which of the labeled cities we recognized. In the next few rooms were military-related exhibits. There were uniforms, medals, photographs and newspaper articles. More interesting for me was the last room. At the far end of the room was a large black-and-white portrait of the Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin. He served under Czar Nicholas II and was assassinated at the Kiev Opera House. James had bought us tickets to the opera, so we would be sitting in the same theater that Stolypin was assassinated in about 7 hours.

Another small building housed an exhibition of icons, crowns, staffs and other items used by the patriarchs. Just outside that building was a place from which we could look out over part of Kiev. I have to say, the skyline from this point was not particularly beautiful. In the foreground were the buildings from the lower section of the monastery. Behind these towers and domes were trees and the large Mother Ukraine sculpture. To the left, however, were the Dnieper River, island parks, and the smokestacks of industrial Kiev. Saint’eresoa.

With everything else closed, we continued to the lower section of the monastery. There were signs indicating that women should cover our heads and wear skirts, and I worried about my jeans until I looked at the other women visitors. A number of them were wearing jeans much tighter than mine, which made me feel better. Though I know that a hat or even the hood of a coat will suffice as a head-covering, I still feel uncomfortable wearing a hat into a religious space so I pulled my scarf over my head and we walked into the largest of the buildings.

These were the Lavra caves. It used to be that the monks lived in these underground tunnels. Now, the bodies of Orthodox saints are laid out there. They’ve been mummified by the naturally moisture-free atmosphere of the tunnels, something that I hadn’t known when James told me we would be visiting the monastery caves. At one point, someone held their candle too close and lit a bit of her hair on fire. The smell of the burning hair hit me in the same moment that I first caught sight of one saint’s mummified hands crossed over his robe. While I knew, of course, that the black hands and the sudden smell weren’t connected, something in my mind instinctually linked the two and made my gut knot up.

When we emerged into daylight again, I felt a bit light-headed. We decided that we wanted to stick to secular sight-seeing for the rest of the day. We walked to the art museum that’s across the street from the monastery, but it was closed. James knew of a large underground mall with a bookstore in it, so we decided to go there to warm up. On the way we passed a memorial park to victims of the Nazis. Since I’m fascinated by memorials, we stopped to explore the park for a little while. When our hands and noses were absolutely frozen, we continued to the bookstore. We searched for English-language books and then ate a light lunch at a cafeteria-style restaurant with Ukrainian food (no hamburgers there!). I’m not sure what exactly we ate. One dish was something like a meatloaf with a hard-boiled egg in the middle, and the other dish was a piece of chicken cooked with a tomato and some cheese on top. We were just glad to be eating warm things after being so cold all morning at the monastery.

After eating, we headed back to the hostel to change into dress clothes. Before I arrived, James had met a friend who attends university in Kiev. She told him how to buy discount opera tickets, and then they went off together to see what shows were running. James saw “The Barber of Seville” before I got there, but he said it wasn’t very good. Tonight, though, we went to see Tchaikovsky’s “The Queen of Spades.” Marina, his friend who helped him buy the tickets, came, too. She told me that she doesn’t usually like operas but that she loves the architecture of the Kiev Opera House.

The performance was a bit long, but I really enjoyed it. It’s all in Russian (it is based off a Pushkin story after all), so I couldn’t understand a word, but I really enjoyed the music. James told me to listen for the most famous aria from this show, which starts with the Russian for “I love you, I love you excessively…” He also had brought an English translation of the original story with him to Kiev, so I was able to read that before we went to the show. This was fortunate in part because the story had been modified for the opera. The opera version was supposed to be more melodramatic, with extra romance and some “unearned” (to use James’s word) suicides. There was a rather empty bit about a play-within-a-play, and the ballet breaks could have been shorter since they didn’t help communicate the story at all. But for how the show was written it was very well performed. We agreed that the cast did the best possible job with it, and we also really liked the conductor.

