Istanbulshi vart!

Flew to Istanbul. The flight was nice and easy, but Eka was upset because she was hung-over and the weather was rainy. What do I even say to that? She said she doesn’t find the people here interesting (already?). I’m worried; this city interests me very much and I want to enjoy this holiday. If I can be optimistic after being groped as soon as we got onto the tram from the airport, then surely she can deal with a hangover and give the city a chance.

We were really early at the hotel, but Eka was tired so the nice man working at the desk let us go upstairs for coffee and breakfast while we waited for our room. Then he got us into our room an hour early, which I appreciated. When we got to our room, I showered while Eka napped. Then I enjoyed finally having internet while she continued to nap.

Our hotel is called “Deniz Houses” and we both rather like it. I suppose our room is a bit loud if you’re the kind of traveler who isn’t dead-tired when you return to the hotel at the end of the day…but since we both sleep very soundly, the train outside doesn’t bother us much. We like the breakfast and the Wi-Fi; we like the hot water and the kind people and the view of the sea. The room was cheap and the hotel is just behind the Blue Mosque. What more could we ask for?

Ghame

When Eka woke up we went out walking… We walked along the water for quite some time. To our left was an old city wall, and to our right were a highway and the Sea of Marmara (then the Bosporus). We had a nice walk as I got my bearings. Eka can’t navigate by landmarks, memory, or the sun, so I’m going to have to learn my way around quickly in order to become our navigator. Pretty sure I can do it.

We walked through the Spice Bazaar for a little while, and I think Eka liked it. She’s a bit down on Turkey—on the people and the language and Istanbul—but she likes the shops and she likes when the shop-keepers ask if she’s Italian. Maybe she’ll warm up to this place.

The favorite game of the shop-keepers here seems to be “Where are you from?” For Eka, they keep guessing Turkish, Spanish and Italian. For me they usually guess French, but one man did guess Romanian. I’m (for some reason) amused and pleased when people can’t immediately pick me out as American. It’s nice to be able to blend in a bit. The poor shopkeepers also like to guess how Eka and I came to be travelling together. They can’t decide if we’re sisters or if she’s my mother…

We found a salad restaurant for dinner. I’m still feeling a little sick, but with the walking and the fresh veggies (and the lack of bread/wine/vodka/fried things) I’m sure I’ll feel better soon. Da ra kargi iqneba!

The muezzin just sounded the call to prayer. Eka asked me what the English word for muezzin is, and I responded that we don’t have one so we use the Arabic word. Like we do for “marshutka.” She then informed me that “marshutka” is actually derived from the Russian word “marshut” which means “way.” I'm so glad to be learning. I’m excited. Please let this go well! Please please!

There’s a “learn English” program on television. It’s actually pretty good; Georgia should consider making something like it. I’d be willing to help…

Leaving Oni for a while...

Saturday there was an earthquake—the second since I arrived in Oni. The day was generally busy. I packed for Istanbul, celebrated Barbaroba and celebrated Giorgi’s birthday. Barbaroba is Saint Barbara’s day. The night before, people put new ornaments on their New Year’s trees. Then, early in the morning, the “first foot” stumrad modis. It has been decided in advance that a close friend or neighbor will be the “first foot,” and if he or she is the first guest of Barbaroba then the family will have good luck for the New Year. It is tradition to eat pumpkin and lobiani on this holiday, and people give each other (and especially children) a lot of candy (milk-free because they’re in the middle of their big Christmas fast). The holiday is about peace, friendship, and hope for the New Year. It is also a special day for children, and people give children small gifts. When I went shopping for Giorgi’s birthday present, the shop-keepers wouldn’t let me pay for it…which probably has something to do with the way the women here refer to me as bavshvi (child).  They also gave me a piece of chocolate and a glass of wine. These things would just never happen at Waterloo!

I went to visit Keti for a little while. I just wanted to see her before leaving for my trip; however, I soon realized that going visiting something people do to celebrate Barbaroba. I like this holiday. Keti and I talked about the evolution of Georgian, which is always fascinating. She has more exposure to local languages than I do, and so she can tell me which words come from Russian, Persian, Turkish, old Iranian, etc.

