*this is a post that I wrote back at the end of march when the weather was finally warming up and just finished now*

As the winter months come to an end, it’s hard to imagine what I did during the cold and dreary months that were inundated with rain and occasional snow followed by severe slush. Sometimes it would rain for five days straight—the clouds never allowing even a sliver of sunshine to escape—and on those days I found myself sitting at my desk staring upwards towards the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of unfiltered light. I was tired of seeing the world in gray, and sometimes I got so desperate for some sort of light that I sat in my bedroom at night and flashed my flashlight on and off in my face. The light from the flashlight was warm, and as I closed my eyes I liked to pretend that I was sitting on a beach in the Caribbean. “Yea,” I thought as I cupped my hands around my ears, “Peace Corps Jamaica would have been awesome.” Instead of the rhythmic pounding sound of rain on the sheet metal rooftops, I could hear the ocean waves gently splashing against my imaginary sandy beach, and though I contemplated waking up and asking my host brother to make seagull noises to add to the effect, I thought that might be going too far and would push the tolerance of my host family. I have been at the office lately until 7—sometimes 9—at night, and after walking back at night I find that I am too tired lately to do anything but hide under my sleeping bag and keep warm. Lately, though, my habits have been colliding with my host family’s desire for me to sit with them for hours and drink tea and talk about politics, religion, and anything that may stir up during the conversation, but after a long day I am usually not in the mood to sit in their company in front of the blaring TV.

After being here a while I have come to the conclusion that this is what Peace Corps is. Eating, drinking, talking, and spending long, slow, and oddly entertaining and refreshing hours doing nothing and accomplishing nothing at all. But in this nothing-ness there is something—I think—and it hit me in that moment of sanity-search that I was not being proactive enough. I was hiding my head deep in my sleeping bag with my flashlight just millimeters away from my face and basking in the little warmth it gave. Realizing the stupidity of the situation—but also realizing that if I did that any longer I would spiral down into depression—I crawled out of my sleeping bag and went into the only properly heated room in the house.

“Yuta!” my host family screamed at me, “are you hungry? Of course you’re not! You’re never hungry!” I grinned and told them I’d just stick with some tea, and as I sat down next to my host mom (Ketino) she began immediately to talk about what she had heard through the Georgian-grapevine (which I assure is extensive and stretches across every valley, over every mountain, and across any desert). “Scandalous,” she’d say in feigned shock, “can you imagine that the baby was born only six-months after they got married?!”

Admittedly, when I first moved in and started to hear the gossip and the oh-so-shocking stories of other families I was enthralled and completely sucked into what I considered my host mom’s dramatic retelling of these stories that would always carry a plot twist so unpredictable that it could only come straight from a Georgian soap opera. “And after the prostitute had cut out his kidney,” she’d say with a dramatic pause, “can you believe that he had the strength to carry his own bleeding body to the hospital?!” The old Yuta would have said, “but Ketino, surely he would have fainted on the way there due to the massive amount of bloodloss!” The new Yuta, however, was smarter and could tell a hyperbolic story when he heard one. When Ketino moved on to tell another story (this time about a heroine addict that somehow delivered twins while completely under the influence), her eyes darted about widely and her arms waved in pure excitement. “And when the second baby wasn’t breathing the addict swatted it like a fly!” At this dramatic point of the story I couldn’t help but roll my eyes on how unrealistic and delusional a person had to be to actually believe these stories. As I looked around and saw my host family enthralled by her wild story, I couldn't help but wonder, “were all Georgian stories and myths this insane?” All the PCVs have heard their fair share of stories that sound completely unrealistic, but was it really possible that in a country the size of South Carolina that so many improbable things could happen? I mean, did the Golden Fleece really exist in Georgia? Was wine really invented in Georgia? Did God really set aside land for Georgians? The old Yuta would have answered with an enthusiastic “YES!” but the new Yuta—having lived through an arduous and depressing winter—now says, “I’m thinking no.”

The gossip is the same in any culture or country though. Someone is getting married; someone has just gotten pregnant; someone has stolen money; someone has been arrested; someone has just become fantastically wealthy; someone’s relative has recently passed away—the cycle is never ending. So it was not that the stories were becoming boring (quite the opposite, really, because every time I came to sit down the story was even crazier), but it was the routine of it all. I began to question exactly why I was sitting down drinking tea for hours (staining my teeth in the process)—day after day—instead of reading, studying, or doing work. Then it hit me. I was doing it for the QT (quality time). Where else could I hear such outlandish stories while sipping on tea that had the opacity of black coffee and the taste of rotting fish? Maybe in an insane asylum, but seeing that I will never willingly go into a place like that this was the next best option. And Ketino, with her stories that were clearly 90% false and made up, provided for her family by entertaining them in those dull winter months. We, in turn, respected her by sitting down for hours and listening to her recall implausible tales of risk and return, daring and death, and anything else she could muster up while the caffeine ran thickly through her veins. Yes, QT was not bad at all when the best other option was to be huddled in my sleeping bag clicking my flashlight on and off in front of my face while imagining incredibly attractive people strolling on sandy white beaches. The flashlight clicking on and off as I tried to soak in any heat it radiated. The flashlight clicking on and off until I eventually fell asleep while my feet went numb. The flashlight clicking on and off…on and off…on and off…

I know that I have been really bad about updating, but life has been pretty hectic. It is finally slowing down a little bit this week so I will be posting another one by Friday.

holla~

yuta

Emmy has two lower front teeth coming in now, and her hair is finally long enough to tape a bow to her skull. haha.

This section I'll just post pics from traveling around Japan.

-Cherry blossom madness:

-Tokyo at dusk:

-Tak sucking up to Emmy:

-Some bling we saw that we were tempted to buy:

-Me pigging out on some good cake!

-Tak, Emmy, Sumiko, and Lowell on the boat:

-The condom store (seriously, that is all they sell):

-Harajuku during the weekday:

-Wishes that people left at the shrine:

-Sumiko and Emmy on the boat ride:

-The guy that strung our boat along:

-Bamboo forest:

-Pics from inside the bamboo forest. We got a little bit too excited about pretending to be reenacting scenes from crouching tiger hidden dragon:

-the god of hotness (jk):

My past experience leaving ROG for vacation was difficult. Psychotic customs officials, ticket fiascos, and flight delays—it seemed that I would never leave. This time, though, everything was different. I even paid a reasonable cab fare to the airport, and as I checked in I was told that I wouldn’t need to be checking in my large backpack because it could be “carry on.” This, of course, meant that my gargantuan backpack would be violently thrown in the back of the aisle instead of the overhead compartment (it wouldn’t fit), but it was nice that I didn't have to worry about my luggage getting lost in Moscow. My plane schedule was as followed: Tbilisi-Moscow-Tokyo. Moscow was, well, cool I guess. I had a 9 hour layover, but because I was too cheap to pay for a visa (mainly because I knew that even after applying I wouldn't be getting one) I sat in the airport for 9 hours listening to music and reading about a drug addict going through rehab—very inspiring. After 22 hours of traveling I finally made it to Tokyo and met up with my family.

After I stepped off the plane I was excited. I hadn’t seen my family for a long time (the Masuda clan rarely gets together due to scheduling conflicts) and the fact that I’d also get to see my niece for the first time made my mind race with exciting fantasies of amazing uncle adventures. Being the obsessively competitive type that I am, I was determined to leave an amazing impression on Emmy that would make me the things of legends to her. “Perhaps,” I thought, “after she sees me her first word will be ‘Yuta,’ and her first sentence would be ‘Yuta is the greatest person—ever.’” As a side note, on a scale of 1 to awesome I think I scored an awesome during the ever-important first impression.

Going through customs and my journey to the hotel alone proved to me how much I had changed while living in ROG. I had always assumed that I was not one to change easily, but as I went through the motions of what I considered to be “regular life” it was evident that ROG had really molded me in its image. I was not molded so much to its rough, callused exterior, but, rather, I found that my personality had been slowly molded (or evolved) to be able to live in ROG. These new survival skills, though, proved to be less useful in a country that had laws, rules, social order, and, well, manners. Standing in line at the passport check irritated me to no end, and I didn’t understand why no one was cutting in line or shoving their bags into people to get to the front. “Who do I have to bribe here to get to the front!?” I thought, and I instinctively sighed heavily so that everyone around me would notice my irritation with the slow pace at which the line was moving. It wasn’t that I was in any rush to get to anywhere—I was on vacation after all—but after living in ROG for so long I didn’t understand why it wasn’t a “dog-eat-dog” world where only the physically fit or incredibly attractive would get to the front of the line in one piece. As the line slowly ticked forward I wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact that I saw all these innocent Japanese unaware of their weakness in line-cutting skills or the snail-like pace we were moving at.

I finally got through customs and rushed to catch the appropriate hotel bus service. There was an initial price-shock when I was told that it would cost me approximately $30 to go from the airport to the hotel, and I was tempted to bargain with the polite lady at the counter because, after all, that is what you do in ROG. “Outrageous! Do I look like a chump to you?!” I wanted to ask in protest, but as I saw her spotless uniform and sparkling white teeth I remembered that people here were paid livable wages that pushed the price of everything to the stratosphere. “Relax,” I had to tell myself, “She isn’t trying to take advantage of you. It’s just market price.”

As I climbed into the immaculate bus, I was, for some reason, half expecting to see linoleum-lined floors and torn curtains that blocked all sunlight and views from passengers. Riding in marshutkas in ROG has always made me feel like I should have a burlap bag shoved over my head because, not only is the ride just outrageously frightening, but every marshutka dons black curtains on all the windows except the front that makes sure that passengers have no idea exactly how they are getting to their destination. The presence of deafening music just makes it seem that much more probable that all the passengers are, in fact, being kidnapped. As music blares over one large stereo speaker that is somehow plugged into the car, it makes sure that all passengers won’t hear anything that might indicate they are being driven over a bridge, a railroad track, a pasture, or even a cement factory.

In Japan, though, this was not the case. The bus was spotless, and there weren’t even cigarette burns on the seats! As the bus started to go, the driver spoke through the speakers to inform us of the approximate time that we would be arriving at the hotel, and he informed all of us to wear our seatbelts for safety. Upon hearing this I scoffed—both in protest and at the thought that seatbelts were necessary—and I gawked at the thought of being told what to do. “You are not the boss of me!” I thought. In ROG, I remember the first time I was riding in a car with seatbelts was with my host father in Khasuri, and as I reached for the belt that I was told saved lives he slapped my hand and shook his finger as if I had been a very naughty child explaining that, “In ROG you don’t have to wear seatbelts because it’s safer than America.” Of course this was complete nonsense. The best way to describe the driving experience in ROG is this: Imagine that your scariest, worst, and most terrifying nightmare happened while you were conscious. Got it? Good. Now imagine that nightmare’s “scare-factor” and take the one-billionth power of that. That is what the driving experience is like in ROG. You can then imagine what I felt like being told to wear a seatbelt in a country that had driving laws and drivers that did not frantically pass each other like every ride was a Nascar qualifying event.

As I entered the hotel lobby I was shocked by its opulence. Dazzling crystal chandeliers with golden accents blinded me with a certain brilliance that I would never find in ROG, and as I instinctively squinted my eyes I reached for my sunglasses. It was like walking out of the movie theater after a daytime movie, and as my eyes slowly adjusted to my surroundings it hit me that I didn’t know the room number or phone number of where my family was staying. To think that post-war Japan was something like present day ROG was mind-blowing, and as I walked up to the check-in counter I couldn’t help but wonder if in 60 years ROG would look like modern day Japan. My instincts said no, but maybe that is just the pessimist in me. Alone and without hope, I went up to the check-in lady and I gave them a name and when I merely told them that I was a family member, a bellboy was promptly summoned to take my bag and take me to the room. At first I was caught off guard when the bellboy grabbed my bag, and I almost reflexively dropped kicked him. Thank god that I was somewhat still accustomed to service. After waiting about 30 minutes, my parents finally came to the room and it was, I suppose, an exciting reunion.

Hey I'm trying to finish up some blogs to post, so don't worry I'm not dead. Expect a blog entry + pictures tomorrow!

“Hi, my name is Yuta and I will be your teacher.” As the word “teacher” escaped my lips I quickly closed my mouth realizing that if the word made itself audible there would be no turning back from this terrifying obligation. As I closed my eyes for a minute, I had to remember that I was not at an AA meeting introducing myself, but, rather, I was in front of a row of teenagers who were eager to learn about American essay structures. It was bad enough that I was teaching a topic that I really had no expertise or real knowledge on, but the fact that I was actually teaching made it even worse. Before I realized it, though, 15 eager faces were staring at me and waiting for me to do something, say something, anything. “Well, sucks for you that you’re stuck with me!” I wanted to say in desperation, but with Chris by my side to help me teach I was confident that if I slipped she would be there to help me out. Almost on cue, Chris started to speak and conduct the lesson with experienced finesse that I lacked.

With certain talents I think that no matter how hard you try you either have them or you don't, and teaching is a talent I definitely do not possess. To me, teaching is like trying to be a circus contortionist or using a squat toilet—I just can’t do it. It requires this intrinsic kindness and a desire to nurture others that I completely lack, and no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to find these traits. Offering a compliment to someone is oftentimes difficult if not impossible for me, and because being an optimist and positive person is part of being an effective teacher, I know that I am not made for this kind of thing.