We were hungry after the show, so we went to a coffee-house where we split a panini and salad. I’m mentioning this because we were overjoyed to find excellent feta cheese in the salad. After months of salty, hard Georgian mountain cheese, I relished the different taste and texture of this feta. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous…

Wednesday

This was a bit of a strange day. First we revisited Saint Michael’s of the Golden Domes because we were thinking about buying two small icons. I found a “Madonna with Child” one that I think my mother will like (Surprise, Mom!), and James found one of three angels for himself. At first we talked about looking for Saint George (Giorgi) icons, but then we decided that we would wait and buy those in Georgia. From there, we walked to one of the oldest parts of Kiev to admire ruins of building foundations and the oldest lime tree in the city. The National History Museum is located in this area as well. I was very curious to see how the Ukraine tells the story of their national history. The doors to the museum were unlocked, so we followed a mother and her child inside. No sooner were we in the main hall than a uniformed guard barked at us that the museum was closed to visitors for the day. We were confused. We knew museums were closed on holidays and Mondays. But it wasn’t Monday, Shoba had already passed, and Orthodox New Year wouldn’t be until Saturday. Our guidebook listed one extra day each week that each museum was closed (usually Tuesday or Thursday), but nowhere (even on the signs at the museums themselves) had we read that the Art Museum was closed Tuesdays or that the National History Museum was closed Wednesdays.

It was cold and we were a bit disappointed. As we walked along a path that led through a sculpture park, James started feeling sick from being so cold and my hands were numb, so we left the park for a bit and found a coffee shop to warm up in. When he was feeling better and I had regained feeling in my fingers, we went back to the park. There were giant mosaics loosely based off “Alice in Wonderland,” a bench with metal hands supporting it, a half-buried church, rainbow urinating babies, and several other curious works. The park was set up so that it doubled as a playground. This meant that children were climbing in the Cheshire Cat’s mouth and then running under the arch created by the urinating babies. It was pretty amusing.

A path from the park led up a hill, down into a gorge with many new-looking (expensive-looking, empty-looking) houses, up part of “Andrew’s Descent,” and then up another hill. On that second hill, we were expecting to find a few sculptures or even just a park. Instead, we found old gravestones that had been broken and covered in graffiti. We wandered through this graveyard and tried to guess what had happened there.

Unfortunately, we had to hurry away before we could fully piece together the story of the place. We had met a man at the hostel who is an English teacher at several private language schools in Kiev. In my program, I’ve met a kind of people I didn’t know existed. These people travel around the world teaching English for a living. They usually stay in a country for a year or two, and they usually work for these “language school” businesses (think SAT prep classes or “learning center” chains in America). It’s easy enough: you don’t need many qualifications and there is always demand. It seems very lonely, though, and I don’t think I would find it gratifying. One year in a public school in Georgia I can learn from and I feel like I can give something to my students. But ten years in corporate “schools” in different cities… I don’t know how much personal growth I would find or how much use I would be to the students.

The man we met in Kiev was one of these people who have made a life this way. His heart’s in the right place, for sure, and I’m really glad to have met him. He invited us to his classes and we told him we could attend one this evening. When we left the cemetery, we headed to a metro and followed his directions: sit in the back of the train so that you exit near the staircase you need, look for the big rainbow shopping mall sign, enter the mall and go to the third floor. Now I’ve seen a Ukrainian shopping mall!

We arrived a little early, so we sat in a bookshop until it was time to go to the class. When we arrived at the school, we learned that our friend hadn’t told his boss that we were coming. He took us into her office and tried to convince her that we would be good for the students to practice speaking with because our accents are different from his. His boss insisted that there would be too many people in the classroom, especially since she was planning to observe his lesson that day. James and I offered to take turns, and so it was decided that I would sit in the hall for the first half of the class. When I was called into the class, however, there were only about 20 minutes left. Our friend the teacher was there with his boss, James, 10 students, and a man I later learned is a professor from Mexico who was also supposed to be a guest for students to practice speaking with. Maybe I agree with the boss that this was a bit much. Our friend kept switching activities and making very slang-filled jokes with the professor, so I don’t think the students got much out of the lesson. It was interesting to see though. After the class, our friend wanted to bring us to another school and then to a third tomorrow. While he was out for a cigarette-break, we debated the best way to gently remind him that we were on vacation and hoping to see some of the city. When we went to join him outside, however, we found that he had already left, so no explanations were necessary.