Later, my family went to Giorgi’s birthday supra. We arrived late and left early. At the time, I wanted to stay longer. Now I’m glad we didn’t. The one horn of wine that I drank left me sicker than I’ve been in years. I actually bought medicine (which is something I really only do when desperate)! Aside from realizing after the fact that the wine was bad, I also realized belatedly that the stuffed animal I gave Gio as a present is actually a New Year’s toy. It’s a dragon. I just thought it was cute, but Matsatso told me that the Georgians personify the old year as a rabbit and the New Year as a dragon (which, I think, eats the rabbit…).

Yesterday, Eka and I spent the day in a marshutka coming to Tbilisi. We’re staying with a friend of hers here. We watched an Indian film dubbed in Russian, went out to dinner with her friends (who were offended that I wasn’t eating even though I explained that I really am too sick to eat), and admired the Christmas lights.

Aside from being violently ill, this has been lovely. In a bit, we’re going to go walk around the city and run some errands. I’ve realized that Eka likes slow mornings. She packed a lot of pretty clothes and make-up…as opposed to my two-pairs-of-jeans-and-sneakers approach to packing. This will be an interesting trip. Although—to think of it—when one considers that I ripped one of my pairs of jeans yesterday, maybe a middle way makes more sense…

I want to photograph these buildings before we leave…

Mere

About that walking around that I wanted…oh well. I should know better than to hold anyone to promises made in translation. We went to the place where the post office used to be, but there was no post anymore. Actually, the whole building was in the process of being gutted, so we stood there in confusion and awe. Then Eka called her uncle. He picked us up with his car and brought us to the place where the post office is now. The lady wanted 27 gel to mail 6 Christmas postcards to America. I told her that they could all go in one envelope, and then she charged me 7 gel instead. Ridiculous. I can imagine many things, but a country that wants to join the EU that doesn’t have a postal system…that’s a bit ridiculous. My postcards will arrive in 3 weeks. Ridiculous.

Then Eka’s uncle drove us to her aunt’s home (he didn’t stay). The home was like I imagine mine will someday be: books, eclectic decorations arranged with care, a piano, a big table for guests, and tea already waiting for us. Eka spent the whole time on the phone, and her aunt was upset both by this and by the fact that I wasn’t eating (still sick here!).

The concept of not eating is foreign here. I’m sick! I can’t eat! (They have different forms of negation for things one chooses not to do and things one is unable to do due to external causes) (PS That’s a super difficult sentence for ESL studentsL) I keep insisting “ver shemidzlia!” but there’s constant pressure. “Eat! Drink! You must!” I tried explaining that the company made me happier than food ever could, but they don’t get it. There was so much pressure that I felt violated. This is my body we’re talking about! My body! And if I don’t want to eat fried things and drink super strong alcohol when I’m sick then you can’t guilt me into it no matter how you try! But yikes. I love these people, but they make me be very firm and insistent. It’s not quite my personality…maybe this is part of that personal growth that I’m supposed to experience here.

The Start of the Holiday Season

Yesterday was quite a curious day. When I got to school, I was told that my co-teacher and I were invited to observe another teacher. We went to the 4^th grade Georgian class, which is taught by the mother of one of our 8^th graders. I was really excited about observing the class. I felt bad for the teacher, though. Two of the other observing teachers were walking around taking pictures the whole time. The teachers (there were 5 or 6 of us) were talking and calling out to the students and passing notes…they reminded me of disruptive middle-school girls. At the same time, the Georgian teacher had known in advance that she was going to be observed on this day. She had prepared her lesson plan as a performance, and the students had done the same. I’d love to be able to sit in the back of the class some day when there’s a normal lesson, just out of curiosity.

I was a bit frustrated in an earlier class…just generally because the students don’t know how to study and my co-teacher somehow can listen to me teach articles for three classes in a row but STILL use them wrong when questioning students.