The main difference between Chris and I can be seen by the way we grade papers. We split up the essays that we collect every week and fix the grammar and essay structure of each individual essay, and then we write comments at the end of how they can improve their writing. While Chris always starts her critiques with, “That was a really interesting and great essay!” I usually start mine with, “This essay was interesting, but I think that you could have written it a lot better had you answered the actual essay question.” My method is subconsciously centered around “tough love,” while Chris’s method has a more paternal and encouraging feel to it—seemingly kumbaya. I am the yin and Chris is the yang. If you were to compare our teaching styles to talk shows, I am the direct and pitiful Dr. Phil while Chris was loveable and intellectual Oprah.

Teaching also requires that a person be incredibly patient, and being the youngest of four siblings I feel that I was the one who was always waited on—not the other way around. I admit that living in ROG has taught me the importance of being patient (sitting for hours on train rides or idly twiddling my thumbs for hours while waiting for meetings to start), and having endured nine months of it I don't know how people do it on a daily basis. It would be easy to blame my impatience on American culture—information at my fingertips, service that is extremely expedient—but that might be a lazy explanation. If it is to be blamed on western culture, then I suppose Glenda will be my proof to support my claim. I remember very vividly what it was like when Glenda shopped online. Once the purchased product had been shipped from the warehouse, Glenda—like the diligently obsessive person he is—would check the UPS/FedEx online monitoring system almost hourly. It was like the ultimate litmus test for a store’s supply chain management when Glenda shopped online there. Departure scan in Cleveland 11:15AM, arrival scan at sorting facility in Memphis 8:13PM, departure scan in Memphis 1:14PM, arrival scan in Atlanta 5:32AM, departure scan in Atlanta 8:14AM, arrival scan in Athens 11:15AM. “OMG it’s in Athens,” he’d say impatiently after checking it for 24-hours, “where the hell is the delivery guy!?” Yea, the more I think about it, it might be easier to blame my impatience on living with Glenda instead—just kidding.

To say that I had absolutely no teaching experience would be a lie. In December I taught an adult writing class, but that was a completely different experience. With adults you can hold them accountable, and discussions and essay topics are more interesting and controversial. With kids, I feel that there are limits to their attention span, and that most topics of interest are completely off-limits. Limits. That is the word that would best describe teaching children. I feel like teachers that teach from elementary through high school must possess two personalities: one for school and one for outside of school. Eve once told me she has a “teacher voice” (she refuses to demonstrate it to me to this day) when she speaks to children at school, and I imagine that it is a necessary skill that all educators possess. A “teacher voice,” I think, is when a person sounds powerful and controlling without sounding condescending—not an easy task. Speaking to these kids in my class, I can only sound condescending and disrespectful and I lack the ability to switch over to a “teacher voice.” Chris—just as I expected—had firm control of the class by demonstrating that she also had a split personality as well. During class discussions she would calmly talk and facilitate—prodding and encouraging the kids with a smile—but the minute the discussion went off topic she immediately switched to her “teacher voice.” “HEEEEEEEEEEY!” She’d yell out unexpectedly, and the entire class would instantly fall silent—jaws agape and eyes bulging—out of shock. The façade of the innocent, nice, and sincere Ms. Chris was gone, and a monster had suddenly emerged—albeit just for a second. It was like seeing a female Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in person, and I have to admit that I was also momentarily scared sh*tless. In my imagination I had violent images of Chris suddenly turning to me and ripping my head off, and when she turned around, smiled, and told me to go on with the lecture it took me a minute to remember where I had left off. Whether or not this is something that is taught during PST is unknown to me, but I can see how it could also be a Darwinian personality adaptation that all teachers eventually develop as a defense mechanism.

One of the hardest things about teaching non-English speakers, though, is simplifying—or “dumbing down”—your language and vocabulary. Colloquial phrases are absolutely out of the question, as well as most metaphors and analogies. Asked a simple question during class, I responded once by saying, “Well, that kind of rationalization would be contingent on a lot of factors—perhaps based on the synopsis of your outline—that a person may or may not have exposure to.” After a minute of silence and blank stares Chris cut in and said, “It just really depends,” she paused, “gaachnia (Georgian for it depends).” The frustrating part is that most people will not actually say that they don't understand something when I use difficult language or speak too fast. Maybe they are all embarrassed to tell me that I am a bad teacher, like the story about the King and his invisible clothes, no one wants to break the bad news first.

Regardless of all the challenges, I feel that Chris, myself, and the class had a lot of fun. We have had lively debates and discussions, and during the latter part of the writing class we even had some fun essay topics. One was based on early marriage, and it was an argumentative essay where the students utilized their knowledge on essay structure and logical arguments. One of our favorite essays from the class stated, “I think that people only get married early because of the sex,” and in the middle of the essay this daring writer even declared, “life is not only about love and the sex, and it is important to remember the institute of virginity.” Chris and I never found out where this “institute of virginity” was (though we are sure he meant institution of virginity), and instead we imagined that it was an abstract place like Heaven or Hell and was an interesting concept that we enjoyed both reading and thinking about.

By the end of the class, I felt that all the students somewhat improved. Whether it was through the discussion, handouts, lectures, examples, or something else I don’t know, but on our feedback and evaluation forms we got great reviews. I’m sure they were more impressed by Chris’s ability than mine, but it was nice to read glowing and positive reviews having struggled somewhat during the course of the class. To celebrate, Chris and I held a mini snack supra at the end to thank them, and during that time we were able to casually discuss things that were not brought up in class (hobbies, their families, etc.). If I learned anything at all, it was not so much from teaching as it was from the student who boldly claimed, “life is not just about love and the sex.” He is so right.

-Picture of Chris, myself, and the writing class:

When I came back from the Ukraine I was expecting Bebia (or grandma) to be living at the house with the rest of the family. I had heard it through the grapevine from the day I arrived at the house that she was coming because it was apparently tradition that Bebia came down the mountain (perhaps on a donkey) and join the family during the harsh winter months. At 83, my host sister explained that the mountainous village life near Kazbegi was too difficult for the 83-year-old vixen. Bebia, however, has resisted my host mother’s persistent nagging and begging for about four months, but, just recently, she had a change of heart and decided to trek out of the mountains to join her family in Batumi.

When I first heard that Bebia was going to stay at the house until the ice and snow thawed from the moutain roads I was scared. I wasn’t sure exactly how long it took the ice to thaw from the mountain roads, but I imagined it would take just as long as a glacier or icecap to melt. Even with global warming rapidly raising sea levels, this was not fast enough for me and I secretly thought up of ways to sabotage her coming. It was not that I knew what Bebia was like—really, I had no idea—but it was merely the fact that I had heard horror stories from other PCVs about their Bebia experience. “Bebia yells at me to wear socks ALL THE TIME,” one PCV recounted one day while visiting in Batumi, “I swear sometimes I just want to throw that wrinkled face into the petchi!” Grandmothers in ROG were not like grandmothers that I had ever heard of or experienced. They were not sweet, smiling, or generous, but, rather, in ROG they were nagging, paranoid, and sometimes psychotic. Bebias were always over 80 sporting a prominent hunchback, and the majority of them were widowed from age 30 and wore black and mourned for their husband everyday since then. Some—like John’s “Grandma in the closet”—just waited for death and were often neglected by their families. There were also set things that Bebias just did not do, apparently. It was common knowledge among PCVs that Bebia a) never relinquished control of the kitchen; b) always knew best; c) could kill, pluck, and prep a chicken in a blink of an eye; d) had health treatments that are highly questionable but always better than any western method (hence a Bebia’s average life expectancy is approximately 110); e) may have a large vocabulary of Georgian and Russian, but “no” is not a word she knows; and f) had a scary amount of facial hair. I had been warned, and because I had months and months to contemplate what my Bebia would be like, I was frightened.

With seven people already living in a three-bedroom house, I was not sure where Bebia would sleep. Would she sleep in the shower stall? In the toilet? Maybe even in the cupboard? “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “grandma would sleep a shoe!” Luckily, my host family seems to have a talent for making space when there seems to be none available. Bebia, it seemed, would be sleeping in the same room with the youngest host brother and host sister, while the eldest son would be sleeping in the living room on the sofa and the middle son would be sleeping in what is known as the “didi matsivari,” or the big refrigerator. After finding this out I no longer had fears of opening the shower stall and finding Bebia curled up sleeping in the corner while I was stark naked in front of her, or going to put on my shoe and finding Bebia somehow contorting her body to fit my enormous boot.

The first day I saw Bebia it was very awkward. Bebia is hard of hearing, and upon seeing me she asked me my name and when I replied, “me Yuta var,” she seemed to draw a blank look that indicated that she was not all there in the head. As I looked into her milky eyes I wasn't sure what to make of her. Her eyes indicated that she had just gone unconscious, and for a minute I contemplated slapping her or splashing her face with water to bring her back to reality. Since then, though, Bebia and I have started to understand each other pretty well. There is a predictable script that we follow every morning that goes something like this (translated):

Me: Good morning

Bebai: Good afternoon

Me: How are you doing?

Bebia: How are you doing?

Me: Great, thanks!

Bebia: ::nods::

After a pause I will, as always, go to my water filter to fill up my water bottle and do my morning routine, and when I come back she is curled up on the sofa looking exhausted at 9AM. My host mom will usually talk to me about her as if she is not there, and when she criticizes Bebia while she is standing there I can’t help but look completely trapped—like a deer in headlights. Part of me wants to remind my host mom that it is her own mother that she is badmouthing. “You do realize that your mother is right there, right?” I want to ask, but seeing that she is criticizing Bebia about how she reads all day I am usually left staring at her in disbelief. As her children watch 12 hours of TV a day, Bebia studiously reads novel after novel and is knowledgeable in the most profound things. Bebia, for instance, can recite poems in Russian and Georgian without ever pausing, and I find this amazing at the old age of 83. “Oi!” my host mother says in disgust, “Bebia is always reading! She will lose her mind soon if she does just that!” “Yo mama,” I want to tell her, but seeing that this will have little affect on her I keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes when I just come home from work I sit down with Bebia to drink tea with her and talk. She has an inquisitive mind and is curious about the English language and will oftentimes pick up things and ask how it is said in English. “This one,” she says to me as she points, “how do you say this in English?” “That is called sugar,” I tell her. As she repeats it slowly over and over again to retain her one vocabulary word of the day I analyze her wrinkles on her face. There seem to be an endless amount of folds that amazingly make up her tiny face, and I can’t help but wonder if in those crevices lies bits of food or bugs that might be found in an old man’s beard. I am drawn to it like it’s one of those pictures that if you stare hard enough a 3D picture will appear, and so I look at it intensely focusing and unfocusing on her face with intense concentration. One day I had an intense desire to just grab her facial skin and stretch it sideways to see what she looked like when she is younger. “Don’t do it Yuta,” I have to tell myself, “that would just be, you know, rude.”

Bebia is growing on me more than anyone in the family, I think. The fact that she is clueless and knowledgeable at the same time amuses me, and I am actually sad at the thought of her returning to her mountain village near Kazbegi. I have even begun to share the same sentiments of my host family by wondering about how Bebia cope all alone in the rugged lands of the north? More than anything, though, I think it is a selfish desire to keep her close for my entertainment as well. She, like me, can pull off cluelessness and competence pretty well, and if she goes I am, again, alone in the jungle of ROG.

On St. Patrick’s Day John, Erin and I decided to get together to work on the PCV newsletter that we are editors of. Because Erin and John claim some irish heritage, I felt compelled to participate in the celebrations while we tried working at the same time. This, of course, was not very successful, but it was fun nonetheless. Erin explained how she tried to teach about the tradition of St. Patrick’s Day at her school earlier that day, but encountering lots of cultural barriers had little success. Leprechauns, rainbows with gold at the end, four leaf clovers, and green beer are all hard to explain, and I imagine that upon hearing these rumors of catching little ugly men and being granted three wishes, every child scoured the village to look for this mythic creature. Here is a picture summary of our festivities:

-We toast to catching leprechauns (I am wearing a glove for some reason):

-Group pic in front of the St. Patty's Day sign we made:

-In the spirit of St. Patty's Day i post the sign on my face (the leprechaun i drew is asking "where's me gold?!"):

It was exactly one year ago when I visited Yohei in New York for my spring break, and I remember being excited by the fact that he was now working full-time and that I would get to see his window office facing the Rockefeller Center and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was mid-March when Manhattan still had a biting wind and the occasional snow flurry, and as I rode from La Guardia to his apartment I looked out the taxi window and took in the dirty and sooty city that was glorified by so many. “Best city ever,” some people advertised confidently, “there is no world outside Manhattan.” I liked New York, but having flirted with it on my prior visit I no longer held romanticized views of the city. Things were different now from the last time I visited. During my previous visit my brother was still in law school, and though he was bogged down with his studies, he still found time to take me out to restaurants and listen to me prattle on about things that were of no particular importance.