James had been talking about trying to attend a service at Saint Volodymyr’s Cathedral after the lesson, but he became enamored with a book on Kiev history that he found in the mall bookshop so we spent an hour there instead. We did eventually go to the Cathedral, but it was closed by the time we got there. We tried to get trdlnk again, but that didn’t quite work out either. There was no line at the stand when we walked up, but there were fresh trdlnks being taken from the roaster. We walked up and ordered a chocolate one. The girl behind the counter said something we didn’t understand. The boy behind the counter said “ten minutes” and then turned away. We didn’t mind waiting, and as we stood there a line formed behind us. Then things got strange. The boy started pulling the finished pastries off their rollers, and the girl added the toppings and then put them into the baskets on the window. A man behind us called to the girl and she handed him a fresh, hot, chocolate trdlnk and took his money. Then a woman called to the girl and the same thing happened again. Now there was only one trdlnk in the window, so James asked for it again and held out his money. The girl shook her head and handed the pastry to a woman behind us. We got frustrated and walked away. Maybe those people had ordered earlier and so were technically in line in front of us? We decided that’s the only explanation that makes sense…

Ukrainian is its own language. They have letters that don’t exist in Russian, and I’ve found that Georgians will sometimes refuse to try to translate a text if it’s in Ukrainian. This is silly, because the two languages are very close...but it might have to do with national pride. The Ukrainian economy is better than the Georgian economy, which doesn’t exactly inspire love for the former country in the people of the latter. James looks Russian and he speaks enough to use it for greeting people, ordering food and navigating the city. I look…well…maybe sometimes I look vaguely like I could be from an ex-Soviet country. Maybe. Anyway, usually people spoke to us in Russian because of James, and the only time I was linguistically useful was when we were with the Georgians. It felt strange to be dependent on someone else for communications, and I did my best to learn to read so that I would at least be able to use the metro without help.

When we got hungry, we started thinking about what kinds of food we’ve been missing most. James lives in a city in Georgia, but even so there are some kinds of food that one just can’t find. We debated: did we want sushi? Tapas? French or Korean food? We decided we wanted Italian food just as we spotted a restaurant named “Mafia.” I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. We went in and found that the menu was half Italian food and half sushi. A little strange, but we were so glad for green salad with balsamic vinegar that we didn’t care. I had a hot chocolate and a cheese pizza. James had a beer and lasagna. We were soo happy J

Thursday

We forced ourselves to get up early today so that we could venture out to the open air “Museum of Folk Architecture and Everyday Life of National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine.” What a name. People repeatedly recommended that we go, but they warned us that we would be very cold. We bundled up, but the weather turned out to be quite nice. I wish people had instead warned us that the museum only partially operates during the winter. Our guidebook’s directions instructed us to get off a subway at the end of the line and then get on a bus. We discovered that three new subway stations had been added since the publication of our book, so we studied a map and guessed at an alternate route. We got off the metro at the new last station (which still had balloons on the ceiling, so it must be very new indeed), and then we caught a bus. The bus dropped us at the edge of a big field with a sign in Russian saying “Museum, that way.” We walked about 15 minutes to the museum, stopped to pray that this one was open, and approached the ticket desk. The museum was open, and the nice lady at the desk sold us a map with English labels. The museum is huge. Inside are different “villages” showcasing traditional houses, schools, windmills, and churches from all the regions of the Ukraine. There’s also a rather curious section that the woman called the “Socialist neighborhood” which shows the kinds of houses built in the 1960s in different parts of the country. During the tourist season, all of the buildings are open and there are actors everywhere playing at the lives of their ancestors. Because it’s winter, however, there were no actors and many buildings were locked. We admired the exteriors and peeked through windows when we could. In the very first cluster of buildings, we ran into some women who were working as guides. At the first building we approached, the woman spoke a little English and so she told us that this building was a peasant home from the Khreschatyk village in the middle Dnieper region (I should have studied the regions of the Ukraine!). At the next building, another woman began speaking very quickly in Russian. I understood that one place was for livestock, that one room was for cooking and one room was for weaving. I was waiting for her to finish, because I figured that James would translate more for me when the woman stopped for a breath. What happened instead left us a little embarrassed. The first woman came in and stopped this new woman, explaining that we didn’t speak Russian. The interrupted guide looked at us and said something to the effect of “Why didn’t you say so?” in Russian. James answered that it wasn’t a problem and that he could understand her, but she didn’t seem consoled. Then the other woman tried to explain in English the history of the building that we were in. She was struggling a lot, but she was determined to lead us through this entire village reconstruction and teach us about it. I have to admire her determination. At one point, I noticed that she was using German words when she didn’t know the English ones. I mentioned that she could switch to German if she wanted. My second chance to be linguistically useful. Hoorah.