We got news that our children who competed in the “English Olympics” exam at Oni school scored among the best in the region. One of our 4^th grader did especially well…which is fantastic news for the kids and for our school. I’ve seen the tests, though. On the one hand, they were difficult for the level our students are at, so I’m proud of the kids. On the other hand, if our kids were among the best, I’m worried. Sure, English is just a foreign language that is just beginning to be seriously taught here. But…the books (up until now) have been bad and many of the teachers don’t know the language they’re trying to teach…Kids aren’t taught how to study or use models or double-check their work. How are they supposed to learn anything?

The end of the day was a little strange. I gave the 8^th graders letters from students at my mom’s school, thinking we could take a lesson or two to translate and then two or three to write letters back. Instead, my co-teacher took the letters and translated them to the class out loud. The kids were interested, of course. They thought it was funny that the American students asked if it ever snows in Georgia. They also thought it was strange that Americans don’t know khachapuri. I was amused by the fact that they asked me after every letter, “Is it from a girl or a boy?” I think they want pictures. They’re amused by American names and it makes me really REALLY wish I had brought my high school yearbook.

All told, it was a good cultural lesson for them, but they didn’t practice any English and I’m nervous about writing letters back. I was planning to have them write working drafts of their letters and then send polished copies after a week or two of work (the whole holiday-break in the middle didn’t strike me as a problem before now); however, Matsatso assigned them to write letters for homework…so half the class will come in next time with what they will assume are “finished” letters. Drafting and editing is a strange concept for them…at least in English class.

Then in 9^th grade, my co-teacher was catching-up on her attendance-taking for the day. So I sat with the students and we listened to music and talked for a while. It was good, because they actually had to work at communicating with me. Then I put the lyrics to “Sleigh Ride” on the board—leaving a bunch of gaps—and the students had to listen to the song to complete the lyrics. They like this game, and I like seeing how they work together to figure out the puzzle. It’s fun.

After school, my head teacher said she wanted to observe an English class soon. My co-teacher wanted her to come to a third grade class. Since today was my last day teaching before I leave on Christmas holiday, that meant we were observed today. Last night, then, I went to my co-teacher’s house. I was originally supposed to visit with Keti and race horses with Alex and get home early to decorate for Christmas. Instead, I made finger puppets while my co-teacher fried fish, and then we made posters together. I didn’t get home until after 8…and I had missed all the decorating. But our posters looked lovely!

Eka and I have been having trouble figuring out our holiday trip. We were going to go to Milan (my tickets were free). Then I was told that she couldn’t get a visa (partially true—partially a lie to cover up the fact that she tried to cheat the application process and it didn’t work). So we decided to go to Istanbul because we had a layover there on our original tickets SO it would be easy enough. Then my program sent me to their travel agency to fix the tickets, and the travel agency sent me to the airlines, and the airlines sent me back to the travel agency. Things just kept getting increasingly frustrating and abusurd and expensive until last night we decided we wouldn’t go. Today at school, though, I had internet and a printer and a working phone so I played with a few things and now we’re going after all (for the same as it would have cost us to pay the cancellation fees). Not having internet or a printer (or electricity…) was frustrating. Calling hot-line numbers and repeatedly having nobody answer was frustrating. Trying to explain why airlines have cancellation fees in two languages—one I semi-speak and one I don’t speak—was kindof hilarious in its strangeness. But it really wasn’t fun at the time.

The morning started out a bit rough. As we hiked to school, my co-teacher and I were talking about phonics and learning to read English. Supposedly, the Georgian alphabet reads easily because each letter only makes one sound. Maybe in proper Georgian this is true, but I’ve noticed that here people sometimes pronounce the “v” letter as a “w.” They do it all the time, with lots of common words, and I told my co-teacher that this is the only letter that I notice this with. It makes problems for Georgians studying English because they hear “w” as a lazy “v” and so say things like “wan” instead of “van.” My co-teacher got very upset. She told me that this isn’t true. I asked why people say “wie me” and “tkwen and “twilebi” instead of “vie me,” “tkven,” and “tvilebi,” and she insisted they don’t. I tried to remind her that she hears sounds in English that I don’t because she studies it. She got very upset and told me that I’m just wrong because she has a second degree as a Georgian Literature Teacher. I shrugged it off.