My oldest brother—as I remember it—always entertained my brother and I even though we were 7 and 9 years younger. We had our ritual of watching the Simpsons every Sunday, and we would always find ourselves quoting Simpson episodes like it was some holy scripture. His toys became our toys, and although we lacked his artistic flare for Lego building, he was always kind enough not to break our lackluster blocky structures to pieces and place them back in the big box where they came from. My poor sister was even subject to ridicule from her older brother and two tiny tikes. My oldest brother in the lead, we loyally followed his chants of mock cheers as she practiced her cheerleading moves in front of the glass kitchen door—her eyes locked on her reflection—in a desperate attempt to tune out the ridicule. “W-H-S!” Yohei would lead, “We Hate Sumiko!” The acronyms for their high school became a hateful jeer that was both creative and hilarious to me at the time. Thinking back now, all my siblings were good at taking care of me without being condescending in an obvious way. Sure I was probably used by them sometimes (to persuade my parents to buy coca-cola), and maybe even guilt tripped (when I got coca-cola at restaurants while they all dutifully got water), but as a whole they always looked after me in a responsible way while insulating me from the outside world. It is no surprise, then, that whenever I see them they are always eager to share any knowledge they have based on their past experiences.

“I’ve figured out,” Yohei said with clarity, “that for me I just have to be thrown into a situation before I realize that it’s the right decision and I thrive.” My oldest brother—ever the logician—concluded that the uncertainty that we all feel before the unknowns and risky paths we face in life are best taken with a leap of faith—sometimes with an unexpected shove. I forget exactly what we were talking about—maybe it was about marriage or careers—but as we sat in his tiny and cluttered apartment at 11PM devouring the take-out Indian food that we belatedly ordered, it was hard to take him seriously. “What about planning?” I wanted to ask, “what if just being shoved into something doesn’t work out?” At that point in my life I had been plotting and planning my move after graduation, and having decided on Peace Corps I was going through withdrawal symptoms of turning down private sector jobs. Questions of whether or not it was the right career move for my future plans swirled around in my head daily, and during my shopping spree through SoHo earlier that day it hit me that in the third-world I would not get to keep my standard of living. For Yohei, the Spartan method that encouraged drastic and uncomfortable change in lifestyle worked for him, and his theory on life seemed to be justified with each success he encountered following his doctrine on life. As I dipped my Nan bread into the curry sauce I couldn’t help but think about whether his take on life planning—or lack there of—was for me. Is that all I needed, a strong jolt of electricity in my life? It’s true that I would be graduating from college and moving on to something different was a goal of mine, but I had a hard time gauging how different I wanted my life to be after college. Moving to a different state would be a start, but would moving to a third-world country seemed drastic when comparing my situation to others?

That weekend it was St. Patrick’s Day, and so we went out to drink and have some fun. Since Yohei was working everyday until at least 11PM (that’s what happens when you work for the Man), his friend Nick took me out instead and Yohei met us up 2 beers and 2 vodka gimlets later. When Yohei finally came and met up with us, I was talking to Nick’s friend who was a former PCV that was evacuated from Jordan. “Yea, it was crazy,” he said hesitantly, “the training was pretty rough so I decided not to go back after being evacuated.” Not sure what to say to his lukewarm words, I smiled and told him that was ecstatic to be going. “It’s hard to adjust to,” he said calmly swirling his drink in his hand, “very Spartan.” Hearing this I felt like it was a recap of the night before, and I came to the resolution that having already agreed to go to ROG I would be going by the Yohei theory of life—straight from Paradise to Hell. Unlike Dante’s character that traversed slowly through each circle of Hell and purgatory to reach Paradise, I would be going the other way at light speed. I would, in essence, be going from hero to zero, and the thought of that was daunting.

It is 6:30AM right now as I write this, and I have not slept well for the last week because my mind has been clouded with thoughts about why it is I’m here. I’ve jumped into this situation and I think that it is working pretty well, but part of me still finds it difficult to adjust and it is frustrating. After going through two months of grueling training and seven months at site, I feel that I should at least feel comfortable with my living situation, but that is not really the case. Is it the culture, the language, the food, the location, the weather? I can’t say for sure, but from the moment I arrived in DC for staging I knew it would be different—really different. Yohei would thrive in a situation like this, and maybe I feel that because he would thrive I should too. I don't know if I’m actually making a substantial difference, but like Yohei did in the past, I just told them to throw me in and I’m trying to make the best of it.

Many people in the states have recently asked me what it is that I do in ROG. “Save the world—duh!” I want to say, but I have just now—upon reflection—realized how vague this statement is. I’m sure that this statement leaves my friends wondering, “Do you save the world with your smoking hotness or with your witty humor?” Interesting question, really, because the response would be that I save the world using neither of those God-given talents. While some volunteers use their inherent skills (Polynesian hip-shaking hotness, goofy humor, Texan drawl, Midwestern innocence, hairy beard, or paternalistic tolerance) to help overcome obstacles and tackle evil, I find that I have not had the opportunity to flash that sexy look (think magnum in Zoolander) or crack that hilarious joke. Instead, I find that my high maintenance self helps me overcome certain obstacles here, and I have even had a multicultural exchange experience recently because of it. “What kind of jeans are those?” my counterpart asked me, “they’re really nice!” “7 for all mankind,” I told her, and as the last syllable of that great brand rolled off my tongue I felt as if I had just experienced a great moment that would make John F. Kennedy proud.

While one volunteer in the village nurtures children with her maternal instincts, I find myself using my materialistic instincts to spruce up the office and also add some flare to my presentations and consultations. Likewise, one would think that John helps fight crime in Batumi with his beard—perhaps as a Kevlar-like shield against bullets or random hand-to-beard knife attacks—but instead John uses his knowledge of Emily Dickinson to advance the knowledge of some students (I’d prefer to see John fight crime with his beard, though).

First, though, I think it’s important to clarify what kinds of volunteers are present in Peace Corps Georgia. Every Peace Corps country has different types of volunteers depending on what the host country requests, and ROG has requested NGO and TEFL volunteers to work here. I will not go into too much detail about the stories that I have heard from TEFL volunteers because, well, I could not even begin to tell you where to begin with their experiences. It sounds rougher, harder, and—quite frankly—a lot more difficult than the job that I am entrusted with. While I go to my heated (and air conditioned) office with electricity and computers, TEFL volunteers will go to schools without windows, a small wood burning stove, broken desks, horrendous toilets, dilapidating staircases and crumbling walls (among other things).

I think that John is the only exception to the TEFL experience, though, and his experience and placement is an anomaly because his university is immaculate and in great condition. As you walk through the university foyer (which, coincidentally, faces the Black sea), you walk into a space that is adorned with snow-white marble floors, columns, and golden chandeliers that elegantly hanging from the ceiling. The staircases are all marble, and as you walk down the massive hallways with ceilings that easily clear twelve feet—hearing every step echo down the long hollow corridors—it’s hard to imagine that he is, in fact, in the Peace Corps. On late working days, I imagine that John can look out a western window and see the pink and orange sun slowly sinking into the dark indigo waters while the silhouettes of dozens of seagulls dot the sky. The saying still holds true that the west is the best.

Most TEFL volunteers do not share John’s luxurious experience. I will now share—hopefully with some accuracy—some of the anecdotes I have heard from TEFL volunteers around Georgia who teach in villages at secondary schools. TEFL stories are filled with struggles: desks being lit on fire, firecrackers in wooding-burning stoves that explode and fill the entire school with smoke, PCVs being kicked by students (perhaps by accident), winter classes that last five-minutes because of the unbearable cold, and parents who rush into the classroom and hit their child (talk about awkward, right?). The TEFL volunteers of the villages are stronger, tougher, and more adventurous than myself, and I would not be surprised if they all possessed coarse and itchy chest hair as a badge of honor by now. One particular story that I found highly entertaining was from a PCV who found a surprise before one particular class.

“My counterpart and I were walking to the class right after lunch,” she began peacefully, “and as we were walking up to the classroom you could hear this loud banging.” As she demonstrated the noise she heard by pounding her callused village fist on the table she continued. “And we were wondering, ‘what’s up? What is that noise?’ and as we walked in we saw the kids kicking and tearing the teachers desk to pieces as they shoved it inside the wood-burning stove!” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at this point because, well, how often does this really happen, right? “I’m serious!” she quipped, but as I looked into her eyes I searched for a sense of hyperbolic storytelling because this was a girl who once confessed to me that she brought her Coach shoes and dreamt about Manolos during the lonely and cold nights without electricity or heat—surely she was prone to being dramatic. When I found no sense of exaggeration I fell silent. “So as we walked in—my counterpart obviously hysterical and yelling obscenities in Georgian—we hurriedly pulled out the pieces of the desk in hopes of salvaging it.” As if the story wasn't tragic enough, she went on, “so you know I need a desk for when I’m teaching, right? Well, we had the janitor put back together the charred pieces adding plywood to make up for the lost parts.” As she sighed and showed resignation, she finished, “so for a desk, I now have a splintered, uneven, Picasso-like table.”

Mind you this is not the typical story of a TEFL volunteer, but it gives a general idea of the struggle a TEFL volunteer might experience out in the sticks. The main goal for TEFL volunteers in ROG, though, is to teach English here at the university and secondary school level to help introduce new teaching methods, ideas, and help the students improve their level of English. Aside from that, many volunteers have secondary projects such as English clubs, but some are ambitious enough to develop projects to rebuild school gyms, provide English books, computers, and other items.

NGO volunteers have it better—way better. Most are placed in regional centers or larger towns and cities, so for the most part we are spared the village life. The general mission for NGO volunteers is to help with organizational capacity, improve networking among NGOs, and also increase English language capacity. Our work hours are very sporadic, but that is also dependent on the host organization’s organizational capacity. Some NGOs are hardly active while some are bustling, and this provides NGO volunteers with a completely different set of experiences with no continuity or comparison between volunteers. One thing that is unavoidable is that an NGO volunteer will inevitably deal with international organizations or embassies in hopes of obtaining a grant or other necessary assets, and this is the reason why many volunteers frequently go to Tbilisi for meetings.

So do I teach? Not really (more on that in the next entry). Do I write grants? No, not really. I do co-teach an essay writing class right now that is a minor project, but my main tasks have to do with organizational capacity and project writing. Right now I’m developing numerous projects (an internship program, career assistance program, Student mentorship program, teacher training, soccer tournament, local fundraising training, university structure consultation and presentation, and economic curriculum development) and also organizational structure and capacity work (business development plan; analysis and development of strategic, long-range, and operational plans; plan for management structure; and other things). Projects that I have successfully implemented are the national outreach program and redesigning the content and layout of the organization website (which looks amazing by the way).

It’s obvious that TEFL and NGO volunteer experiences differ greatly, and although volunteers work together on some projects this is, of course, not their primary projects that they came for. For me, though, I have no funny stories or exciting happenings to report about in my mundane office life, but maybe it’s a good thing that my desk isn’t being lit on fire or dismantled and sacrificed to the gods by pyromaniac children. I am the first to confess that children are not my forte—rather, they are my kryptonite—and to have minimal exposure to children is probably good for me. And although I may never develop chest hair, hairy knuckles, or thick and callused skin that will be the badge of honor for many village volunteers, I am not too disappointed by that prospect. Sure I have the occasional quirky meeting or frustrating event, but its nothing a superhero can’t handle.

This isn't worthy of a blog entry, but on my ride back from Tbilisi yesterday the train that I was on hit a man that was on the train tracks. As Chris, Emily, and I sat together and were talking while stuffing ourselves with Twizzlers, the train abruptly stopped and as I mouthed, "wtf?" we patiently sat waiting for the train to leave again. When, after a moment, the train didn't leave, we got up and stuck our heads out the window wondering what in the world happened. As people crowded around the train car in front of ours, we realized that someone had been hit. I think shock would have been the appropriate expression to show, but as I had been holding in an incredible urge to go to the bathroom I felt a hard time feeling anything but the urgency to get the train going. "What the hell is taking so long?!" I asked Chris, "don't they know I have to pee?!" As Chris sat in front of me looking at me incredulously, I realized how insensitive my comments were, and I quickly quipped, "I hope he's ok...poor guy." Finally, after about 45 minutes the train set off to Batumi, and as soon as I hopped of the train I took a taxi to my house because had I taken a marshutka I would have died of an exploding bladder.

I'm alive, folks, but I'm not sure how the man under the train is doing.

One dollar will buy you happiness in here in ROG. One dollar is approximately 1.82 lari, roughly 117 yen, and something like .90 euro, and I know that it is obvious that one dollar will go a lot further in ROG than any developed country, but a recent event has changed my perspective of the purchasing power of a dollar. You may be wondering if I recently experienced living through an economic depression, or perhaps you are wondering that having experienced severe gas shortages in the middle of winter, an earthquake, and recent bird flu scare (none of which has directly affected me) that I have reevaluated my American way of life to appreciate the value of a dollar. Not so, my friends. I have recently stumbled upon a burgeoning and happening store in Tbilisi called—what else—the Dollar Store. This store has made me appreciate the purchasing power of a dollar, and also to realize that expired food is not, really, expired at all!