The woman led us past a church, through a farmyard, into a wealthy man’s house, and then into a church school. She explained that students were taught only Russian, not Ukrainian, in this school. They studied reading, writing, and the bible, and at some point girls stopped attending school because they were at home learning to cook and sew. The teacher lived in the school building during the school term, which was only in the winter because the students were too busy helping their families the rest of the year. She then led us outside. First, she showed us the priest’s house and instructed us to look through his kitchen window (so that we could see the fine china and a samovar on the table, showcasing his social status). Next, she gave me directions for the most efficient and interesting foot-tour of the museum. Finally, she suggested that we visit the working pub to have lunch and buy souvenirs, and then she said farewell. We were delighted that she was kind enough to guide us around for free, but we were also a bit glad to be on our own again. This way, we could explore buildings closely and stop for pictures when we wanted.

We got into a debate about education systems and money as we explored the rest of the museum. It was a bit of a heated debate, and we had stopped talking by the time we passed a grouping of windmills, but then we made up while having a picnic in the yard of a church from the Dorogynka village of the middle Dnieper region. I mention this only because I often find myself thinking about what the purpose of travel is and what kind of travel partner I am/want. James and I did pretty well travelling together; when exploring a new place, with limited time and money, and living in close quarters with someone during this time, disagreements are rather unavoidable. It’s how we handle these disagreements that matters. I need to be humbler, more patient, and more communicative. Sometimes, though, I’m not sure how to go about changing in the ways I know I need to. And these are the instances that I hope will teach me and help me become a better person and friend.

About two hours after our picnic, we both noticed that dusk was approaching. Our other destination for the day was Babi Yar (can I call that a destination?), and we agreed that we wanted to be sure to get there before dark. So we left the museum and walked back to our bus-stop. We caught a trolley from there, but we weren’t sure how to pay our fare. Then a little old woman barked at us in Russian and we gave her our ticket money. She gave us tickets, but a few stops later she started yelling at us again. We had paid, weren’t eating, weren’t smoking (duh), were sitting quietly and speaking in whispers…we had no idea why she was upset. We were a little uncomfortable, and I recognized the street we were on so we got off at the next stop. She was still yelling as the doors closed behind us, and none of the other passengers so much as blinked an eye.

While walking back to our metro station, we first passed a huge convention center. We didn’t have time to visit, but our guidebook said that the convention center grounds are considered a monument to Ukrainian identity. Somewhat contradictorily, they house about 300 Soviet style buildings. And the place is known for its impeccable landscaping. If I’m ever in Kiev in the spring, you know where I’ll be. From there, we walked through an underpass painted to celebrate "Euro 2012" coming to Kiev (which I’ll write more about later…) and then up some very muddy stairs. This is interesting only because I was deep in thought (James was humming to himself. This was pretty normal for us.), slipped, and found myself falling on the stairs. I wasn’t really hurt, but we were both a little startled. And I may have mud-stained one of the two pairs of jeans that I brought to Georgia (bad news since there’s a rip in the seat of the other pair). Oops.

Babi Yar is the name of a ravine where the Nazis carried out mass executions of Jews. Later, communists and Roma were killed there as well; however, the massacre of the Jews involved around 40,000 Ukrainian Jews being killed over the course of two days. Now the area is a park. When we first walked into the park, we noticed a very creepy memorial to the children killed there. Further in the park, women were pushing baby carriages, a stray dog tried to bite my boots, children were throwing rocks at an old building as a game, and a man was peeing on a tree. The atmosphere was certainly not sober, and we felt uncomfortable because of this. When we turned up the path to the ledge above the gorge, we saw two memorials and momentarily felt better. Shortly we found ourselves standing in front of a large menorah. James pulled out the guidebook: apparently this memorial was erected in 2001 and is made of plastic. Furthermore, the massacre of the Jews took place in November…not during Hanukah. So why was the memorial a menorah?

We walked into the woods and encountered a large wooden cross to the Christians who were killed there (interestingly erected before the plastic menorah, according to our guide book). Then we found three metal crosses with names painted on them, each for an individual killed at the gorge. We looked out over the birch trees—which I will admit were beautiful—and I wondered how many people had looked out over these same trees as they took their last breaths. Or was it night or were they blindfolded or did they close their eyes on the city that had now turned against them? I don’t know, but that view was much more moving than any of the memorials. We stayed until the sun began to set.