When we did get to school, we had our lesson. I tried to just stay out of the way so that Matsatso could perform like she wanted. Actually, though, I thought the teaching part of it went pretty well. In case I haven't said it before, I do actually think she's a good teacher. I get frustrated by linguistic things and by the priorities (or lack thereof) of a different educational (social) system, but my co-teacher actually does care about the kids and is open to trying different lesson styles. Of course, after today's lesson I was left thinking: maybe, if we always planned our lessons, they would always go so well. We ran over time—which is encouraged so actually it wasn't a problem for that class—and it felt like we were behind in the rest of our lessons all day. We would check homework, the bell would ring, and I would hand out the Christmas cards I made for the kids.

After classes, I used the school internet to buy my airplane ticket back from Istanbul, print all of our travel reservations’ information, and send the school’s report to the program head in Kut’aisi. My head teacher was very concerned about the fact that I am leaving before the end of school and missing the children’s New Year concert. She kept asking if my program knew about this. I explained that they originally bought the tickets for me, but she called to Kut’aisi to check. Maybe it’s cute that she cares?

From school, I went with my co-teacher to her friend’s shop. I was planning to only visit for a little while and then go see Keti once before I leave for Turkey. In the shop, though, there was a drunk man being belligerent and hassling Tatia, so my co-teacher and I stayed for a while to help her. Tatia is sick, so she was sitting by the fire. Matsatso stood in front of her and I stood so that I blocked way to our behind-the-counter area. Tatia didn’t want to call the police (because no one wants to make a fuss in a small town…) but the man didn’t leave. Eventually Tatia told us to just go home. I didn’t want to leave her, but she didn’t want to do anything to change the situation so what could we actually do. As soon as we left, I looked through the window and saw that the man was behind the counter. I was worried, but Matsatso said “He’s harmless” in a tone that reminded me that women here are used to dealing with these kinds of things. And Tatia probably knows how to take care of herself in a much more socially acceptable way than I do and that’s what’s important sooooo……sigh.

At home, I read and studied. I’m drawing mandalas about Georgian folk tales. I’m trying to drink enough tea that I feel good but not so much that I get teased. Giorgi came over to tell us that today he killed the pig we will eat for Christmas. I won a game of dominoes and Jumberi was very proud, because he has been my teacher for the past few weeks. On TV, a man with a beautiful voice (from Batumi, who just got kicked off of Geostari) sang “Kari kris da kris da kris” and a song from Jesus Christ, Superstar. Then Saakashvili gave a speech, pictured as usual between a Georgian flag and an EU flag. Now everyone is watching William Levy.

Tomorrow is a double holiday. It’s Giorgi’s birthday, for one. And it’s Barbara-oba…Saint Barbara’s feast day. To celebrate, people hang new ornaments on their New Year’s trees tonight. Then, early tomorrow morning, a neighbor or friend who is the appointed “first foot” comes. If she or he is the first visitor in the morning, the family and all who dwell in the house will have good luck for the new year. People have a lot of faith in the New Year here. It’s common to talk about how it’s coming and how it will make everything better. I don't know if I can believe everything will be better, but I'm grateful for the past year and looking forward to the new one. As a Georgian woman told me today, time runs whether we notice it or not.

I'm trying to notice it and use it and remember it and wash myself in it and fly along with it...

Happy almost New Year...

Just another Saturday

Wie Me! Today was Lasha’s last day here, so I got up early to say good-bye…and then I went back to bed for a few hours. It being Saturday—our house-cleaning day—I spent the morning cleaning my room and sorting out my laundry. Then I walked to Keti’s house. We baked apples and made blinis while talking about food; made puppet parts while hardly talking; ate her mother’s famous fried potatoes while talking about autobiographies and personal narratives; and then painted puppet parts while hardly talking. She translated part of her script to me the other day, and I’m really excited for her. Hopefully everything turns out in a way that makes her happy.

Seven hours later, Eka called to ask when I was coming home. As I walked home, I remembered times when I was younger when my mom would be upset that I was always out of the house. Meanwhile, I was upset because inside the house my sisters were in their rooms/watching TV/playing on the computer and my mom was watching TV/talking on the phone. For my mom (as for my family here), my physical presence is the important part. For me, interaction is more important (at home or elsewhere). I understand the other perspective better now.