The Dollar Store has been a Georgian urban legend, a myth, a store that people whispered and gossiped about but never revealed of its surreptitious location. This was, of course, until a fortuitous turn of events happened when a couple of months ago a G5 volunteer stumbled upon its brilliant billboard that seemed to shine brighter than the sun. Like a fluorescent light attracts moths at night, the Dollar Store’s sign seemed to be subtly wooing the exploring volunteer, beckoning him to “come closer…yes…come find comfort in my affordable bosom.” As he slowly found his way around an indoor shopping center, past a row of cell phone carrier offices, utility stores, and vegetable stands, he finally reached the golden gates of the affordable kingdom. The volunteer, I’m sure, felt like he had won the lottery, and as he cruised through the aisles of the Dollar Store he found items made by mysterious manufacturers that a person probably can’t even find at a Wal-Mart in America. Still, though, they were marked with familiar titles like frosting, tostadas, popcorn, cereal, brown sugar, iced tea, and others, so he was able to hide this slight distraction. Gone were the name brand items that lined the grocers back home, and present were the ones that I imagined you could find at Big-Lots or a backwoods general store. I didn’t understand how these items that donned Nutrition Fact labels came from, but I was not going to question how this miraculous store arrived in Tbilisi.

The news spread fast from the volunteer who discovered this mecca of cheap and affordable Americana, and when, one day, I finally decided it was time to seek out the location of the Dollar Store with my friends Mike, Eve, Nash, and Margo, it was a mesmerizing experience with a touch of disappointment. As we walked inside the store it seemed—at first glance—to be a normal Dollar Store, but as we saw the security personnel waiting for us to check our bags in (presumably so we don’t shop lift) I immediately felt like I was back in ROG. The staff working there also didn’t help with this feeling. As we looked at the off brand food products that had titles such as “BakerGirl,” “Malt-o-Meal,” and “Los Pericos,” the staff followed us like flies on a pile of very seductive manure. Still, though, it was a relief to see things that were familiar. It’s strange because I feel that so many people are against branding, seeing the connection between branding a product to the spread of an evil empire, but at the same time they fail to see the connection between branding and comfort. In a brand, I personally find comfort and security in buying the product, and while I picked up a can of Alidoro vanilla frosting, I looked at it with suspicion because the packaging and name was unfamiliar and ugly. I couldn’t help asking myself why anyone would buy Alidoro frosting as opposed to Duncan Hines frosting in America, and upon inspection of the manufacture location I found that it was made in Uruguay. It was an odd sensation to see these products neatly organized out in front of us, and the question was raised at exactly how these products that were sold in America arrived here. It didn’t make sense that this would be the only store that had these products, and selling at exactly $1 per item I didn’t understand how they could make a profit when including shipping costs. Soon, though, we discovered the explanation for the stores cheap prices and mysterious selection of food: all the food was expired.

The funny thing, though, is that I find that the more time I spend living in ROG the lower my expectations of goods goes down. Just 3 months ago, if I stumbled upon a product whose brand I didn’t recognize or whose product was expired, I would have shunned it with disgust—throwing it to the corner of the store—declaring the store unfit for shopping. Now, though, the words vanilla frosting or Fun Tarts (fake Pop Tarts) pop out at me more than made in Uruguay or Expired October 2005, and so I suck it up and buy the product hoping not to get some kind of food poisoning. So far I have been ok, but it’s an embarrassing and sometimes degrading feeling looking through the shelves trying to find the least expired food. I confessed to Glenda recently about my new thrifty and disgusting ways of grocery shopping, and he was, quite literally, amazed on how much I had changed. “Yuta!” Glenda screamed, “What’s happening to you?” “I don’t know!” I wanted to scream, “I just don’t know anymore!” Was I turning into a smart consumer like my friend Rebecca or was I slowly chipping away at my standards? I explained to Glenda that I felt like I was shopping with food stamps now, and it hit me that I did not want to be a person who lowers standards just for the sake of getting a nostalgic product.

Later that night after talking to Glenda on the phone, I had a bizarre dream about my changing habits and standards. In the dream, I was standing alone in a dark and dreary alley insatiably hungry and desperate for a meal, and as I reached deep into my pockets to see how much money I had, I found that all I had there were balls of lint. The hunger I felt bordered on pain that I imagine a person might feel if he or she was having their nails pulled out of their hands, and I desperately looked around for anything edible. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a dark blue dumpster that, for some reason or another, I knew belonged to a restaurant. I quickly rushed over to the foul dumpster to look for any kind of food, and, for some reason, I pulled out rotten vegetables and day old lo mein. As I held the lo mein in my hands I thought about how vile and horrid the lo mein looked and smelled, but in my dream I somehow justified that it was ok if it was a little expired and so I ate it. As I jerked back away in a cold sweat disgusted at myself, I couldn’t help but feel that this dream had a message to it: stop buying expired food. This goal is not a New Year’s resolution or flakey affirmation, and I have, as of now, promised myself that I will stop buying expired food forever because I refuse to lower my standards anymore. I am willing to change some things, I admit, but this is one thing I am not willing to change, and even though the Dollar Store can sometimes be tantalizing with its endless rows of foreignly manufactured and expired Americana, I will stand fast and not give in.

Last week I decided to meet up with one of my Georgian friends, Tengo, who is a former student in my writing class. He had been text messaging and calling me for about 2 months to hang out with him, but because my schedule has been a little hectic, and also because I’m always afraid that by hanging out with a Georgian I would be ambushed by a surprise supra, I have also been making excuses to not hang out with him. Finally, though, I gave in and decided to fully immerse myself with Georgians and text messaged him and asked if he would like to meet me for dinner at the local Turkish restaurant, and when he responded that he’d love to I started to have qualms about my proactive decision to hang out with one of my former students. That day before I left the office to meet Tengo everything was going normal. John came in to use the internet and hang out as usual, and as he was wearing his Mountain Hardwear jacket and hat that he bought in Russia, he did the typical John greeting. “Hello,” John said as he waved his right arm in a Karate Kid worthy “wax-on” movement, and as I looked up from my laptop and hesitantly smiled at him I blurted, “I’m meeting with Tengo, the student, today after work.” “Cool,” John said smiling, “he’s a nice guy.” John seemed completely at ease with my situation as if he would have no problem with walking on broken shards of glass or hot burning coals. “The surprise supras!” I wanted to yell out in anguish, “WHAT ABOUT THE SURPRISE SUPRAS!?” As my face contorted in a painful position while thinking about the possibility of sitting at a table for countless hours while being told to eat and drink, John finally realized something was wrong. “You avoid Georgians like the plague,” he disdainfully said, “they aren’t that bad.”

The sad thing was that I knew John was right. Georgians aren’t bad, but their hospitality can sometimes be suffocating. As John sat in front of me text messaging, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was getting worked up and stressed out over nothing. Was it possible that John was just better at buffering Georgians than I was? It wasn’t that I didn’t like Tengo—really, it’s not that at all—but rather it was the fact that he had mentioned during a previous hang out session that he’d love to take me to his house to meet his one year old, wife, father, mother, and brother. This, I assure you, is Georgian code for surprise supra, and I knew that being invited to his house—which was, in fact, a large apartment block—meant that I would also be introduced and invited to see his neighbor’s and relation’s apartments, and therefore forced to eat and drink until the butt crack of dawn. In my mind, wild fantasies of me sitting in a dimly lit and smoky apartment while being hugged, kissed, and toasted to race through my mind, and as I looked down at my sweaty palms and stared off into space I felt my heart beating rapidly with panic. John may have accused me of avoiding Georgians like the plague, but the more I thought about it I felt justified in my hesitation. Still, though, I had agreed to meet up with him, and so I went to the Turkish restaurant.

First, though, I think it’s important to define what exactly a surprise supra is. A surprise supra is, put simply, when you go to a location for any other purpose besides dining and drinking for hours on end. An example might be when a volunteer from a mountain village went with his counterpart to get his car fixed, and as this would normally take 30 minutes instead it took him 6 hours because of a surprise supra. Upon arrival to the garage, a group of Georgian men ambushed, pounced, and dragged him into their lair, and as he sat on a long table surrounded by smoke and body odor he realized that he had sucked into a surprise supra.

As I sat waiting in the Turkish restaurant picking at a big piece of stringy beef soaking in tangy and spicy sauce, Tengo walked through the door smiling widely showing that he was truly enthusiastic to see me. As we did the typical Georgian greeting (a violent hand shake followed by a kiss on the left cheek), he sat down and pulled out his English dictionary ready to be fully engaged in the conversation. “How have you been?” I eagerly asked him, and after he reassured me that he was doing well he told me about his latest way to make money. Tengo—like many young men in ROG—had a dream of becoming wealthy in a short span of time. As he enthusiastically told me about his latest money scheme, I imagined Tengo living in America stretched out and wide awake every night fanatically watching infomercials that promise vast fortunes by reading a book on real estate or free government grant giveaways. He currently works at a bank as a loan officer, though, and as he divulged to me exactly why he needed more money (I mean, don't we all need more money?) Tengo sighed and asked nonchalantly, “In Batumi, see, it is expensive but I make good money, but how much do you make?” Apparently, Tengo made approximately 450 lari a month, and if his accounts were late in their payments it would be deducted from his salary, and after one too many of his clients defaulted on their loans Tengo was tired of being responsible for being the harassing credit officer—also known in Georgian as Satan. His clients were small business owners who owned barely profitable stands in bazaars, and he confessed to me that he felt uncomfortable hounding them for their payment—sometimes as small as 30 lari a month—and being the “bad” guy.

“I want to partner with Turks,” he said, “to import flowers to sell to Georgians.” I didn’t know what to say about this brilliant business plan, but perhaps I should have started by saying, “bad idea.” In a country where people’s priorities are confusing and oftentimes backwards, I empathized a little bit with his business plan, but at the same time it hurt me to see him so enthusiastically talk about his dream of being a floral conglomerate. Flower power may have been popular in the 60s, but in country that is currently facing bird flu and high unemployment I had a hard time listening to him divulge how a floral business could blossom into a fledging multinational corporation. “I want to move out,” Tengo said with a tinge of sadness in his voice, “I want to be independent, but I need more money and it is hard to support my family.” “I understand,” I told him, but it was an odd feeling saying those words because in reality I didn’t understand. What was it like have to worry about supporting a family while having to also think about supporting your in-laws? What was it like to be strapped down at the age of 22? Would I feel trapped by all my obligations? I live a selfish lifestyle where I can do as I please, and to have to think about supporting others is daunting and stressful. Perhaps if I had to worry about that, I too might result in ideas such as becoming a flower conglomerate. I guess in the end no matter where you are or whom you’re with, it’s just all about the money.

My niece will soon turn six months old, and so I also wanted to do a quick update of what she looks like now. By the way, when do babies start growing teeth?

-Emmy instinctively smiles at the camera:

-Ready for the cold:

-Emmy looks jolly:

-Sumiko and Emmy:

I got an email yesterday from my friend Rebecca sending me a link to one of my true loves of the world - fat cats. As I was staring at this adorably obese creature, it hit me that this 33-pound cat with a 31 inch waist is my equal, and so I'm dedicating this entry to the fat cat - and other fat cats out there - because we all deserve some lovin.

-look how the fat cat stares at you with those confused and lonely eyes:

-I admit that I have a smaller waist than this cat, but isnt that what makes the cat so...so...awesome?

-If i saw this on my bed, i might just die laughing:

-I think the cat is exercising:

I had no idea what the Peace Corps was until the fall semester of my senior year at college, and even then the idea of what exactly Peace Corps did was a mystery to me. “Yea, basically you go to some poor country and dig ditches,” one of my friends told me, “and I think you have to live in a hut—that’s mandatory.” During the on-campus career fair that fall, I cruised the aisles wearing my suit—brandishing my conservative tie—taking a look at all the big named companies that I seriously considered working for at one point or another. UPS, FedEx, Home Depot, IBM, Accenture, Enrst and Young; each had their own booth filled with goodies and branching out from the large flat tables like hungry tentacles of a beast were the recruiters. Always smiling and sometimes dressed in a polo shirt with the company emblem embroidered on the breast, they were eager to shake my hand and give me enough brochures on what they did that I sometimes thought that it would be easier to give me one pamphlet on what they didn’t do. After walking down a one of ten rows at the convention hall, my arms were filled with so many knickknacks and brochures that I had to unload them all into the nearest trash bin. Walking down the second aisle I saw a tiny stand that seemed to be dwarfed and outdone by its neighbors. As I slowly walked to the modest booth wondering why they had taken the minimalist approach, a recruiter cut me off. “Hi, you look like a young man that has some direction,” he told me enthusiastically. “Let me tell you about our company. In the past five years we’ve expanded rapidly and we’re expecting to have record profits,” he told me aggressively, eagerly, and without pause. His eyes were so wide with enthusiasm that I was sure that if someone were to bump into him from behind his eyes would pop out of his huge skull, and anticipating this I held my hands out about waist high in a cupped position. After shaking his hand and giving him my resume, I made a b-line straight to the tiny booth.