Once we were back at the metro, we decided to race to the Museum of Eastern Art. We arrived and we overjoyed to find that 1) it was open 2) we were eligible for student admission. The ladies at the front desk didn’t want to let us in. They kept saying that we only had half an hour until the museum closed. Finally, I responded that we knew this perfectly well. We headed upstairs to the permanent collection, which luckily was rather small. James lingered with the Japanese paintings of actors in the first room as I continued into the next room to admire Turkish tiles. I actually felt like I had enough time to enjoy the collection, although I could always spend more time in such places. I admired the Buddhist icons and the Hindu carvings, and then I headed downstairs to the temporary exhibit. This was really interesting. It showcased textiles from Uzbekistan. Most of the textiles were “suzani.” These are large tapestries traditionally given to a bride for her new home. The designs contain carefully planned out patterns of symbols for protection and fertility. The pieces were colorful, with strong lines and intricate patterns. I loved them. The exhibit also had a lot of information in English, which I was grateful for. James and I stayed there until the museum closed.

We had found a restaurant that advertised old traditional Ukrainian food, and so we decided to try to find it. When we walked in, we found ourselves in a huge space with a carving of the pagan god of creativity. The hostess encouraged us to tie ribbons around the carving so that he might grant our wishes. Then she showed us the library and the pastry counter, the souvenir shop with handmade dolls and ceramics, the coatroom where we exchanged our coats for walnuts she had painted gold, and then finally the upstairs where we would be eating. The seats were covered in sheep skins and our dishes were all ceramic. I ordered honey wine (which I love) and it came in a horned goblet. We ate dumplings and borscht and “pancakes” and oats. James bought me a good-luck doll that was made without any “trauma” to the fabric (i.e. no cutting or poking with a needle). It was an excellent meal. We had a really pleasant and relaxing last night.

Friday

Yikes. James didn’t want to get up in the morning. He was upset when I tried to wake him and then when he finally got up he was upset that I didn’t wake him earlier. My exasperated “What do you want from me then?” put both of us a bit on edge, and then he checked his email. After Kiev, he had planned to visit a friend who is a Peace Corps worker in Moldova. She had told him that this would be fine, but then she hadn’t answered any of his emails since, so he was nervous that he would get to Moldova and have a week there totally alone. So as I packed up our hostel room, he checked his email. There was nothing from his friend in Moldova, which worried him, and there was also a note from our program informing him that his host family “wouldn’t be able to host a volunteer” next semester and so his school director (who isn’t pleased about the implementation of English as a mandatory second language and so wants nothing to do with James) had been charged with the task of finding a new family for him. Yikes.

So our morning started out pretty rough. We didn’t really talk as we went to Saint Volodymyr's Cathedral one last time and, because it was open, explored its beautiful interior. I’ve been reverent during all of our Cathedral trips, but this was the first time I found myself praying as fervently as the Ukrainians who were there. I prayed for my students and myself, of course, but most of all I prayed that things would work out for James, because there was nothing I could say or do to help him.

From there we went to the funicular and we took that up to the National History Museum. Again it was closed. I laughed and he signed and we decided that we would just go souvenir shopping because we were near “Andrew’s Descent” (the street for souvenirs) anyway. Shopping cheered him up a bit. We found eggs, matrushkas, amber, and many other things. I bought a magnet for my host family and some painted wooden ornaments for myself. James bought a few small things, but then he also bought a black, furry, Russian military hat. It looked awesome on him and silly on me, so we amused ourselves by photographing each other wearing it.

Our energies were much better by then. As we walked to the footbridge across the Dnieper and then around an island park, we discussed James’s situation. He tried to think about what he might have done to offend his family, and I tried to convince him that—while reflecting on how to improve for next time is always a good idea—evidence pointed to the family not wanting a volunteer next semester for personal reasons, not because of anything he did or didn’t do. Then we talked about our program in general and its mission: whether it wouldn’t be more effective to run English immersion programs for teachers over the summer, and what kind of information host families should be given before their foreign guests arrive (because we get training but it’s been reported that no one prepares the host families to expect women who play football or men who do their own laundry). Finally, it started getting dark and we realized we had to head to the airport. We picnicked on the last of our bread and cheese, picked up our bags from the hostel, stopped in a shop to buy chocolate and perfume for my host family, and then headed to the airport bus. As we walked to the bus-stop, a Ukrainian police officer stopped me and insisted that I let him carry my suitcase the rest of the way. Then he and his friends teased James (who had his own bags to worry about) about not being enough of a gentleman enough to carry his lady’s bags. This was especially funny because they thought I was the mistress of this Russian gentleman who couldn’t be bothered to help me. They were wrong on so many counts that the whole scenario was wonderfully hilarious.

Before long, I had said goodbye to James and to Kiev and I was marto on my way home.