When I did come home, everyone was worried about whether I was bored without Lasha to talk to. Jumberi was particularly worried. He kept coming over and trying to entertain me. First he showed me the medals of honor he’d been awarded by the USSR. Then he told me that in the summer he would take me swimming in the river if I know how to swim.

This was funny. He didn’t really believe that I can swim when I said I could. This was the third time today that a conversation ended with “Well, she is an American.” The first conversation started because I pulled my pocket-knife out of my bag to use while making puppets. The second started because I put butter on my bread (Georgian Orthadox ladies are fasting from meat and dairy at the moment). So the things that make me American are carrying a knife, eating butter, and knowing how to swim. Color me amused.

In other news…yikes the Russian and South Ossetian protests. I’m not nervous here…but I’m worried a bit for some of my friends who do things like move to Moscow and Saint Petersburg sometimes. Ohhh…

My little pony! (I wish)

Gracious!

This past weekend, my friend James visited from Batumi. Together with my family and Michael (the new English teacher in Oni), we had a supra on Saturday night. It was lovely. Then on Sunday we went hiking in the mountains, where we found a cemetery and an old collapsed church. I felt a little silly, because I wanted to ring the bell hanging from a tree amidst the ruins. I couldn’t reach it, but James could. Then I felt sillier because I asked him to ring it three times. No, I’m not superstitious. I just read too many folk tales.

Earlier this week, I had a few interesting visits with Keti. We finished translating a folk song (I posted our translation) and talked about British punk rock, but we also had a difficult conversation about refugees from ex-Soviet countries whose countrymen and women view them as traitors. I think, of course, that dissidents/refugees/mothers who flee a regime are never traitors. The government officials who so mutate the government that their people can’t breathe are traitors to both their countries and their people…Once upon a time, a “dictator” was a military leader to whom the people said, “We trust you so much that we give you total power in this time of trouble. We trust you to do what is best for both us and our country, and we trust that you will relinquish power when the crisis has passed.” Now a “dictator” is (typically) a mass-murderer (openly or secretly) who censors the press, harasses the people, puts thinkers under house arrest and subjects journalists to prison and torture. Of course that person is a traitor to his or her people and country. But a person who longs to run to a place where she isn’t afraid to breathe and where she can raise her children is hardly a traitor. 

On Tuesday, my friend Giorgi (who I thought was in Tbilisi) called to say he was back for a day. He was, but more than that he was back and waiting for me in Oni with his friend’s horse. His friend is the older brother of one of my students, which meant that my student was there too. Jemali and Irakli didn’t trust me to ride on my own. They let me on the horse, but Irakli held the reins and led me around like a child. Then Giorgi showed up. He trusts me somewhat, but not completely (I am, after all, a woman) so he let me on but then he hopped on behind me. This was a little better; at least I was in control of steering and halting. But then some men in a car stopped to ask first what I thought I was doing and then to ask Giorgi where he got such a girl. He was embarrassed (a response that relieved me, to be honest) and said that I wasn’t his. Then he said something to the effect of “What the hell, man” and we cantered away. It was wonderful to be on horseback again, but it was still a little strange. With a second person whose legs and weight I can’t control, I can’t steer or ride (at all) the way I was trained to. And here the style of riding involves holding the reins in one hand and a tree-branch-whip in the other. Not quite dressage...

I told Keti about this, and she said that once there were many horses here. Unfortunately, they all came from South Ossetia, and so now there are only a few here. She also said that in South Ossetia women ride, but that here in Oni the women are proper Parisians in manner and proper housewives in demeanor. So they’re scared of horses almost as much as they’re scared of each other. I mean…I have reason to be on guard around the men here, but every time I leave the house someone tells me that it’s a bad idea. Maybe these women can live their whole lives staying by the fire out of fear, but I really can’t. Keti tells me that people used to say horrible things about her because she wore trousers and boots, even though she was really a good girl in every other way they could want. Lasha said the other day that I should just live like the other girls here (and always sit at home and get married soon and start having babies) because otherwise life “won’t be easy and people will talk.” He doesn’t understand that living that way is also not easy and that people talk no matter what I do (things I’m learning…) just because they watch J.Lo music videos or American Pie and assume all American girls are alike. My point, I guess, is that this has all been a lesson in balance…staying myself enough to stay sane, but being quiet and docile enough that they somewhat respect me.