Pictures of African children running; a young woman standing in a field smiling jubilantly while wearing a soiled t-shirt; a young man with glasses posing with his hut in the jungle; these were the images that I was confronted with while I approached the Peace Corps recruiting booth, and all at once it reminded of a Benetton ad. “What’s up,” the recruiter calmly asked with her eyes half opened, “do you know about the Peace Corps?” “No,” I answered honestly, “but it looks like you guys do aid work.” She looked at me from head to toe, and as she smiled and held her critical eye I was certain she was going to ask me if I was a stiff. As I talked to her about myself she turned her head to the left as if straining to hear every word I had to say, and after every pause she would say, “right on.” “So you, like, are going to really love the Peace Corps,” she confidently told me. Before I left she handed me her card, an application, and a couple of pamphlets to read through. “Here man,” she called out as I walked away, “take this key chain—it’s free.” Little did I know that the “it’s free” mantra would become my mantra after joining Peace Corps.

-Benetton ad:

-Peace Corps ad:

As I was applying to the Peace Corps I could not even begin to imagine what life in the Peace Corps would be like. “Would I really be living in a hut while digging ditches all day?” I hesitantly asked myself. As I read through the pamphlet and skipped through job titles that started with environmental, education, community, I tried to find ones that had something to do with business and decided that the fastest way to find out what the Peace Corps was like was to ask someone who has previously served as a volunteer. As I scoured the internet and my local network for people that had gone through the Peace Corps experience, I always got the same answer, “I can’t really tell you what your experience will be like because everyone’s experience will be different.” I hated this answer because I was sure that some volunteer could give me a generic experience overview, but I never found that answer.

As I sit here writing this entry on my six-month-a-versary at site, I finally realize why the people who were volunteers told me that “it really depends.” I never imagined that I would be in regular contact with the Peace Corps staff, or that I would constantly be going to the capital for trainings, conferences, or other business. The Peace Corps that I had imagined when I applied was the image of what I had seen the posters during the career fair. I figured that I would be thrown into the wilderness with nothing but a pocket knife, and like a well-trained machine I would be told that I must survive in the Amazonian rain forest, African dry-lands, the Siberian tundra, or some nuclear wasteland. And though I’m sure there are volunteers who are roughing it in the jungle, I find that I am in a comfortable home with hot running water, electricity, and satellite TV in the third largest city in the country. As I place calls from my cell phone or go to the office that is equip DSL and computers, I realize that my experience here is not what I ever imagined it to be, and, to be honest, it is both a relief and a disappointment. I never imagined I would hear the phrase, “Our electricity bill was high this month” or “can you go and get me a bottle of soy milk?” in the Peace Corps. I remember before going to the Peace Corps I told my roommate Glenda, “I’m going to see wild pigs crossing the streets! That is something you just don’t see everyday!” I no longer romanticize the rustic experience like my mom and some of my friends, because, well, the rustic experience is pretty gross.

The other day as I was chatting with my friend Lily and I told her that I hated to go to the outdoor market here. “I love outdoor markets,” she responded, and I thought about how the word “outdoor market” sounded like something a person might imagine himself or herself wandering around on a warm Saturday afternoon in Tuscany. Lily probably imagined strolling through the cobblestone streets as the smell of sunflowers, fresh vegetables, and fresh baked bread wafted through the air. In reality, though, the outdoor markets here are nothing impressive. I admit that I romanticized the idea of rustic living before I came. I too had imagined that outdoor markets would be like the things of any hippies’ dream, but when I first went to one and the smell of fresh sewage, spoiled meat, and musky body odor wafted through the air I became positive that I wanted no part of this so called rustic living.

There are other things that have happened to me while I’ve been in Peace Corps that I never expected. I imagined that I would lose weight by joining Peace Corps by means of stomach worms, malnutrition, or some other illness. This has not happened, and I am one of many volunteers who have gained a substantial amount of weight since coming to ROG. Others have successfully lost a substantial amount of weight—probably 20 lbs on average—by a combination of bad food and disease.

-The glory (skinny and fit) days...i.e. pre-peace corps:

-now:

I also thought that I would somehow become less high maintenance, but I find that this is completely false. People who don’t shower or bathe at least every two days and prophesize that “you just eventually get used to it” clearly have no idea what they are talking about and probably had this filthy pattern back in the states. While my friend Chris who lives close by doesn’t shower until she “feels” dirty—which can mean anywhere from four days to over a week—I find that by my second day without a hot steaming shower, I break down into tears of anguish if I don't at least wash my hair in a sink. Just this weekend when Chris was over at my house, her hair stood up in a Mohawk that would make any 80s punk proud, and as I inquired if she intended her hair to be styled like that she only muttered “oh, sh*t,” and started to pat down her hair while explaining that it was standing up because of her natural hair grease. As my eyes widened with disgust I offered her the house shower, but she politely declined and said, “nah, I don’t feel dirty yet so I’ll wait until I get back to site.”

One thing that I have successfully avoided since coming to ROG is a squat toilet. John likes to ridicule me that I have never used a squat toilet, but I welcome the scrutiny if that means I don't ever have to subject myself to such nastiness. “How can you not have used a squat toilet here?” he asks in disbelief, but little does he know that I absolutely refuse—both based on moral and hygienic principle—to use a squat toilet. John’s shock went so far as to lecture me on the origins of the modern porcelain throne—popularized by Sir Thomas Crapper, apparently—to try and persuade me that it is natural to squat and unnatural to sit. The English language does not have the appropriate words to express my disgust on how I feel about squat toilets here or anywhere. Of course, it is a simple matter of my inability to actually squat—flat footed—that also prevents me from ever using the toilets of the damned, but even in if I could squat like any skilled Georgian I would never use them.

It’s been eight months since I have arrived in ROG and six months since I moved to my permanent site. I have not been doing what I really thought I would be doing, but in retrospect this can sometimes be seen as a good thing. At this moment, though, I feel like it’s one of those important occasions where I need to reevaluate where I am in my life and if I am really happy here. It is time to weigh the cost and benefits, the good and evil, the pain and joy, the triumphs and frustrations, and the disgust and delight; but when I look at it on a spectrum I don't exactly know where I am. I have my ups and downs here, and even though I sometimes feel that ROG is changing me in a bad way, it is also shifting my idealistic views and approaches to ones that are more pragmatic and realistic.

There is a married couple here that I talk to sometimes, and the husband let me in on what they do whenever they have a yearning to go home. “When Lindsey is frustrated and wants to go home,” he told me with a smirk, “we make a list of reasons to stay and reasons to leave. If the list on reasons to leave is more than reasons to stay we will go, but so far it hasn’t been more.” I imagined for a second where this type of logic and decision-making might be used: comparing cars while shopping, weighing the benefit of going to the Bahamas in the winter or summer, or even buying generic brand to name brand. There are many places where this type of logic would not work, though. Making a comparative list of reasons to keep a child, reasons to get married, or any other list of emotional topics would probably not do well for a pessimistic or cautiously optimistic person like myself (just for reference, marriage would never happen and the child would have to go). Though it makes sense for objective decision-making, I can’t imagine it applying successfully to my ROG situation simply because it is easier to be negative about a place that is both uncomfortable and foreign. Even if I won the Georgian lottery or was made supreme overlord of ROG I am sure that if I made a list the negative would outweigh the positive every time. I know some volunteers who count down the time remaining in their Peace Corps service in days, and when I calculated that out it came down to approximately 540 days. If that isn’t depressing I don't know what is, and that might explain the mental state of some volunteers who keep counting that way. Instead, the approach that I have developed is to count down by fractions—it seems smaller and therefore more doable. If I’m starting from swear-in, I’m already a quarter of the way through my service. If I’m starting from when I left America, I have been here for a third of my time required. Not too bad. Not too bad at all.

So I'm getting busier recently and I dont have time to finish writing about my ukrainian adventures (and I know that my entries are way too long so I'll spare all of you from having to read novel length entries), so I figured the best way to show what I did in Ukraine is by pictures!

Holla~!

-I enthusastically explain my superhero plans for world domination:

-Walkin around in Kiev:

-In picturesque Lviv:

-Looking happy in a Cemetary in Lviv:

-one of the pretty graves (does that sound bad?):

-John mingles with the locals:

-John and I chilling on a train:

-Laura and I in front of a horse...with SPIKED HORSE SHOES! (it was AMAZING!)

-John looks like he's about to sneeze:

-Walking around in the Carpathians:

-I sneezed and this hut blew away:

-We're being casual during the hike:

-The outdoor market in Yaremcha:

-I was very happy to be in bed after being out in the cold:

-Kalmyanets Podilsky where the castle sits on a naturally made 'rock island'

-Me in front of the castle:

-I saw my uncle trainer when I got back to Tbilisi:

I never realized how degrading and dumb soap operas were until I spent lunch one afternoon in Kiev at an authentic Korean restaurant that was playing Korean soap operas. People in ROG, Japan, Korea, and other countries are obsessed with soap operas. Of course, in some countries it is different from others. While most countries prefer their soap opera stars to be beautiful, classic, and sometimes whore-ish looking women being courted by hulky and Adonis-like men, ROG’s original soap opera stars are regular, middle-aged and balding men whose large bloated bellies make it impossible for them to see their feet while standing. The women are also quite unremarkable. As their hair glows in an orange hue, it is obvious that their bleach job was done all wrong. Their makeup is done haphazardly as well. This is most evident in the crying scenes where a 40-year-old mother of a powerful family starts hysterically bawling—the mascara flowing in vertical black lines beneath her eyes—as if she’s ready to go to a KISS concert. “Vai me (woe is me)!” the actress exclaims in anguish as she finds out that her son has been kidnapped for a whopping $5000. As the actress puts on her game face and turns to the camera, she pauses and makes a stern facial expression showing that she is seriously debating whether or not her son’s life is actually worth $5000. From her bemused expression the audience can tell that she is weighing the benefit of letting her son go or keeping the ransom money to buy the used Mercedes she has always wanted. “$5000? I mean, really?” I’d say to my host family as their eyes are glued to the TV, “Clearly they just need to get their relative who illegally works in the states to send that money!”

Georgian soap operas aside, as we all sat in the Korean restaurant excited to get authentic Korean food, we couldn’t help but get sucked into the Korean soap opera. On the screen was a poker-faced college student who looked as if he was on a really bad drug trip that never ended. “I don’t have the right to live,” he said in a voice over. “I’m worthless.” From what it looked like, there were two women who were into this stoned individual, and while he chose one over the other we got to witness the break down of the other woman.

“I AM NOT YOUR FICKLE REED!” she screamed at him desperately pounding her fists against his chest as tears welled up at the corner of her eyes, “I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU, MISTER!”

Touching as it was, we all broke down laughing and could hardly keep the Kim chi in our mouths. “Soap operas are so dumb,” I said scoffing, “’I love you mister?’ Who actually watches this crap?” After everyone chuckled in agreement, our eyes were once again drawn to the TV to catch what the stoner and the desperate woman would do next. We were mesmerized by the possibility of what could happen, and the endless possibilities of the soap opera world captured us. Would she get hit by a car and fall into a coma? Would the stoner jump off a bridge? Would it later be revealed that this screaming woman was actually raised by a pack of wild Siberian wolves?

As I picked through my rice I thought about American soap operas. Although I have never really watched any soap opera with any dedication or interest, I know from my limited knowledge on the topic that the famous ones always have character names like Hope, Lucinda, Roman, Marlena or other waspish family names that sound good when read or said quietly to yourself, but sound trashy when said out loud. This problem doesn't exist in Georgian soap operas because everyone here has, quite literally, the same names. Giorgi, Nino, Natia, Tika, Dato, Tengo; it’s like ROG has hit a slump with name originality, and, in the spirit of conservationism and recycling, everyone seems to have the same name. Men are Giorgi, Dato or Tengo, while women are designated to have the name Nino, Natia or Tika. In my phone book alone I have five Ninos, while off the top of my head I can recall meeting at least thirty Giorgis. I know that every generation has popular names, which explains why in my graduating class there were lots of Michael and Jennifer’s, but that doesn't explain the phenomenon of the continuous popularity of these Georgian names for about seven centuries.

When the Korean soap opera stars were doing nothing but staring into each other’s eyes for a about five minutes, the conversation finally shifted back to the group. “My sister is Korean,” Rebecca suddenly blurted out, and as I stared at her pale, white, Irish-descendent skin, I couldn’t help but think that the entire seven months I had known her I had been seeing an optical illusion. “Wait, your sister is Korean?” I incredulously asked unable to put two-and-two together. As I sat there trying to stare past Rebecca’s Caucasian façade and into her true Asian self—half expecting her to rip off her skin like a monster—I was speechless. After finally staring at her for another minute, I looked over to Laura for an answer when she sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned to Rebecca and said, “your sister is adopted? That’s so cool!” “Sure, Rebecca’s sister is the one that is adopted,” I thought, “I mean, it wouldn’t be Rebecca who’s adopted!” It seemed as though Rebecca’s life had as many plot twists, drama, and interesting fly-by facts as any good soap opera.

“I’ve been in Kenya before,” Rebecca said casually on another day during the trip.

“Yea, Honduras was pretty interesting, but there was lots of poverty,” Rebecca revealed to us during a train ride one day.

“My mom was one of the first PCVs ever,” she nonchalantly said while walking through the streets of Lviv.

“I used to intern and work for the Federal Reserve in Washington DC,” she divulged to me one day as I was reading an economics book sent by my friend. As I sat in front of her with my jaw nearly touching the floor in nerd-like jealousy and shock, Rebecca went on further by saying, “Alan Greenspan to me is like a rockstar!” I wholeheartedly shared her sentiment and could only nod in agreement, and so I pushed aside the jealous feelings I harbored inside.

Rebecca’s life was a mystery to all of us, not because she withheld information on purpose, but because she—like a good soap opera—shared the information in bits and pieces to keep us interested and in suspense. She wasn’t proud or boastful of her experiences or her past, but she nearly shared her experiences and background when it was relevant to the conversation. She was like a quiet, white, warrior ninja whose role it was to only contribute to the conversation when something really important needed too be said. Sometimes I didn’t like to wait for her to divulge her information in piecemeal, so I decided one day to take a proactive stance and ask her questions directly.

“So, wait,” I said looking down into my notebook of questions, “are you saying that you like fat cats because you have a fat cat back in Boston?”

“What?”

“You know, fat cats, is your cat back in Boston obese?”

“What?”

“You know, like how 40% of America is obese.”

“What?”

After a while, anything she said—whether about the weather or her astrological sign—was seen as worthy enough to be recorded in history books or novels. “Life changing,” I might say in awe of her opinion on borsht, “that Rebecca definitely knows her borsht!”

One day during our Ukraine vacation we were talking about secret societies at different universities, and while I expected Rebecca to tell us that she was the founder of one of these secret societies, she never revealed that much. “Well, at UVA there were lots of secret societies: the 7’s, the Z’s, and the Purple Shadows,” John—with his endless random knowledge—told us. I thought for a minute about what period in history a society called the Purple Shadows ever sounded cool. In the year 2006, it seemed to me that any secret society calling themselves the Purple Shadows might be mistaken for a gay-rights group secretly lobbying congress, but I suppose times were different back then. As we all began to share what little information we had on secret societies at our respective universities, Rebecca randomly stated, “I was in ROTC.” Rebecca had done it; she had dropped her important piece of knowledge for the conversation. Even though I had never considered ROTC to be a secret society, I always regarded ROTC as a special group of people skilled enough to march in straight lines, hold flags, and juggle rifles—something I could never do. Somehow it seemed relevant, and on that occasion we all marked it down as another significant fact from Rebecca.

It seemed that on this particular trip we wouldn’t need the plot twists and outlandish storytelling of soap operas because we had Rebecca accompanying us. She had been to Kenya, Honduras, backpacked through Europe, was in ROTC, and liked borsht but not Georgian cabbage and potato soup. Little by little she divulged little facts about herself while building an intricate and spellbinding story of her life to us. As we all tried to put the pieces of her life together, we soon realized that all we could do during random discussions was to pause for the drama that was Rebecca.

As the clock struck midnight and President Mikhail Saakashvili appeared on national television to give, yet again, another speech, my host family sat glued to the television unable to look away. This man mesmerized them with his message of hope and prosperity, and at the magical hour of midnight they were under his spell. “Georgia is the best country in the world!” my host mom patriotically exclaimed after hearing the President’s speech. As she quietly stepped out of the room my host dad began to pour the French champagne that he had bought in preparation for the New Year’s celebration. “Cheers to Georgia” he croaked while raising his glass, “also, to family and friends!” Georgia, it seemed, had priority to family and friends. As we clinked our glasses together—the ringing sound of crystal inconspicuously absent—he enthusiastically told me to “bolomde!” meaning I was required to down the champagne. Eyes watery from the sting of carbonation, I smiled to show him that I was, in fact, a man and did not need to sip my drink like a child (like I normally do) on this special occasion.

“GILOTSAV AKHALTZELS! (HAPPY NEW YEARS!),” yelled my host mom who, at once, came barraging into the room with enough energy to power all of ROG for the entire winter. As she threw candy and coins into the air (part of their tradition), the coins and candy landed in all the food and drink on the table. While carefully picking out a 10tetri coin from my soup I realized that John would be arriving soon because he had told me that he would be stopping by after midnight. As 30-minutes, an hour, an hour and a half, and two hours elapsed, I text messaged John wondering if he had been robbed, fallen into a ditch, or was just passed out in the park (hopefully on a bench). “Where are you? My host family and I are waiting for you!” I wrote, and when he responded with, “have to stop by host uncle’s first!” I began to suspect that he would never arrive. Finally after waiting for three hours, I text messaged him to call me. The conversation at 3am went something like this:

Me: “Hey, what’s up? Where are you? I haven’t really even started to party because I’ve been waiting for you to get here!”

John: “SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!”

::click::

John, it seemed, at 3am had retired for the night—weak. I later found out that John and his host uncle, Irakli, had made it about 80% to my house, and, having made it all the way to the large Christmas tree in the park, they decided it was too far to make it the rest of the way and turned around. As they say, though, “the party must go on” and indeed it did. After the memorable phone call from John, I decided that, at 3am, I was definitely not having enough fun, and my host dad and I started to toast and taste the cognac that his factory made. Half a bottle of cognac tasting and toasting later, I suddenly discovered that the party had started, and I was being urged by my host brother to go out with his friends.

The tradition in Georgia on New Year’s is to go visit family and friend’s houses sometime during the 24-hours of January 1. Not before, not after, but only on January 1 when everyone has a big supra table set with the same food in every house. As everyone house-hops, you are required to throw candy and money into the air as you walk in (for reasons still unknown to me), and the first person to walk into your home as a guest is said to have good luck for the rest of the year. The first person to walk into my host family’s house was a jagged-toothed, short, skinny, bug-eyed man—though I later found out that he is only 20 years old—named Zaliko. Zaliko was a good family friend and an apparent genius on all things Georgian, and when speaking to me he couldn’t help but talk to me like I was mentally retarded, which, incidentally, gave me the sudden urge to give him a superhero judo-chop (luckily for him, though, I abstained). Upon hearing that I had never read “The Man in the Tiger Skin,” he gasped in horror—his hand covering his mouth as if he would vomit—and proceeded to explain the significance of the only famous novel ever written by a Georgian during the Georgian golden age (I think it was in the 13th century). “This epic story,” he tried to explain while his voice came out in a drunken slur, “is the greatest love story of all time!” “Zaliko—you miserable old man—why are you lecturing me on New Year’s, and what do you know about love?” is what I wanted to ask, but instead I sat there and patiently listened to him rant for 30-minutes. This was like a flashback of that wretched epiphonous train ride home from the Halloween Party, and because of that I had to excuse myself to go out with my host brother and all of his friends. “Your knowledge on Georgian culture has educated me,” I reassured him before I left, “but I really, really need to go.”

As my host brother snatched the bottle of cognac off the table with his rough hands, he threw his heavy arm around my shoulders and excitedly explained that we would be having some real fun now. As we stopped by his first friends house the mood was calm—too calm. I was around a group of energized 20-21 year olds, but when we arrived at his friend’s house the mood became solemn. “What’s going on?” I asked my host brother completely confused, “why isn’t everyone pumped up anymore?” Suddenly, Turkish rap music began to blast from the other room, and at once my host brother and his friends began to bounce their heads in unison like bobble head figures lined up on a dashboard. “This song is so cool,” my host brother said while giving me the thumbs up, “it’s his latest hit!” Even though I wasn’t sure who “he” and his latest hit were, I was happy to tolerate horrible music if that was what it took to get everyone excited. As we continued to hop around from one friend’s house to the next—taking a break from the distinctive multicultural music in transit—the night progressively became blurrier. Was it 6am? Maybe 7am? Either way I ended up on someone's couch by the end of the night...

Early that morning at 8am my host brother and I trekked back to our house, and as I crawled into the warmth of my bed and stared up at the ceiling examining the dark water-stained mark riveting across the off-white plaster, I realized that I had a lot of fun that night. John never made it to my house that night or later that day because he needed to “SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!” but maybe it was better that way.

-The way I imagine John SLEEP-SLEEP-SLEEPING!

Even without John’s presence, I had an adventurous night on the town being the guest of many Georgians that I had never met before. Yes, I just might be the best PCV ever for reaching out to Georgians on my day off, but because I am a superhero cultural ambassador it is my sworn duty (literally) to reach out to Georgians all the time. It can be hard, sometimes blurry, intense, and even stressful at times, but it can also be rewarding. New Year’s in ROG was something fierce!

My enthusiasm was vindicated upon our arrival in Kiev. The city glittered with modern amenities and it was hard to imagine that this was a Peace Corps country. As we drove from the airport to the city center (a distance of 50km) our taxi sped onto the five-lane freeway and I was astonished. “Where am I?” I asked completely mesmerized to Laura who was uncomfortably wedged between Matt and I, and as we silently looked out at the nighttime suburban landscape it was hard to recall where we had really come to. The highway was paved smooth with streetlights lining the expansive road, and as we drove past large apartment blocks it looked like we had accidentally landed in a western European suburb. New condominium and apartment buildings rose wildly up from the ground like kudzu, and on either side of the highway the golden arches seemed like the friendly eyebrows of our long lost friend Ronald. “Drive through open 24 hours,” they read, and even though I never ate McDonalds in the states, the soft neon lights seemed to be calling out to me seductively saying, “eat me.” “Ok,” I silently mouthed completely hypnotized, “I’ll have a hamburger happy meal.” It was amazing to take in the newly built brick and stucco buildings that did not have clotheslines decorating the balconies, and peaking into one apartment window I observed that all the sockets of a light fixture were filled with working light bulbs. Missing were the Georgian patchwork apartments with crumbling exterior concrete walls, and in its placed were newly painted buildings that looked as if they would still stand even after a violent earthquake.

One expat living in Tbilisi remarked that Tbilisi looked like “someone just dropped it,” but Kiev was, comparatively speaking, a huge contrast. Instead it looked as if someone had taken their time delicately carving each stone in the cobblestone streets, dexterously sculpting each architectural detail, and masterfully chiseling each perfectly shaped spire that accented many of its buildings. It was hard to imagine how there could be such huge difference between Tbilisi and Kiev, but when Laura commented that ROG had experienced two civil wars it was clear that that was the x-factor in the formula to explain the aesthetic discrepancy between Ukraine and ROG.

As described in the Lonely Planet Ukraine book, Kiev is like “a big shopping mall.” This—to your liking or disliking—is a very good assessment of this magnificent metropolis, and on our first excursion I felt that nothing could calm down my giddiness. I felt as if I had shot caffeine into my veins with a syringe like a die-hard heroine addict—my heart beating at an unhealthy rate—and that the only way to calm down was to stop in every well-inventoried store (there’s no such thing as inventory in ROG) and eat at every restaurant that had everything it displayed on their menus (again, menus are just for show in ROG). Entering every store and restaurant, I was amazed at the service and the way the interiors were organized. It was easy to browse through these stores because the sales representatives didn’t hound you as if you were a thief or a sexy piece of meat, and therefore I was not forced to do the human helicopter—quickly thrusting my arms outward—to physically demonstrate the boundaries of my personal space. Instead, they respected my space by allowing me to browse through the store, and at cafes and restaurants the waiters and waitresses periodically came back with a smile to see if they could get us anything else to make our meal just that much more enjoyable.

Perhaps the highlight—though pathetic it may be—was when John and I made a 2AM trip to the 24-hour grocery store. As we entered its well-lit interior we were star struck. As our eyes wildly darted around the store John started to whimper and get limp in the knees, while I started to hyperventilate and involuntarily convulse. Seeing this magnificent piece of real estate filled with all the goods that we could ever want was—in all seriousness—like winning the lottery. I felt as if at any minute we would fall to our knees as colorful confetti wildly rained down on us and a disco ball glittered in radiant glory, but as we grabbed grocery baskets and nothing happened I was brought back to reality. “I don’t understand,” I breathlessly told John, “how does something like this exist in a Peace Corps country?” There would be many instances where I would say those words during my trip through Ukraine, and even now I still wonder what a Peace Corps Ukraine volunteers experience is like compared to my experience in ROG. That, however, was not the only reason for our shock. The grocery store was situated next to a very hip and happening club, and the only people in the grocery store were young, beautiful, and well-dressed people. “Ukrainians are hot,” I said with John nodding in agreement, “I mean, look at them!” Standing next to them I felt as if I was wearing a fat suit and my name was Helga. The myth was true—Ukrainians are all hot.

-John is confused by the brilliance that is Kiev:

Our time in Kiev was spent walking around in the blistering cold—though usually sunny—and taking in all the glory of a metropolis blanketed in snow and shielded with ice. Because I promised John that I would not complain about the cold in Kiev, it was hard to find other things to concentrate on. Laura and I had developed a plan to fight off the cold—walk at a breakneck pace to keep warm. This strategy initially worked; however, it eventually proved to not be a foolproof plan because we were walking faster than the rest of the group, and we found that we had to momentarily stop for them to catch up. During this time of immobility, we were, once again, paralyzed by the cold, but as our toes went from piercing pain to absolute numbness, Laura and I discovered that staying warm was not the strategy to have, but, rather, it would be easier to take in Kiev’s urban beauty while being completely numb. Some might call this dangerous, stupid, or even “frostbite retardation”; we called it “living on the edge.”