So then on Wednesday, Giorgi called to say he was in Oni for one more day. Alex (another friend) was with him, as well as Guja (a friend), Jemali (my student) and Irakli (Jemali’s brother). They had two horses, a big tractor, and some beer. I declined both the tractor and the beer, but I was delighted to be around horses again. Alex has ridden with me before, so he knows that I can handle myself. He hopped bareback onto his horse and I was helped onto Irakli’s. Then—still in my skirt and jacket that I’d worn to school—I set off at a nice easy trot. Soon enough, Alex was beside me and asking to race, so off we went down the street. I heard a few old women gasp “Wie Me!?!” as I went past, but it was glorious enough that I didn’t care. We had so much fun! And I was being a good girl that day and wearing a skirt and everything. We galloped to the end of the street, and then we stopped breathless for a quick minute. Alex smiled and then we turned around and did it again. Ra magari iqo!!!!

Today I went to my co-teacher’s parents’ house for fried fish. Then I came home to baby wine and a headache. Eka and I had been planning to fly to Italy for Christmas. Unfortunately, her visa was denied, so we’re going to Turkey instead. I’m actually more curious about Turkey, but we had already bought the tickets to Italy so this has been a bit of a headache. Like, it’s been a huge headache and everyone (read: my family here) wants me to fix things and no one (read: the travel agencies, my family here, the government program I’m here with) wants to help me. And I have no internet most of the time (hence the post-dated posts). Ugh.

I’ve memorized all the words to Aqvavebula  and am ready to start Suliko. I’ve promised to make sets with Keti and make French toast with my co-teacher (after the Christmas fast ends). Alex said we can go riding again soon, and his old high-school teacher invited me to their village as her guest this weekend (not sure if I’ll go yet). There’s a chance that a New York/Berlin friend will visit Georgia in January (although maybe we’ll go somewhere else, because I think the gossip if he came here with his mom and brother would really be too much for me to handle). I really miss cooking. I miss my friends, who keep writing nice things to me. I miss being able to walk down the street without thinking about who is scrutinizing my hair or my shoes or my jeans. But overall I am very happy here. I’m so glad that people take time to appreciate fresh fish, new earrings, pregnancy announcements, oranges, baby wine, and snowy mountains. 

Aqkhvavebula Aragvze Dek’a

Translation by Ketino Japaridze and Abigail Oulton

aqvavebula aragvze dek’a. nisli motsura mta-mta.

Deka[1] is blooming on the banks of Aragui[2]. Fog is flowing from mountain to mountain.

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

tsikhe gorobas[3], me st’umrad moval, ar geotsebi net’a?

On tsikhe gorobas I will come visiting. Might you be surprised?

shentan alersi mtsadian, kalo. q’opna mtsadia shentan.

I want to caress you, woman. I want to be with you.

shentan alersi mtsadian, kalo. q’opna mtsadia shentan.

I want to caress you, woman. I want to be with you.

da mere tundats, pshavlis asulo, shens dzmat shamach’ra khmalze.

Then, daughter of Pshavlis, let even your brother stab me (it’s of no account).

net’a vitsode rogor mit’ireb, glovis sevdian khmaze?

Tell me, how will you cry for me? Will your sad voice mourn me?

net’a vitsode rogor mit’ireb, glovis sevdian khmaze?

Tell me, how will you cry for me? Will your sad voice mourn me?

maghla bilik’ebs, mtebs da ch’iukhebs, raistvis stelav?

Tell me, why do you wear paths across passes, mountains and cliffs?

modi, viq’nebi sheni tsatsali. mtebi davlakhot ertad.

Come, I will be part of you. Together, we will conquer the mountains.

modi, viq’nebi sheni tsatsali. mtebi davlakhot ertad.

Come, I will be part of you. Together, we will conquer the mountains.

aqvavebula aragvze dek’a. nisli motsura mta-mta.

Deka is blooming on the banks of Aragui. Fog is flowing from mountain to mountain.

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

---

[1] a variety of flowering bush found in the mountains in the Pshavi region of Georgia

[2] the name of a river in Pshavi

[3] a special holiday celebrating a tower in Pshavi

Ras vipikrob...

The other night, I went out the front door to go to the downstairs shower, and there was a dog sitting on the step staring at me. I recognized him as the dog that usually sits in the street outside our house because Jumberi throws him bread. Still, it was strange to see him at our door, because the yard is walled in and both gates were closed. I stepped over him and just chuckled to myself, but apparently the dog is a bit of a problem. He’s Jumberi’s dog, and so the kind man likes to let him into the yard when there is snowy weather. He doesn’t like to see the dog sleeping in the snow on the street. However, his wife hates dogs and his daughter has a rule that no dogs are allowed in her house or its yard. I’m the only one who ever sides with Jumberi…poor man. There was a bit of an argument, and then he shuffled outside to chase away the dog, grinning to himself as both women yelled after him. Oh my.

There are these cars around town that I have been calling jeeps, to my co-teacher’s dismay. After this morning, I will never make that mistake again. My co-teacher pulled up to the car-stop in the passenger seat of one of these cars, and she waved for me to climb in. I’m pretty sure the whole car was just the tires, the metal frame, the windshield, and the engine. This was a bare-minimum vehicle. But, it sped through the snow and up the icy mountain road to my school with no trouble at all. I was impressed. My co-teacher told me again that these cars are stronger than jeeps. We’ve decided to say that they’re jeeps’ Russian cousins. I think I like them.

Because today is December 1^st, there was a special presentation at school about “SPIDS.” Though the transliteration of the Georgian acronym is actually “ShPIDS,” it is pronounced “speeds.” Of course, this is the Georgian acronym for AIDS. I was interested to hear what they would say in a presentation about AIDS in my small and rather religious school. The 7-9^th graders gathered in the biology room, and the biology teacher gave an introduction. She had students read about what SPIDS is and how it is acquired. She had students read about what its symptoms are and where there are high occurrences of it. I didn’t understand everything, but I understood the part where she said it started with people eating bad meat in Africa. She mentioned that it can be spread through use of dirty needles and through homosexuality (although I didn’t hear mention of the fact that it can be spread through sex between heterosexual couples too…maybe more relevant in a place where visiting prostitutes is common for many men). She warned the girls that they should be careful when they get manicures, and she warned the boys not to share cigarettes. Then she surprised me by saying that there is a very high occurrence of SPIDS/AIDS in Sanmagrello… a place I’ve heard is quite the tourist destination here.

After all the children left, Matsatso and I were waiting in the classroom. I noticed that one of our 8^th graders had left his jacket hanging on the door. He’s got a very relaxed personality and a good sense of humor, so I knew he wouldn’t mind if we played a prank on him. On top of one of the huge cabinets in the back of the classroom, there is a plastic mannequin used for talking about human organs. Matsatso climbed up and put Vaja’s jacket onto the mannequin, tucking one sleeve into the pocket to mimic the way Vaja usually stands. It was fabulous. Then we left for another class on the same floor, making sure that we were close-by when the 9^th graders discovered the prank and ran to tell Vaja. They kept saying to each other “Maybe Babuna (the gym teacher) was here…” and I had to focus very hard on not laughing and giving us away. Part of me does hope they figure out eventually that it was us, because that’s part of the fun. It was pretty great.

The reason we were able to stay on the first floor for so many lessons was that our upstairs classrooms were being decorated for New Years. The kids put up New Years trees, paper chains, paper snowflakes, and “Happy New Year!” signs. The classrooms look great, although it is funny to ask them about Christmas decorations and have them instinctually translate “Christmas” to “New Years.”

On the street after school, a man called out to my co-teacher. He was staring at me rather intently, and he asked her if I am the new German teacher. She said no as she kept walking, and I could tell by her mannerisms that she just wanted him to go away. Apparently, he’s the father of one of our students, and at 1 pm he was wandering the streets wasted out of his mind. No wonder the poor kid has problems in school…

Instead of going home with my co-teacher again, I went off to try again to search for Michael. I went to his house, and this time Ana answered when I called. So I met her, but she said Michael was still at school. She also said that I was beautiful and should visit her house anytime I want. But I politely excused myself and went off to Oni’s school. I walked inside and wandered around looking for someone to ask for help. I didn’t see anyone, but I did get to see how huge the school is (compared to mine, that is). Then, I ran into Michael on the street, so that worked out after all.

We walked a bit, and then I took him to Keti’s house. I had told her I would come and help her build her puppet theater. We walked in as she was trying to figure out how to break through a board without a real saw. It took the three of us, an ax, a chisel, a hammer, and an almost-saw to get the job done. Then we went upstairs to sit and talk and eat. I really enjoy her company, and she is the only one here who understands how uncomfortable I am sitting while a hostess prepares piles of food (that she probably can’t afford to waste but that we probably won’t eat half of). It’s refreshing to be able to talk about politics and religion and relationships…to have complex conversations with people who understand my language and the culture that I come from. The hardest part is always extracting myself so that I can get home early enough to keep Maguala happy.

This time, Keti told us the story of how she and her children moved to London. But I want her permission before I post about it.

There’s an exercise in the 8^th grade textbooks where students are supposed to decide whether words are the same or different. One of the sets of words was “to escape” and “to run away.” Instinctually, I think they are the same, and then I think a little harder and realize that most of my students’ parents would actually say that they are different, because one implies honor and daring while the other implies cowardice and abandonment of those who couldn’t leave. Keti said her son used to have nightmares every night about bombs and tanks, because of the war here. Even when they left, he had nightmares every night for years. Even now, she said, he yells in his sleep sometimes, calling for her because there are bombs. These are the kinds of stories that tear at my heart, but I think they’re the ones that most need telling. Or hearing.

On a slightly more cheerful note, Keti said that the government wants to turn her parents’ house into a museum. This would be great, because someone would finally have the means to properly archive her father’s manuscripts. On the other hand, the private house would become property of the government. As much as she supports the president, she isn’t sure she wants to turn over care of her childhood home (and her mother’s current home) to the government. Either way, renovation of the house will begin in the spring.

Michael walked me home, and then I joined the family here for orange cake. At night, Lasha and I were talking about things we want for our lives. He wants to study English for a few months by living in an English-speaking country, if he can get a visa. Then he wants to climb the corporate ladder, and in 2 or 3 years he wants to start a family. He was a bit shocked when I said that I would be happiest with a living wage doing something I like, that I don’t want to be a housewife and finding a husband is really not my first priority. He said that maybe I am thinking like this now because I am young, but that in 3 or 4 years I will have to change my mind. Because I need a husband so that I can have children to give my life purpose and care for me when I’m old. He also thinks it would be better for me to live with my parents until I get married than for me to be here living so far away totally alone. I’m realizing that, along with fear of cold, the fear of being alone shapes many aspects of Georgian life here.

One more quick observation, this time a linguistic one: people keep telling me that English is an analytical language. We need to know what is brother climbing, who something was told to, and why Aunt Rhody was saving that old grey goose. We have different verb forms for action that happened before now and for action that happened before the action that happened before now. If you know English, you can follow that sentence and it makes sense. We instill word placement with absolute purpose: “Manana bit a dog” is different from “A dog bit Manana.” We also put huge importance on our prepositions: “I am (a) school” is hugely different from “I am at school.” Georgian has the same word for “bored” and “sad,” for “must/should” and “he/she/it wants,” for “to the balcony” and “on the balcony.” In short, they’re linguistically prepared for ambiguity and uncertainty (which goes well with icy mountain roads, polychromic time, and dual-calendars). We, on the other hand (especially North-Eastern US natives) want precise details and careful plans. If German trains its speakers to pay attention (listening for the verb at the end…which Georgian has, too) and English trains its speakers to always give all the details, Georgian perhaps trains its speakers to expect surprises and uncertainty as normal. Is this training in duality something that has helped them keep their culture alive despite having the cultures of various occupiers imposed on them? I wonder…