Kiev’s many cobblestone streets were lined with buildings dating from even before the Stalinist era (a miracle because most of Kiev was destroyed during WWII), and elaborate medieval orthodox churches sporadically dotted the cityscape. These ornate orthodox churches had a completely different architectural design than that known in Georgia, and instead of octagonal shaped towers, their exteriors were colorfully painted using stucco instead of brick. When covered with snow, these churches that resembled colorful Easter eggs and were bedecked with gold-plated onion domes that looked like dollops of whipped cream. After spending a couple of days observing the churches and many of the older parts of Kiev, it seemed that Ukraine—or perhaps just Kiev—was heavily influenced by Russia. Our guide, linguistic expert, and my site mate, John Appling, pointed out that even one of the major buildings in the middle of Kiev was a perfect example of Stalinist architecture because it looked as if it was a smaller replica of the Seven Sister Towers in Moscow. Indeed, even some of the churches in Kiev—with enough Ukrainian spirits—looked like St. Basils Cathedral in Moscow.

-the building that looked like the seven sister towers:

A picture summary of Kiev during the daytime:

-John looking holy in church:

-We celebrate making it to Kiev:

-Me in front of a big statue in Kiev (there's one similar to this one in Tbilisi):

-Me looking like a north korean general:

-one of the buildings at the cave monestary:

-Group pic at cave monestary compound:

-matt and I freezing at the monestary:

-Rebecca, Matt, Laura and me in a big square:

-outdoor artisan market in Kiev:

-Matt, laura, and me on top of the hill looking over Kiev:

Independence Square was much larger than Freedom Square and was a central hub point for all of the 2.5 million Kievians, and, as evident by a map of Kiev, all roads lead to Independence Square. Like Rustaveli Street (in Tbilisi), the central road that goes through Independence Square also closes on weekends to allow pedestrian traffic. Absent were the hundreds of beggars and gypsies in ROG, and this could be due to the extremely cold weather or to simple economics. As Laura’s economic knowledge of the art of begging goes, “why would you beg for coins here when they’re worth a fraction of what the Georgian currency is worth?” Indeed, why would you?

As we slowly strolled down the main street of Kiev on Orthodox Christmas night, the main road was flooded with Kievians that were equally excited to be there. Our slow and timely Georgian pace had Kievians quickly speeding past us, and in the midst of all this enthusiastic chaos we slowly took in our surroundings. Sapphire-blue, honey-yellow, effulgent-white, and crimson-red Christmas lights illuminated the streets, pedestrians, and buildings in an eerie glittery glow. As the snow fell from the night sky, they reflected the different warm hues of the lights around us, and it seemed as if millions of iridescent fireflies were slowly descending from the midnight blue sky, and looking past all this, the buildings of Kiev seemed to tower miles above us.

Picture summary of Kiev at night:

-Independence Square at night:

-The Sears equivalent in Kiev:

One of the things that I was most surprised about in Kiev was that everyone was dressed well. Unlike Georgia where black rules, older Kievians dressed as if they were on their way to go to a fine restaurant, while younger Kievians dressed in the latest European fashion trends. There was no uniformity here, and that is what I found most refreshing. As hulking, walrus-like women—walking with their hips first—strutted past us in lustrous fur coats that went down to their ankles—the fur clinging to every hilly curve on their mountainous frames—their fluffy shapkas gently sat on their heads like jeweled crowns. The men were also dressed drastically different from Georgians. Instead of knock-off Adidas tracksuits, here men dressed in suits and overcoats that looked, well, new.

Our time in Kiev was spent looking at the sites and slowly walking to and from places of interest, but the most memorable part of the trip was sitting in the rented apartment and relaxing every night. In Kiev it gets dark at around 4pm, and because of this we would usually be back at the apartment by 5-6pm and call it a night. As we sipped on coffee and tea—the TV blaring the latest musical hits on Ukraine music television—we all sat in the warm, cozy, and modest apartment and relaxed. The fact that the apartment was heated made it that much more luxurious to us, and even though we were not “living it up” in Kiev as many tourists would have probably done, it did not upset us one bit. More importantly, we were not huddling in a tight knit circle around a wood burning stove feverishly rubbing our hands together, or drinking tea at 10pm to stay warm (not for the caffeine to stay awake), but, instead, we were a comfortable five, six, even ten feet apart enjoying each other’s company.

Georgian hosts, with their charming “hospitality,” have a way of holding onto a guest even when the guest is clearly stating, to the bubbling pot of motherly host-love, that they have had enough. Yes, just like a good Georgian host, ROG, with its ample bosom of love and hospitality, would not let Laura, John, Matt, Rebecca, and myself go from its rough, callused exterior without a fight. “Come here so I can suffocate you in my voluminous body,” ROG seemed to say, but all of us had had enough of ROG and were determined to break away from the grips of her meaty hands.

The first day of our journey begins not in Ukraine, but in Tbilisi International Airport. Because our flight was scheduled to leave at 2:30PM (Georgian time) we arrived at the airport two hours early to make sure that we would not have any problems missing the flight. We were, of course, unprepared for what was about to happen. As we searched the different check-in counters to see where we could check-in our massive backpacks that we were all hauling on our weather-beaten bodies, we noticed that none of the displays indicated our flight. Moscow, Tel Aviv, Amsterdam, London, Frankfurt; all the destinations teased us of places where we could be instead of at the smoky Tbilisi International Airport. As we sat upstairs in the waiting area to wait for the check-in counter to open, we suddenly heard a Georgian announcement with the word “Kyev” conspicuously in it, and when, all of a sudden, we heard the English announcement we were all devastated. “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 4PM,” the announcer absentmindedly stated. “Ok, so we’re just a little early,” Laura noted, “at least we’re not late!” Always the optimist, Laura was hopeful that nothing else would happen. This was, of course, not the case at all. “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 5PM,” “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 6PM,” “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 7PM,” the announcer taunted us each hour by the compounding bad news. “We’re never going to leave this place,” I groaned with dread, and as if accepting defeat everyone just sat in silence instead of answering me in an upbeat tone.

Finally, the intercom announced that the flight would be arriving in an hour, and with that we all went to check our bags in. One by one we went through line, when, all of a sudden, something else went wrong. “That guy just wrote down my name as Mrs. John Appling,” Laura said with a tinge of anxiety in her voice. “Don’t worry,” I said reassuring her, “we’re going to Kyev now, what could possibly go wrong?” Ends up that a lot could go wrong. Not only were John and Laura now married without their knowledge, but also the travel agency that we bought our tickets from had given John two tickets and neglected to write a ticket with Laura’s name on it. It was a classic catch-22 where the airline that booked the ticket and the airline that we were flying on couldn’t fix the problem. “Well, we didn’t book the ticket so we can’t really change the name on it,” one airline said. “If we were the ones that were flying you guys to your destination we could fix it,” the other said with a shrug. This, of course, was all happening in Russian (This would be the typical format of conversation with foreigners for the rest of the trip—me standing next to John telling him to tell the person what I was saying) “This is unacceptable!” I yelled at John, “we are their customers, they need to fix this problem because it is their problem!” Laura (who by this time was in near tears) nodded her head in agreement while Matt and Rebecca stood behind us in silence. Finally, one of the airline officials looked at me directly and said, “we understand but we cannot fix it,” in English. Thinking this entire time that my bitching and moaning was acceptable because it was directed towards John, and therefore indirectly relayed to the person via the “John Appling translation filter,” I was suddenly incredibly embarrassed. “Holy crap,” I said as we left their office, my face red with embarrassment, “why didn't you tell me he spoke English!”

Soon we all came to the consensus that Laura would just have to buy a new ticket (at the same price she bought her previous ticket), and that we would get the travel agency to give her a refund (which ended up being no problem at all). With our bags now checked in we cheerfully walked up the steps to the passport check. As everyone went through one-by-one without any problems, me—with my amazing luck—got stuck with the customs lady from Georgian Passport-Check Hell. “You are American?” she suspiciously asked, her eyes darting from my passport to my face for confirmation. “Yup, American,” I responded, and I even flashed her an “American” smile (teeth just whitened!) to confirm that I was, in fact, an American. As she flipped through the passport over and over again—briefly staring at my Georgian visa—she looked up at me again with escalated distrust. I could read from her raised eyebrow; her pinned back hair that was slowly pulling her hair out of her flakey scalp; the hair growing out of her large facial mole; and from her squinted eyes that she would not take my word for it. “This Georgian visa,” she showed me as if I had never seen it before, “who wrote in the dates and approved it?” “The Georgian embassy in DC,” I answered confidently, “I work here as a Peace Corps volunteer—for free,” is what I really wanted to say, but instead I said, “I work here as a Peace Corps volunteer.”

“The dates on this,” she pointed with her fingers nail so sharp I was sure she would stab her finger through my passport, “it is written sloppily.” “Yea, well, that’s Georgians for you!” I wanted to say, but instead I sucked it up and told her I was sorry, hoping that would suffice—it was not enough. “You need a new visa,” she demanded, and as I glared at her I swore that I saw horns rise through her greasy and unwashed hair. “I don’t need a visa,” I desperately explained to this satanic customs lady, “no one needs a visa anymore to come visit Georgia.” As she whispered something to her boss—and as I sat there staring off into space for two minutes—she finally slammed her passport stamp in an open space and I passed through the gates. “Next time,” she warned, “get it fixed!”

As we boarded the plane—Laura and I sitting next to each other—we were both ecstatic to leave the purgatory known as ROG and the hell known as Tbilisi International Airport. Next stop, Paradise!

So my superhero adventures lead me next to Ukraine, and I will be back in mid-January. I have posted three entries just now (with pictures), and they cover christmas and pre-new years. I'll post the new years adventure entry when I return from Ukraine, so until then PEACE OUT!

HOLLA~!

Yuta

Living in a country that goes by the schedule of an orthodox Christmas is just not the same. Instead of celebrating Christmas on December 25, everything here is timed to celebrate Christmas on January 7. Even then, the decorations and preparations are more for New Years than for Christmas, and this is evident with the armies of psychotic children lighting up fireworks and setting them off all over town at random. Walking to work with random explosions going off all around me, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been transplanted to Northern Ireland when the IRA was actively rigging everything with explosives. The first incident happened as I strolled along one of the main streets when a little boy—no older than 10—came sprinting towards my direction screaming, and as I shrugged it off as yet another child-like tick, a firecracker exploded just three feet to my right. A high pitched ringing pursued in my right ear for an hour afterwards, and I vowed that if I ever saw this five-foot punk I would sprint after him, hurl my large body onto his, and take him to the police on charges of attempted murder of a superhero. The catch, though, is that after that first incident, this has happened to me numerous times and I don't think I could ever hunt down all of the kids that have plotted to permanently destroy my hearing. I have since found out that the firecracker attacks are nothing personal, but instead they are used as a cultural tool to ring in the New Year.

“In Georgia, for New Years you make as much noise as possible.” John’s tutor recently informed him that it would be “un-Georgian” to not make noise like it was an MTV Spring Break in Cancun. John’s incredibly nationalist tutor made the point many times that, in addition to the traditions of drinking, eating and greeting people, it is a Georgian’s national duty to celebrate and ring in the New Year by being obnoxious. I suppose this highlights the differences between our cultures and theirs. In America, we patriotically ring in the new year by fiercely downing cocktails and beers before midnight, and as the countdown clock hits zero it is purely American to pop the cork on an expensive bottle of champagne and to down it as fast as humanly possible while involuntarily shaking your head to deal with the carbonation sting. By kissing the closest person next to you, it shows the American hippie culture of free love, and, finally, what better way to show your red-white-and blue pride than to top a rough night of partying and drinking off than with a mimosa or a Blood-Mary with pancakes or waffles thickly layered with butter in the morning to help cope with an intense hangover.

In the coming days—no, months—to New Years, Batumi has seemed to be experiencing a child-led coup. All the little convenient stores began to sell firecrackers, and because these miniature arms dealers have no legal age limit for these insane devices (ticking time bombs, if you will), bored children have been snatching them by the hundreds. At the beginning of December when the random explosions started, I thought that the crime rate had just dramatically increased in Batumi, but when I asked my counterpart about all the noise I was told that it was the sound of New Years approaching. “Don’t you have an age limit for people to buy firecrackers?” I asked my host sister, but when she shrugged it was clear that this prepubescent revolution would persist—and perhaps increase in intensity—the closer we got to New Years. All the chaotic noise was a huge contrast to the colorful Christmas trees, warm weather, and bright fountains.

One afternoon for lunch, I sat in the park eating boloki (sweet bread) and took in my surroundings. There was a group of about fifteen kids that were wildly running around, as if their heads had been chopped off chucking firecrackers at each other while laughing, and as one child’s leg exploded—though regretfully still intact—I started to see things a little differently. I imagined these children wearing forest green army clothes, red bandanas tightly wrapped around their tiny skulls, strategically scurrying from tree to tree. The playground became a battleground, and as they hurled one firecracker grenade after another, smoke, dirt, and debris seemed to fly wildly in the air. These children, in my mind, were like little guerilla fighters that were terrifying the adults of Batumi. No, they were terrorizing ROG as a whole! As I talked about this problem at the Christmas gathering in Tbilisi, the majority of the TEFL volunteers laughed at my claim that I was slowly losing my hearing. “Where have you been?” one volunteer asked me in bewilderment. Apparently I was out of the loop with the child-led coup. “Well, in my class these psychotic kids light firecrackers during class,” one volunteer explained in a seemingly boastful tone. It seemed that at first glance ROG was experiencing a revolution, perhaps named the Diaper Revolution, and was a revolution lead by rogue boys incapable of even heating a can of soup.

Aside from all the chaos, though, New Years seems to be getting everyone excited. “There will be endless amounts of food and drinks,” my host mom said with a wink, “and you’ll be in pain for days because you’ll be so stuffed!” As she shared her excitement for the New Year with me—her eyes were wide with fanatic enthusiasm at the opportunity to share Georgian culture—I had trouble building up the same enthusiasm and excitement that she had. “So are there lots of pretty fireworks and champagne?” I asked eagerly, but when she looked at me with a puzzled look on her face I knew that the answer was no. “No,” my host sister later explained, “New Years isn’t like it is in other countries, we drink lots of wine and the feast starts at midnight.” “What about dancing, clubs, dressing up, and going out with friends?” I asked, but when she too looked at me puzzled I didn’t bother to press the issue any further.

In ROG where many things are different, New Years is no exception. New Years here is more about being with family and making a lot of noise, and at 10:35pm on New Years Eve my family is still feverishly chopping, roasting, steaming, boiling, and cooking up a storm. This preparation has been going on for two days now, and my host-dad has even brought home bottles and bottles of vodka, cognac, and wine from the wine factory that he is the technical director of in preparation. In America where it is all about going to the biggest party with the most booze, here it is about a 24-hour celebration involving an unreasonable amount of food, lots of family, and a flood of guests—oh yea, and also a lot of noise. The food preparation has spilt into the spare bedroom, and right now there are stacks and stacks of vegetables, meat, bread, and other edibles on every available surface. Earlier today as my hand was lodged up a duck’s butt that we were preparing, I had an epiphany. I am being a dutiful PCV by culturally immersing myself, but as I anally probed that duck it hit me that I did not even want to eat all the food that was being prepared. Instead, I thought about how I would rather spend my New Years at some big club popping some Moet Chandon with a bunch of friends and seeing fireworks—not just hearing them—in a big open space. And when the countdown clock hits zero I thought about how great it would be to hear the traditional New Years song while shiny metallic confetti falls on everyone reflecting the light like millions of tiny mirrors. “Wouldn’t it be great,” I thought, “to be able to experience all that this year?” But as I think about where I am and what I’m doing I realize it is just homesickness hitting me again, and that, in fact, I’m glad to be here. Instead of confetti raining down on me while I pop a bottle of champagne, this year I’ll be sitting at a large table surrounded by my host family while we all scream like banshees to ring in the New Year because, after all, that is the Georgian thing to do. And in all the chaos that is the Georgian New Year, I’ll be at a large table that will be overflowing with traditional Georgian food, homemade wine, vodka, and cognac while raising my glass with everyone to toast to Georgia, to family, to friendship, to love, to peace, and, of course, to superheroes.

-My host family and I ringing in the New Year:

Christmas in the capital was, to say the least, interesting. It was a mixture of holiday cheer, holiday depression, and even holiday reflection, and as I spent my time in three different households I discovered the dangers of bad combinations. Combining like six cats in one bedroom; a couple of bottles of wine with an emotional person clinging to their mobile phone; and nearly five hundred people in a train station with a drowsy and grumpy traveler all proved to be bad combinations in retrospect. And as I sit here now writing this entry, I can’t help but think about whether or not this weekend was hilarious and entertaining or just sad. Some parts were definitely fun, but other times it was a little sad to see people display their rawest emotions. Before I start, I want to apologize in advance if the entry jumps around from different places and the flow of the writing is bad.

Arriving in Tbilisi on Friday afternoon, I was going to spend the night at an expat’s house with one of my good friends Eve. While determining which house to cold call to see if we could stay the night, we looked down the list of expats who had agreed to have PCVs come stay with them during weekends. “MUST LIKE KIDS AND RUSSIANS,” one expat specified, “NON-SMOKERS ONLY!” At first glance it was like sifting through a personals ad, and as I selectively looked through each host’s prerequisites I had a hard time determining which place would be the best to stay at. “Well,” one volunteer said, “it’s all about location, you know? You don't want to be stuck going to some place that is really far away from everything!” After talking to that particular volunteer I also felt like it was like searching for a prime piece of real estate. The funny thing, though, was that this volunteer failed to realize that any place that we were invited to stay at would be better—hands down—to our living situation at our sites. “These people are expats,” I reminded the volunteer, “they get paid an American salary and have maids, drivers, and security officers—I think location is a secondary concern.” Finally, I called and asked a very nice lady working at the US Embassy if we could stay at her house for one night, but before she agreed she asked me if I liked cats—a lot of cats, that is.

Eve and I are both cat lovers (I also like dogs too, so I guess I’m an equal opportunity pet-lover—yea yuh), and so the thought of being able to pet cats, see cats, and even lay next to one was an enticing thought. Because the Peace Corps Medical Officer warns us that cats, dogs, and other animals here lack what in the western world is known as “rabies” shots, we are advised not to pet any animal and so we were ecstatic at the thought of being around cats that were a) fixed and b) had their rabies shots.

As we pulled up to the off-white house, I couldn’t believe my eyes at the enormous house I was looking at. “No,” I explained to the driver, “are you sure this is the right address?” When he nodded and demanded five lari I knew that this was the end of the road, and so we got out and timidly walked up to the door. As the Georgian housekeeper answered the door, we walked into an immaculate interior that was centrally heated. “I hope you like cats,” the hostess said as she came down the stairs to greet us. As Eve and I looked around the house, we scanned every crevice, seat surface, and heating vent for any sign of cats, but we could not find any in sight. Soon after dinner, though, we found out that there was no shortage of cats in this house.

“Good night,” I said to Eve, and as I pulled the covers over my head I heard the door creak open. Both excited and nervous, I poked my head out of my covers to see if the cats had entered. “They’re here,” Eve whispered, and as I looked down I saw the six cats regally march into the room. One by one they jumped from Eve’s bed, to the furniture, to my bed, to the floor, to Eve’s bed, to my bed, and for about two hours the cats seemed to be freaking out. “I think they’re drunk or on speed,” I whispered to Eve, but as she shook her head I knew that I was wrong. “Ok,” I admitted, “so alcohol is a downer and speed is an upper, so I guess they can’t be on both.” At last when they finally calmed down, one by one the cats climbed up onto my bed. As I contorted my body so that they would be comfortable, I soon found myself curled up in a fetal position on the top half of a twin-size bed. Maybe it was the lack of affection in my life, or maybe it’s just that I miss cats a lot, but for the entire night I kept shifting my body so that these six cats would be comfortable. When I finally woke up I felt like my back had gone through some medieval torture device, one, I imagined, where you’re folded in half and hit repeatedly in the back with a stick.

Christmas eve was first spent at the Peace Corps administrative officer’s (Adam) house where his son was having his birthday party, and then at another expat’s house where a bunch of PCVs were house sitting. At Adam’s house we roasted hot dogs in a giant bonfire in his yard, ate lots of chocolate, chocolate cake, and helped celebrate his son’s birthday. Seeing his son get excited over his presents and birthday was fun, and I thought back to how excited I used to get over birthdays and Christmas every year when I was a kid. As the night progressed he kept eagerly asking his dad if there were “more gifts,” and when it came time to open his presents his little sisters fervently ripped his presents open for him. “Do they know it’s his birthday and not theirs?” I asked Eve, but before she had a chance to answer it became clear that they were not aware of this fact when—during the birthday song—his sisters blew out his candles for him.

-Eve and I in front of the bonfire:

-Hannah and I in front of the Christmas tree:

-Group picture in Adam’s kitchen:

Later that night, we rushed to get home to meet the volunteers who didn’t attend Adam’s son’s birthday party because they wanted to prepare their own meal instead. Little did we know that we would be walking into an emotional party where the cook was bawling her eyes out because of a bad mixture of homesickness and wine. “Yuta,” Emily said while she loosely held her wine glass and tears rolled down her cheeks, “please eat some of my lasagna and tell me if it’s good…it means a lot to me because I cooked it for you guys!” As we walked up to the dining table, we saw that there had been some drinking going on, and that, my friends, is a horrible combination with the holiday season. “Why is she crying?” I asked Erin. “Oh, you know Emily, whenever she has a little to drink she just breaks down into tears,” Erin told me, and as we saw Emily strut by with her lips pouting, I knew that she had probably finished off an entire bottle by herself.

Later on in the night, as Emily reemerged from her room—eyes swollen—she came in to make sure that I had, in fact, tasted her lasagna. “Delicious,” I reassured her, “I even wanted seconds, and that’s saying a lot because it’s made from dairy!” Because it was the holiday and I wanted everyone to be cheerful instead of reflective and depressed, I suggested that Emily listen to some gangster rap to get her pumped up. “Yea!” she said with newfound enthusiasm, and as she plugged her ipod into the speaker device she took off her “sad” face and put on her “street” face. “YOU BITCHES DON'T KNOW ME!” she emphatically rapped, “BEE-AH! BEE-AH!” The moment the music started Emily had turned into a ghetto superstar and there was no stopping her, and in the wise words of my site mate John Appling, if you can’t beat them, join them. Join her we did.

Soon the kitchen turned into a dance club where we rapped and danced to great artists such as Ludacris, Jay-Z, Camron, Fabolous, and Outkast. As we listened to these lyrical geniuses preach about pimps, prostitutes, sex and drugs, it proved to be a Christmas tradition that none of us had ever experienced. Here is a picture summary of the event:

-Emily raps her emotions away:

-I dance with Erin and Laura in my pajamas:

-Erin and Emily getting into it:

Early on Christmas day I went to the train station to go back to my site because I needed to be at the office on Monday. Upon arrival, though, I found that the train station was in total anarchy and that getting to the front of the line was a nightmare. There are many strategies that I have learned are necessary to buy a ticket here in ROG. There is one maneuver that I have named “the credit card,” and this involves a person to go to the front of the line—not by waiting patiently from the back—and sliding in front of the person at the front from their right or left side. Veterans and ninjas are the only ones capable of pulling off this swift and calculated movement, and because I had a fifty-pound backpack on my back I did not possess the finesse necessary to do it. Another maneuver commonly used is called “the posse,” where a group of Georgian men will push to the front with all their might, and by brute force will knock away any man, woman, child or crippled human being. This tactic is most effective when you have a policeman as a member of your posse; however, because I was lacking in finesse or a spare policeman friend, I instead stood patiently at the very back of the line as a crowd of uncharacteristically wild and competitive Georgians vied for the last few tickets to Batumi. By the time I got to the front, all the tickets to Batumi were sold out for the day and I found myself buying a ticket for the following day instead. Christmas, it seemed, would be spent in Tbilisi, and I felt good that it wasn't my conscious choice to ditch work on Monday to stay for Christmas. “It is out of my control,” I reassuringly told myself, “nope, nothing I could do about it!”

Later that day, a couple of PCVs and I went back to Adam’s for the white elephant gift exchange where I secured myself four mach 3 razors. It was nice to spend time with other expats and PCVs in one place, and at one point it even snowed! All the PCVs that were from the south sprinted outside to take in the view, and as the PCVs from the north yawned at such common developments, we were childishly sticking out our tongues to try to catch snowflakes and taking pictures of us playing in the snow. Overall the event was fun and can best be explained through pictures, so enjoy!

-Eve and I in the snow:

-The gifts for the gift exchange (yes, one is wrapped in a sock):

-PCVs eagerly opening gifts:

-Tbilisi covered in snow:

-The feast:

-PCVs lounging:

When we returned that night to the expat’s house that some of us were staying at, it was also a very relaxed atmosphere. Even in ROG, the mood for Christmas is the same as it is in America, and as we all sat around the kitchen table while listening to Christmas music and eating junk food, we kept glancing down at our mobile phones in anticipation of a call from back home. One-by-one the phones started to ring, and as the each person grabbed their phone and ran into the other room an odd feeling lingered in the air. Here we were all gathered to celebrate Christmas together, but we couldn’t shake off the feeling that we were all missing something back home. As each person surfaced from his or her room, their eyes swollen and noses still running (except me, I don't cry), no one really knew what to say, and I even found that in an unconventional moment that I was also speechless. Unable and unwilling to talk about how we missed our family and friends, we instead started to play cards. As I held my hand of cards and stuffed my face with peanut m&m’s, I thought about what I got for Christmas this year—four mach 3 razors at the gift exchange and cologne that I purchased for myself. Having hot water, electricity, an abundance of food, and being in the company of great friends and chocolate, though, who needs much else right now?

-Laura and I:

-Laura, me, and Lee: