Some of you may know the terrible saga of my bald book--This Day in Bald History. Three years ago I set out to write a Page-A-Day calendar that would list the accomplishments of bald people. I thought it would be funny. I thought it would sell.

I was wrong.

A couple of publishing houses passed on the book, and I responded to the rejection by leaving the country for two years to lick my wounds amidst the comforts of former-Soviet decay. But now I'm back. And I haven't given up the dream. So against common sense and better judgment, I'm bringing Bald History directly to the public via:

http://thisdayinbaldhistory.com

To have compiled so much useless information on bald people is truly absurd and frankly, I think I deserve some sort of acclaim for it. The site will be updated daily so every day will enlighten the public on some aspect of bald history. It's like an advent calendar, but without chocolate.

So visit the site. Tell a friend. Tell a publisher. And try not to think about the days and hours I spent on this.

While the snow buried Seattle, I was confined to a Ballard recording studio (Fitz's closet) to record a podcast for The Dirtbag Diaries, an outdoor adventure podcast sponsored by Patagonia and largely written by Fitz Cahall, a fine American and credit to his people.

The title of mine is "Bedtime Stories for Wanderers." For those interested, you can listen to me recount how my dad's travel stories inspired me to be more curious about the world and eventually lead me to the Republic of Georgia. Just follow the link below.

Bedtime Stories for Wanderers, by Ryan Nickum

OUR BEDROOM WINDOW: GEORGIAN FLAG AND MY HAND X-RAY

Where's Nickum? Oh, here and there. Mostly he's found in his cubicle putting the necessary data into the correct boxes and checking the tax status of various non-profits. Sometimes he can be found picking up his dog's poop with a small plastic bag, which is quite degrading. Long gone are the days of napping. In place of it, he spends a lot of time riding the bus to and from work. There is never enough time in America. There are errands to run, a dog to train, bills to pay, and wor work work.

In America the neighbors never walk in and drag him off to guzzle wine at a supra. His co-workers don't sit down to a wine-fueled feast when someone fixes the copier.

But it's not all daily grind. There's good coffee to drink, apple cider to press, Texas to visit, NFL football, and friends to marry (Ryan is now a Reverend in the Universal Life Church--the one you can join for free on the Internet). Even as a man of the cloth he remains the same guy.

So as Russian tanks retreat from his home of two years Ryan goes about his normal American life. He and Paige plop down on the couch and eat a pizza slice or some pork roast as they watch the news. It's pretty cool. Due to a computer malfunction there's no photographic record of his time in Texas or at Pojken and Chaitee's wedding.

But make no mistake, he's glad to be back, even if the dog wakes him up every hour through the night because it has the runs and needs to go outside to carpet bomb the neighbor's landscaping.

While life is busy here, Georgia is still on his mind a lot, especially with all that's going on. Soon he, Paige and fellow volunteer Nicholas will be hosting a social fundraiser to raise aid money for those impacted by the recent war in Georgia. It will be a supra. Horns will be filled with wine, the table will sag under the food and we will toasts to our friends and host families back in Georgia.

Life is good here. I hope it is back in Georgia as well.

I'll keep updating this with news and links as I receive them. Currently, Peace Corps is relocating their volunteers to Armenia. Here are some links that might be of interest:

http://joshuatrevino.com/?p=638

http://georgiamfa.blogspot.com/

http://georgiandaily.com/

http://eurasianet.org/resource/georgia/index.shtml

http://civil.ge/eng/

I've been back in the states since July 17th, but things have definitely changed since I've been gone. According to news reports Georgian troops have been battling in the separatist region of South Ossetia. Russia has sent troops into the region and their jets have bombed various points inside Georgia.

Obviously, we're worried sick about our Georgian friends and fellow volunteers there and are watching the situation closely. Unfortunately, John Edwards couldn't keep it in his pants and now his infidelity is occupying the cable news. I've included some news links and first hand accounts below that might interest any of you trying to keep up on the situation there. I'll try to update it when possible as I hear news from those over there.

Links that may update their news on Georgia more regularly:

http://eurasianet.org/

http://www.civilgeorgia.ge/eng/

http://georgia.usembassy.gov/

http://www.alertnet.org/

http://wwitv.com/portal.htm?http://wwitv.com/television/index.html?http://wwitv.com/tv_channels/7123.htm (you can watch Georgian TV station Rustavi2 live on this I think).

We haven't really heard much from the Peace Corps volunteers still in Georgia. Many of the phones have been down since Russian bombs have taken out some of the cell towers, including one in Gori. One volunteer in Gori is said to have had all her office windows blown out by a bomb that struck nearby. People in Launchkhuti say they've seen the bombs or missles flying overhead. It was confirmed with locals that some bombs dropped in Poti, a port town on the Black Sea.

I'll update this as I receive news.

With one week to go I can't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. I'm not a terribly emotional person, but I think departing is going to be an absolute roller coaster of emotions. Saying goodbye to my host family is going to be hard. I've lived with them at their house longer than any place except my parents. Saying goodbye to the close friends who've shared the good times and bad times won't be easy.

On the other hand there is a lot of excitement, not just to be getting home to see everyone, but also it means I don't have to put up with some of the hassles I've had to endure here. I'm looking forward to not standing out in a crowd and being stared at everywhere I go. I can't wait to be anonymous.

So there's only a few more supras to go and then one long mini-bus ride across the country. The puppy needs one more shot and then I think we're set. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will all go smoothly, but that seems to never be the case here. The unexpected always seems to happen.

I don't have any photos to post because my laptop chord broke and the battery is dead. Once I get back to the states I'll load a bunch more on this. I plan also to photograph all the delicious foods I'm going to eat in Seattle and Texas and post them for the PCVs still in Georgia to look at. And then that should be pretty much it for this blog...

See you all soon.

PS: I apologize to Judy for the delay in my posts. For all of you who keep track of Paige through my blog because she NEVER updates hers here's an update: Paige is doing well. She is eating 3 square meals a day and getting plenty of rest. She's been working on her tan at the beach and researching jobs in Seattle. She's been going over family photos with me and quizzing me on every one's identity (I keep getting Hunter and Hudson and Harrison mixed up). We'll be back in Texas in early August just in time for the serious heat. She's looking forward to eating BBQ and Ma Sue and Julie's home cooking as well drinking a margarita and catching up with everyone.

I CLEAN UP MAKA'S MESS ON JEFF'S CARPET

So it turns out that airlines and airports are all part of a vast conspiracy to keep Paige and I from returning with our puppy. We've spent much of the past two weeks battling with them, making repeated phone calls, trips to airline offices, sending emails and all the rest. It's been an absolute nightmare.

MAKA ALSO ENJOYS SNEAKING INTO THE STORE ROOM TO EAT THE SPILLED CORN FLOUR

But finally it seems like we might be out of the woods--although with an increased price tag for our tickets. This dog is proving to be expensive. However, since everything has consistently gone wrong with this we aren't prepared to congratulate ourselves just yet. As it stands now, we will by flying home on the 17th with our puppy stored below in the luggage area. She'll have all of her shots and her puppy passport.

In the meantime, I've been busy shuttling her between my village and Tbilisi for her vet appointments. For a small puppy, she behaves really well on the five hour trips to the capital on crowded mini-buses. Mostly she just sleeps, which is a nice vacation from her other hobbies of chewing my pant legs, eating chicken crap in the yard and finding dead chickens and birds to snack on in the vineyard. I think no matter how well we train her, she will always be part street dog.

SHE HAS AN AWKWARD RUNNING STYLE

BBQ UNDER THE CRUMBLING BRIDGE NEAR THE MAN IN HIS TIGHTY WHITEYS WASHING HIS CAR

My time is almost up here in old Sakartvelo. In six weeks I’ll be headed home. To be more precise, I will be departing in exactly 886 hours. But who’s counting?

The vast majority of my students have ceased doing their homework or class work, but continue to attend the lessons. Summeritis is upon us all. So school drags on, but the last day of school is fast approaching. Only 8 more school days to go...

While it’s probably a little premature, I recently cleaned out my room, sorting through the heaps of paper and mess strewn about. During the cleaning I came across piles of notebooks from my first six-months in my village. They were filled with the notes of all the projects I’d hoped to work on for my school and community.

Inside were surveys of local needs, strategic plans, project outlines, and notes from meetings with Jeff, the other volunteer in my area. Inside were the details of the Youth Activity Center we’d hoped to start. There was our research on how we could bring an Internet café to the area and for a girls’ basketball league. There were our notes on starting a local NGO and on a regional wine festival. There were lists of after-school activities and clubs, and numerous other ideas that never came to be. And not from a lack of trying.

I think sometime down the road I’ll look back on my time here and I’ll see that I’ve accomplished more than what it seems like now. Still, when you’re tossing out piles of English tests in which many of the students did little more than sign their name in Georgian... well it can feel a little discouraging.

So with all this weighing on my mind, I met up with some fellow volunteers for a BBQ at the river near my house. In addition to grilling up kebabs we also used the open flame to help us make a break with some of the bad memories from our time here. Each of us brought three items to burn. I brought one my student’s tests, some pages for a textbook we tried to write, and a notebook full of Jeff and my plans for improving out community.

JEFF AND I BURN OUR NGO PLANS

The purpose of this pyre was to put these disappointments behind us, but while it felt good to burn them it didn’t necessarily make me feel better about what I’ve accomplished here. So when the BBQ was over and we walked back to Jeff’s house I still felt low. Along the way we came across a street dog nursing it’s three puppies and we stopped to pet it. As the puppies crawled over our feet Paige and I each decided simultaneously we needed to take one back to America.

STREET DOG NURSING PUPPIES

I know I said “No more dogs in Georgia.” I know that. But we had to take this one. We have no idea what breed she is, but she’s friendly, adventurous, and despite the worms and fleas, she’s a delight to be around.

MAKA

So this is going to be my legacy. For two years I struggled to improve my school and my community. But the one tangible legacy I’m going to leave behind is that I rescued one dingy puppy from a life on the streets of Bagdati to take back to America and feed it puppy chow and keep it free of fleas and ticks and mange. This is our legacy—Maka the puppy.

By the Georgian calendar, Easter was a few weeks ago. People greet one another by saying “Christ is risen” and reply by saying “It is true.”

In my village, the tradition is to head to the graveyard on Easter, gather with friends and family, and toast to your departed relatives and neighbors. People wander the graveyard, dropping by to visit other graves and toast to those they knew. By the time you turn 60 (like my host father) you tend to have known a lot of people who have died and it takes a lot of wine to toast them all. After numerous toasts the graveyard becomes to difficult to navigate through.

Prior to Easter, many Georgians fasted (no meat or dairy) for 40+ days. So this day is also a celebration of all the foods they missed, as you can see from my host mother relishing her piece of khatchapuri (cheese bread).

A lot of you are probably wondering, “Ryan, you’re a poorly dressed bald guy with limited earning potential and a penchant for tacky art and a shabby collection of kitchen magnets. So how is it you convinced Paige to marry you?”

I’m glad you asked. Marriage is not something to be taken lightly. It takes a lot of thought. For instance, one has to decide if the woman sitting beside him is truly the person he wants to wake him up in the middle of the night for the rest of his life to tell him to stop snoring? Is she uniquely qualified to balance the checking account? Can she do my taxes? Those are all important things to consider.

But so is the issue of children. That’s why before we became engaged, we went out and rented this “starter family.” For the low rate of $10 a day, you can test out your parenting skills with these adorable rental children. Paige proved a capable of diaper changer and was able to distract them with key chains when they started to cry. She's quite a catch.

They say that breakfast is the most important meal. A solid breakfast kick starts your metabolism and provides energy for your busy day. But is that still true when breakfast includes three shots of vodka?

Is homemade hooch part of this complete breakfast? It’s hard to say. Luckily, according to tradition in Guria (a region in Georgia), the limit is three shots with breakfast. After all, there’s work to be done that day.

A morning of vodka may sound odd to many of my countrymen, but it’s amazing how easily they can be convinced of the benefits.

Above, my brother questions the logic of combining vodka with his morning toast and jam.

Here Paige explains how the best part of waking up is Folgers AND vodka in your cup.

Stuart accepts this logic as Paige pours him another shot. Stuart mentally prepares his tastebuds and stomach of what's to come.

Having already embraced the vodka breakfast, my dad suddenly feels that he has another toast in him and that he would like to break the Gurian tradition and make it a 4 shot breakfast, after all, he’s on vacation and has no work to do.

And so four shots it was. As you can tell from the photo my mother is kind of laughing, but probably wondering if this is a tradition my father will be bringing back to America with him.

So let me think... what's new? Been eating a lot of khatchapuri... uhm, attending supras... teaching the children... hmmm, oh yeah, and I got engaged to my girlfriend Paige Weldon. Pretty exciting, although it's hard to tell if Paige agrees with that sentiment from the picture.

We'd discussed getting married before, but it really gained steam after we met each others' parents over the past month when they visited Georgia. Both of us felt at ease with the other's family and really enjoyed them. A close family is only one the things that Paige and I have in common. As the months have passed, and our feelings have deepened, we've discovered more and more just how well we compliment one another.

I called Paige's parents before I proposed to ask for their blessings and they agreed--I was much relieved. I regret that I did it over the phone, as it would have been much better to do it in person, but Paige and I were eager to move ahead. Paige's father has assured me that even though he's given his blessings, when I get to Texas we're still going to have THE talk.

Since hardly any of you back home know Paige Weldon let me give you her vitals:

Born: September 19, 1981

Height: 5'4 3/4

Hometown: Longview, TX

Education: BA in Journalism and English from Texas A&M

Current Hobbies: Reading, baking chocolate chip cookies with cornflour, attempting to stay warm in winter, teaching children, talking about Mexican food, photographing large pigs in her village, spending time with her fiance (Me).

Fears: Spiders

Paige is also very kind, generous, caring, fun, and is good with small children and animals, including these abandoned puppies in Batumi.

We met in Peace Corps and have been dating since September of 2006. We've spent practically every weekend and all our vacation days together. She's awesome and I'm completely in love with her. Against all reason and common sense, Paige seems to feel the same for me, thus I did not need to bridenap her and stuff her in the back of a marshutka (see picture), as she happily agreed to get married.

At this point we don't have any specific wedding plans, but we're intent on it costing a fortune, be full of drama, and to be extremely stressful for not only us, but all our friends and family. We both agree that the best way to start a life together is by burning everyone you care about, going into debt, and exhausting every ounce of patience for one another. I hope you're already for 1001 Arabian Nights themed wedding in Cabo San Lucas!

The decision to get married was incredibly easy, not that we didn't give it a lot of thought. Certainly there was some peer-pressure from some of the other volunteers. And my mother did mention a couple hundred times how much she liked Paige and how I "better not screw this up."

I can't wait to bring Paige back to Seattle and introduce her to all of you. I think you'll all really like her. And if you don't then you're a complete jerk. And I can't wait to get down to Texas to meet the rest of Paige's family and friends and everyone there who cares about her like I do. Both Paige and I are really excited about returning to America and starting our lives together. We are really happy.

WE STROLL THE BATUMI BEACH

My parents and brother just got on a plane to return to America after a couple weeks here in Georgia and I already miss them. Together we saw many historical and interesting sites, but I know what impressed them the most was the people. Between meeting host families, counterparts, fellow volunteers, and Paige, my family walked away from Georgia in high spirits and with a lot of new people to call family.

MY DAD AND OMARI TOAST

Throughout their stay they endured supra after supra with impressive stamina. Stuart even heroically put down four horns at one supra, an impressive feat. I think they were overwhelmed by the generosity of my host family and the other locals who took us into our home, toasted our family and ancestors, and fed us ridiculous amounts of food and wine. Georgia won a few more fans in America.

It was especially nice for me to see them after so many months apart. And after having a great time with Paige’s family when they visited, she got to get to know my family as well. Everyone hit it off.

My HOST MOTHER LELA, MY MOM AND STUART

It was a fairly emotional time for me, as everyone went out of their way to make my family feel at home. Numerous toasts at numerous supras revolved around the theme of the importance of family, and the people I know here thanked my parents for raising me right and they in turn thanked all the locals for taking such good care of me.

MR NICKUM DRINKS HIS HORN WITH EASE

It was really nice to get to see Georgia through the new eyes of my family and it reminded me of so many of the positives of life here. The last two weeks (along with the time I spent with Paige’s wonderful family) were some of the best times I’ve had here and I will think back on them fondly in the years ahead.

It was a great visit. Thanks Georgia.

STUART AND I DRINK THE 2ND HORN OF THE EVENING

When it comes to keeping up to date on American sports, my location does no favors. My quaint and scenic village is a virtual black hole for sports news. From the few television channels at my house, all I've learned of American sports in the past year is that Shaq was traded.

I watched a DVD of the Super Bowl... a month ago. I'm currently reading an old Sports Illustrated detailing the Jason Kidd trade. I listen to podcasts of sports talk radio from January--"There's no way the Giants can beat the Pats. No way..." I'm simply not very up to date.

And it's been that way for almost two years. I don't recognized half the current Mariner roster. I only recently discovered the Sonics were being taken away to Oklahoma City and thus, have only begun to imagine various scenarios in which David Stern, Howard Schulz, and the new owners meet an unpleasant demise in a manner fitting their treachery. Basically I'm totally out of the sports loop. But despite my total lack of knowledge I STILL WON THE NCAA TOURNAMENT BETTING POOL!

Luther, Fitz, Becca, Sai, Taylor, Lil' Ryan--all of them lost to a guy who can't name a single guy in the tourney. I owe it all to Memphis and also to my intuitive sports skills. Okay, maybe it was just luck. And while I recognize that my victory was hollow (no money on it), I'm looking forward to being back, going to Mariners games, watching Seahawk games at Luther's (Justin needs to give me my seat back) and eventually rooting for the Trailblazers and sending hate mail to David Stern. Paige and I have already negotiated the amount of SportsCenter I can watch and that Sundays are sacred days to watch football and eat pizza.

Two years is way to long to go without televised sports. I'm looking forward to catching up, learning who the new players are, watching the NFL draft with my brother and just generally being a typical American guy. And once I'm caught up, I predict I win the NCAA tournament betting pool next year as well.

Sometimes in life we experience a higher calling. I received mine the other day when my school Director told me the local priests needed me to take photos of the paintings in various area churches and monasteries. I have a camera. I have free time. I'LL DO IT!!!

And so I did. I even got to eat lunch with the local monks, eating a deliciuos fried mushrooms dish and a green salad with vinagrette.

There are few traditions like the Georgian road trip. We traveled down the numerous four lane freeways, stopping off for fast food along the way and dining and dashing at Dennys. There's just nothing like it.

Sometimes you just feel like gathering your friends together and Paige's younger brother Brady and go find a church roof to sit on to watch the sunset.

Segnagi is a lovely town in the west and I would recommend visiting it. For some incomprehensible reason there's a Mexican restaurant there. Actually quite tasty.

Against all logic Paige continues to date me.

As most of you know Jen McFann is my sworn enemy. Her endless comments about my baldness and old age play like a broken record. My glasses are constantly smudged by her grimy thumbs and she constantly mentions that she’s a published author and I’m a hack. Her Georgian language skills are very impressive and she insists on mocking mine and how I get by with my pigeon Georgian and ridiculous hand gestures. I loathe you Jen McFann.

Jen’s birthday is approaching and with it she grows closer to becoming old herself. I welcome this development. I look forward to toasting her at her birthday, and I will do so with beer and I will hold it in my left hand, as this is how you toast your enemies in Georgia.

And even though I hope she gets leprosy and ends up living as a reindeer herder in the wastes of Siberia or pulling a rickshaw for pennies in Rangoon, I do have one positive thing to say about her: Her blog is really funny and you should check it out. There’s a link to it (Jen in Georgia) on my blog. I encourage you to read it and then I encourage you to leave nasty comments on it.

Someday, when Jen is appointed Secretary of State, I will go to the press with shameful stories about her. I will ruin her political career if it’s the last thing I do. That punishment is for cooking the worst fried rice I’ve ever tasted and for constantly talking about Star Trek, X-Files and the Hanson brothers. Always going on about the stupid Hanson brothers. But before I ruin her I suggest you read her blog and laugh at the humor in it just as I do.

Go to hell Jen.

The run up to the language competition was one of dread and foreboding. My students generally avoided writing the essays that would make them eligible to participate. Some grades didn’t even field a single student. And the general mood of many of my best students was one of lethargy and reluctance. However, at the last moment a few more students came forward and 18 eventually attended the competition.

DIMI'S FINEST

Last year my school had a couple 4th place finishes. But this year Dimi kicked ass. Of the 28 prizes available Dimi won six and there were even three more schools competing this year. I was incredibly proud of them, especially of Tamuna, the 11th grade winner who came out of nowhere to win 1st place.

TAMUNA

The students were interviewed by a pair of American volunteers, from the 20 who showed up to judge the competition. They also wrote creative essays and the judges combined the scores to determine the winners. All students received certificates of participation and the winners received books as prizes. In all, it was a great success and I’ll try to remember the days like this one when I’m back in America.

Of course after anything significant we have to have a supra and so we did. I played the role of Tamada and led the table of Georgian teachers and American volunteers in the toasting. We toasted to each other, to Georgia and American friendship, to our students and counterparts and numerous other toasts. Our toasts were long and heartfelt, our glasses refilled often, and the supra was a mixture of Georgian and American traditions.

When it was over we all went back to Jeff’s house, except those of us who were dragged into a private room in the restaurant to drink vodka shots with some local men. Normally this offer is refused, but since Jeff’s host father was one of the men we gave in.

Soon we were back at Jeff’s and turned his tiny apartment into a dance party and the revelry continued until late into the night. For the 2nd year in a row the English Competition was the party of the year and definitely the place to be. If anyone from back home could have seen the day’s events you’d all be shocked by how Georgian we’ve all become.

NICHOLAS AND JEFF MAKE UP FOR THE TIME JEFF WASHED HIS SOCKS IN THE SINK

So thanks to all the teachers and volunteers who made this day possible. And thanks especially to the students who participated with enthusiasm and skill and made us feel like our efforts are having some impact. It was a great day and one we will cherish for years.

DIMI’S GAMARJOS!!!

Here in Georgia it’s like someone just hit a switch and suddenly it’s spring. One week there’s snow everywhere and the next the apple trees are budding, daffodils are blooming, the sun is shining, and Peace Corps volunteers have taken a break from beating their heads against the wall.

My host mother told me that March is like a woman. One day it is bright and cheerful and the next day it stormy and the next it’s crying. Certainly the weather will be a mixed bag, but I think the dreary days of winter are finally behind us.

But SPRING is here! And not a moment too soon. Maybe now the numbness in my toes will disappear. The sun’s rays have improved the mood of volunteers, nurtured the plants, brought light to the world, provided solar energy and much needed Vitamin D, but they have been powerless against the majority of my students and their loathing for homework and class work.

I turned 32 last week, an age that awards me even more insults and teasing from the younger volunteers. The Georgian tradition of treating your elders with courtesy and reverence has failed to rub off on my fellow volunteers apparently. I celebrated my advanced age by playing grownup. Paige and I cooked meals at a friend’s apartment in Kutaisi, including a delicious BBQ chicken pizza. We drank coffee in the morning, sipped our wine and dreamed of the day we’d be at Target purchasing kitchenware. This may not sound exciting to all of you back home, but an apartment with a hot shower, a sorbet maker and an oven that works is pretty cool to us.

Paige made the mistake of putting my birthday candles in an apple crumble fresh out of the oven and it melted the candles. The bits of wax did little to take away from the flavor and I’ve forgiven her.

As any of you who have spoken to me in recent months are well aware of, my mood has been at an all-time low. School has been less than inspiring of late. There seems to be little overall change on the horizon, but I was awarded one reassuring moment when one of my favorite students won 2nd place for our region in a nationwide essay contest. Little Ann Gorgodze’s essay on why girls are better than boys won over the judges. Her arguments were sound and persuasive apparently, much to the detriment of my gender. Ann was one of the few students from my school who participated in the contest.

I literally couldn’t wait to get to school to tell her the news. She’ll get a certificate for a prize, but I also gave her a leather journal and a small poster. I don’t know if you can read the writing on the white board behind her, but it says, “Ann Gorgodze is cool!!!”

While so many of my students have literally stopped doing any work, Ann and a handful of students in her class have continued to buck the trend and it’s their enthusiasm that keeps me returning to school day after day. Today they even sang me a belated happy birthday and I’m a sucker for such gestures.

This Saturday some of my students will be participating in a regional language competition that was created by a fellow volunteer and myself. We have 19 volunteers coming to serve as judges, which is about how many students who will be participating from my school. Last year my school did not place very high, but I’m hoping this is the year we clean up. I’m not saying we’re going to. I’m just hoping.

I’ve been having my students write essays in preparation. One 7th grader wrote a wonderful essay today. The topic was “Invite a famous person to visit your village.” Young Giorgi chose to invite Brittney Spears, despite my explanation that she’s totally crazy and would make a poor houseguest. In his letter, Giorgi offered to show her his school and village and lend her his rubber boots so she could feed the cows and slop the pigs. He offered to grill some ribs for her as a symbol of his love. I was oddly proud.

I’ve dropped a few of the classes in which no one seems to want to participate. I’ve focused my energies on the classes in which the students are eager or willing to participate and this has kept walking to school in the morning from being soul destroying.

Frequent reassessments as to how to direct one’s efforts are a constant for us volunteers. Recently I was hanging out with my friend Jeff, a volunteer in the neighboring village, and we came across some files from our first year here and practically split our guts laughing at our naiveté. There were careful outlines for a youth center, after school sports programs, various summer camps, an NGO, and a local wine festival to attract tourists. What enthusiasm! What idealism! What... the hell were we thinking? So we’ve lowered the bar a bit and are using new barometers to measure success. This should curb our disappointment.

So time seems to be moving along a little faster here (127 days to go hopefully). There has been a lull in the supras in my village, which is a welcome reprieve. Of course, just as I write this there’s a lively group of men outside my gate clamoring for my host father and I to come with them so I might have spoken too soon... never mind. I’m in the clear. My host father told him it was not the night for revelry.

In local news, the chickens of the neighborhood have been decimated by area hawks. Proper disposal of the carcasses turns out to be stuffing them in the wood stove. This comes as quite a surprise when you go to stoke the fire and discover a half charred chicken staring back at you.

But despite the death of local chickens, things here are much improved. I spent much of the day chopping firewood, an activity that gives me a sense of accomplishment. Not sure about the timing of chopping firewood now that the weather’s turned warm, but what the heck.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and hope on the horizon, and winter has turned to spring, and various other metaphors that symbolize a much-improved existence. My parents and brother will likely be visiting soon and it will be fun to show them Georgia, introduce them to my friends, fellow teachers, students and host family, as well as show them what I’ve been doing for the past 20 months.

Omari gives a toast while drinking wine from a bowl.

The legend of my host father Omari reaches far and wide. He’s not only known throughout my small village and neighboring towns, he’s also got a reputation in the neighboring city of Kutaisi. Suspicious people stop me and ask me where I’m from, what I’m doing here and where I live. I fumble through my well-rehearsed answers and they eye me warily, but once I mention who my host father is the suspicion wanes, they take a step back and sheer awe envelops my inquisitors. There eyes light up. “Omari? Ahh! Omari svams bevri!” And it’s true. My host father can drink a lot. According to local legend, 16 liters in a single supra.

My host father is the go to guy for wine and everything associated with it. He makes the good stuff. He’s the first choice to be tamada (toast master) at a supra. People have given him furniture out of gratitude for his ability to lead a supra. And he can out drink anyone. ANYONE. And the amazing thing about his ability to drink is that he does it with such ease. While many area men spend their free time practicing the art of drinking daily, Omari doesn’t. At home he simply works in the yard, eats his meals and watches television. He gets up at 8:00 and goes to work. He doesn’t party alone or at home. He has what one might call “restraint.” However, when a supra calls, and it calls often in my village, Omari steps up, throws down and leaves the locals in his wake. It’s truly a sight to behold.

My host mother teases him when he returns from a supra, or three. “You keep drinking wine like you do and you’re going to die!” Omari stands up straight, stretches his arms out and explains that he’s too strong for death.

Death does not want to knock on Omari’s door. Omari will whip its ass. Or challenge it to a drinking contest. And if Death accepted then perhaps there would be no more death and we could all live forever. My money’s on Omari.

Many a supra has been had where the participants have fallen asleep at the table, slunk off to bed or otherwise cried uncle. And all the while Omari drinks from the big cup and maintains the appearance of total sobriety. At most supras everyone is yelling and talking while the tamada tries to lead the toasts. But when Omari demands silence everyone at the tables grow quiet—except for his wife, who is just as large a personality and the tamada for the women’s supras. Whatever power Omari possesses to silence a crowd, I wish I had it for class.

Omari gives a taste of wine to his grandson at his baptism supra.

My first day in my village Omari and I walked down the road to a neighbor’s house. Omari does not talk very much, unless he’s leading a supra, so we walked in silence. My road is dusty and potholed and appears to be something out of an old western. And as Omari walked in slow measured steps the western motif grew. Walking down the road with him is like walking beside a gunslinger at high noon. Children who are yelling and playing grow silent. Dogs ambling up the road dart into the bushes. Cows stop their grazing. Neighbors bow in reverence. Omari commands respect.

In Georgia, everybody has a “patroni,” somebody who is responsible for your wellbeing and safety. It can be any male relative and having a good patroni means people are less likely to mess with you. My patroni is Omari and the world seems a lot safer knowing that this man has my back. I wish I could take him back to America with me. I still have some grudges from high school that I would like his assistance in resolving.

Recently, my friend Cuttino was at a restaurant in Kutaisi with his fiancé (a Peace Corps volunteer from Jordan) and a dozen other volunteers. It was the first time anyone had met Cuttino’s fiancé and they were holding a supra in her honor. I couldn’t come because I was attending other supras with Omari (he’s a hard guy to say “no” to). However, as we drove through Kutaisi I asked if we could stop at the restaurant briefly to make a quick toast and say hello. Omari approved so we stopped at the restaurant and Omari and I went in.

Omari is a giant. He’s well over 6 feet tall, which is huge for Georgians. But it’s not just his height, it’s his whole presence. The guy seems ten feet tall. So Omari and I walked into the room. A former restaurant owner himself, Omari is all class and he immediately went up to the waiter and explained that these Americans were his guests and he’d better take good care of them and not rip them off. Then he ordered two pitchers of wine, mocked the waiter for the high price and returned to the table to toast the soon to be bride and groom. He also told the other girls at the table not to worry, they were all very pretty and would be married soon. Toast completed, he tilted his glass back, drank it to the bottom, told them goodnight and gave me the nod that meant, “We’re out of here.” We didn’t have a lot of time. Omari was needed in a neighboring town to lead another supra. Weeks afterwards, volunteers who were at the restaurant were still talking about Omari. “That’s your host dad? Man that guy is so cool!”

There are those people in your life who will always stand out and take up a bigger piece of your memories simply because their presence is so large, their personalities so huge. Omari will always be one of those people for me. Not only is the guy as hell, but he’s also a responsible and caring man, a good husband, host father, father and grandfather. Dude is larger than life and he’s my patroni.

Omari drinks a horn of wine.

BIG THUMBS UP FOR ANOTHER DAY OF SNOW AND COLD

Tis the season for... well... not much really. Here in my village Winter has slammed us with some truly awful weather. Last year we had a few days of snow and subfreezing weather. This year it has just been one dumping of snow after another. Most of the homes in my village don't have gas and must heat their homes with wood stoves. The government has reduced the amount of logging in the neighboring mountains so people generally scavenge the forests for fallen limbs instead. These are dragged back to the house and we cut them using a two-person saw. I really enjoy this chore because it gives me a sense of accomplishment, something I don't get much of in my other endeavors here.

MY HOST PARENTS AND THE GRANDKIDS

My host family continues to be one of the best aspects of life here. They're funny, outgoing, warm, and generous. Occasionally the grandkids visit and when they do we light the woodstove and play with them. The kids are particularly enamored with my cell phone's ring tones.

Because of the bitter cold and lack of heat, I find myself spending a lot of time in my sleeping bag listening to podcasts. There are often supras to attend, but for the most part there is just a lot of free time, but because of the weather there's not many good ways to spend it. I'd like to sit up and write, but my fingers quickly grow numb. Also the power goes out a lot when there's snow and my computer rapidly runs out of batteries. So for entertainment I watch the neighbor's ducks wander the dirt road. I check up on the Stalin statue to see how the snow has altered his hairstyle. I watch the stars come out on clear nights and make frequent cups of coffee. On weekends I usually escape to other volunteers' sites or head to Tbilisi. My feet have been numb for six weeks now and even the occasional hot shower in Tbilisi fails to revive them. This can't be good.

ONE OF MY FAVORITE CLASSES

Winter here can sort of crush your spirit. This seems to be the case for many of my students as well. Their efforts have declined dramatically and it's not unusual for me to assign students in class work and have none of them work on it. They seem confused that I don't find their excuses for not doing the work very convincing. "Teacher, I don't want to." Well that doesn't really do it for me.

To further exacerbate my frustrations they've largely decided that they don't want to participate in the 2nd Annual Language Competition. Last year this was a huge success and one of the few genuine accomplishments I can point to for my service here. We organized it, judged, held an awards ceremony and doled out prizes. The community was actively involved and the students participated with enthusiasm. This year most of my students said they didn't want to attend and few wrote the essays that would make the eligible to enter. When students refuse to do something as simple as write a 40 word essay it makes me feel like the balance is kind of tipping in an unfair manner.

Despite their largely discouraging efforts, I have a few classes that still make coming to school feel worthwhile. My two 7th grade classes have a good number of students who are enthusiastic about English and eager to improve. This doesn't always mean they do their homework, but they still show enthusiasm. As the school year winds down over here I have to keep thinking of how I'm going to get the most out of my final months here. So everyday is spent reanalyzing the reality of school and how best to focus my energies. Hopefully these two classes will be interested in doing more in the coming months. If they don't, well it's going to be pretty discouraging.

Luckily, it seems that most of the worst of winter is over. Spring isn't too far around the corner. Perhaps my toes will unfreeze. Maybe the sunshine will awaken my students' interest in school. Perhaps my clothes will finally be able to dry in under 5 days and I can start bathing more than once a week. Who knows. At a minimum I hope that once the temperature becomes bearable I can spend my free time trying to write something up about my experience here. I'm pretty certain that the difficulties, impasses, and frustrations I feel are probably universally shared by volunteers in other countries. The roller coaster of emotion that comes with this type of service, the variety of strange and uplifting experiences, the humor of so many odd moments here, well it just seems like something that would easier to write about than other topics. And it might be nice to gain some perspective on everything I've experienced in the past 20 months.

If I were the Tamada and the toasting topics were left to my discretion I would ask everyone to raise their glasses and toast to spring. Toast to education and hard work and learning and how these things will help a person and a country move forward. Toast to warmth and heat and dry socks. Toast to combating apathy. Toast to wearing seatbelts and not passing other cars on blind corners or trying to speed on icy roads. Toast to some sort of lasting accomplishment being left behind in my village to have made this all worth while. Toast to 139 days to go until I can come back home.

Around the time Hollywood was celebrating the Oscars those of us in my village put together a little soire of our own that was a virtual who’s who in my neighborhood. Time for Lasha’s 6th birthday party. Lasha’s a neighbor kid whose family is close with my host family. Since his last birthday Lasha has grown up a lot. He doesn’t hide behind his mother’s leg when adults talk to him and it’s been months since he’s wandered into our yard wearing a one-piece girl’s bathing suit.

LASHA

Lasha’s mother shares cow milking rights with my neighbor so I see her a lot. Lasha’s older sister is one of my students and we talk every day when we walk to school. “Ryan... I English you today yes?” Lasha’s father Skippy is sort of the neighborhood handyman and is a fixture at all the local supras. I often hear him late at night playing a drum and singing at various supras in the neighborhood. They’re good people and neighbors so I made my way there with my host family to celebrate with them.

SKIPPY & LELA TOASTING WITH HORNS OF WINE

My own sixth birthday was very different from Lasha’s. I got a baseball hat and a T-shirt and none of my dad’s friends drank 20 glasses of wine or toasted to me or danced on chairs. I also received a Velcro dartboard that stopped working after a few days, but my parents never locked arms and drank wine from oversized horns. I don’t know what young Lasha was expecting for his birthday, but he seemed pleased with the result—a supra.

Children’s birthday = supra. Funeral = supra. Weddings = supra. Christmas = supra. Pretty much any significant day results in a supra. So for Lasha’s birthday he got all the locals at his house, drinking wine and toasting late into the night. While for some it might have seemed like a rerun of most the other supras in the village (same people, same food, same wine, same toasts), those in attendance seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly.

As per the local custom, wine glasses proved much to small for the significance of the occasion and they broke out the animal horns and filled them with wine so we could toast to Lasha with the necessary respect. When Lasha blew out the candles I don’t know what he wished for, but if it was to see me drink a giant horn of wine and say some kind words in his honor then his wish failed to come true. Lasha ran out of the room in the middle of my toast to play in a back room with his friend. But I made the toast anyway and drank my horn to the bottom. Then I listened to the 30 other men as they toasted to brave Lasha.

I DRINK THE HORN

The night continued on in this fashion although I disappointed many by refusing to drink from the horn again. “Ryan, you’re not drinking enough!” Really? That’s too bad. My sincere apologies.

A common feature at supras in my village is the well-meaning neighbor who tries to make me feel included by rambling on in Russian to explain the toasts. At this one, a local man at the supra who knew 10 words of English insisted on translating for me even though I knew what was being said. His few English words proved inadequate. “Ryan! I... you... brother... (random Russian gibberish)... wine good...drink!” He repeated this in various forms for some time.

The men continued drinking and toasting for six hours. The women sat at a different table and laughed at them. The children kept tugging on my sleeve to have me take their photograph. Finally at 2am we called it a night and we all set off into the snow for the long walk home.

NOT SURE THIS DANCE IS A TRADITIONAL ONE

When there's two feet of snow in the yard, no fire in the woodstove, no electricity, a broken flashlight, and you've already read all the books in your room, you find yourself without much to do.

With my laptop out of batteries I turned to my old friend iPod and cued up another podcast from The Dirtbag Diaries. For those of you not up on podcasts, they're like little radio programs you can download online and listen to while you commute to work, kill some time at the office, or while you shiver under the covers while listening to the cat chase mice in the attic.

This podcast is produced by my friend Fitz Cahall, but even if it wasn't I would still be forcing it on all my friends and family. The podcast focusses on outdoor sports, travel, adventure, etc. There's stories about soldiers who put up a climbing wall in Iraq and another about setting fire to his dead car and pushing it into the Indian Ocean. The stories are funny, touching, though-provoking and above all they're entertaining. We could all use a little more of that in our life. So if you're a bored Peace Corps volunteer or someone who likes rock climbing or traveling then give him a listen.

Check it out at http://www.dirtbagdiaries.com or download it for free from iTunes.

Paris is a city in France and it is hands down the greatest place in the world. You can eat beef carpaccio and french onion soup, ribeye steak with peppercorn brandy sauce, gelatto and apple tarts, etc. You can also pop champagne in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower on New Years, wander through museums full of priceless works of art, take a boat down the river and attend Christmas Eve mass at Notre Dame.

But even though there is no better place in the world I still returned to Georgia. And here I am. Eating cabbage soup, teaching class, and freezing. I miss central heating and fresh brewed coffee and even the chair we decorated in place of the Christmas tree we didn't have. I miss you Paris. Things just aren't the same.

*Warning, there are lots of graphic photos below of a chicken being decapitated and a pig being killed and gutted. Just warning you.

During a recent conversation with my host mother she complained that killing chickens is a man’s job and her husband is often away at work so she has to do it herself. I wasn’t trying to maintain traditional gender roles, but I offered to be our chickens’ future executioner. A hollow promise indeed, but one I had to keep a few days later.

I’d just finished reading a book called “The Omnivore’s Dilemma,” in which the author paints a fairly detailed picture of our current food culture and crazy diet fads, the inhumane and unsustainable practices of industrial agriculture, the less-than-reassuring realities of organic farming, and the morality of killing things we eat (I find myself reading anything food related that I can get my hands on). Like me, the author has no problem with eating meat, but thought he should test his resolve by actually killing his food. The timing of this book was kind of odd, because like him, I was soon privy to the secrets of the slaughterhouse.

So my host mother held a large hen down on the chopping block and I raised a small axe. I’d watched my host mother kill one firsthand before and had wondered what would go through my head if I held the axe. I expected I would be ambivalent about the act, reluctant, and when it was over, slightly guilty. However, I didn’t have a lot of time to collect my thoughts on it. In less than a minute I was outside with the axe, I’d handed Paige the camera to record it, and received my instructions. And so I brought the axe down on the neck of this hen.

I’ve killed plenty of fish, bringing them up on the end of a line, extracting the hook, and then crushed their skull with a blunt wooden stick. I was always mildly reluctant about those exchanges, but felt not regret, just the knowledge that I’d ended a life to feed myself. So the chicken should have been little different, except instead of bringing it up from the mysterious depths of the sea, I was instead killing something that I’d seen wandering the yard for a year. It was a creature I’d fed breadcrumbs to and, unlike a salmon, wasn’t that excited about eating (boiled probably).

Yet the axe came down on its neck. Paige snapped the picture while looking away so I’m very impressed with her timing. I cut through the necessary parts with my first chop, but a little neck skin remained so I brought the axe down again. Blood spread across the chopping block and dripped from the neck. My host mother held the frantic body as I grabbed a large pot to put over it so it didn’t run off. It twitched and scuffled under the pot for a minute before finally becoming still and that was it. Its eyes didn’t look at me in a strange way when I killed it. I felt practically nothing. It was as natural as picking an apple. I’ve probably felt more conflicted pulling a carrot out of the ground. I found this sort of strange. (Note to Peace Corps—which forbids handling birds for fear of bird flu—I never actually touched the bird).

This is the first non-fish I’ve ever killed and it was a breeze. It didn’t trouble me in the slightest... although when I came downstairs the next morning there were a dozen chickens at the landing and for once instant I thought, “My God! They’ve come for revenge! They know what I did!” So maybe I have some pangs of subconscious guilt, but whatever.

Yet round 2 was just around the corner. Only a few days after this I was invited to my host-sister’s house where they were to kill a pig. The night before I was taken to three different supras. The drinking was heavy and in the morning I wasn’t feeling 100%. If you’re planning to attend the slaughter of a pig in the future I would recommend going without any sort of queasiness. It’s not a pleasant thing to watch.

In the villages there are many ways to kill a pig. Probably the best ways are to shoot it in the head or to bring a huge axe down at the base of their skull to sever the spine from the brain... but not everyone has such tools. I suggested a pig guillotine to my host mother and we agreed this would be very handy and humane.

A more common way is to get a group of men and hold the pig down, and then you either use a large knife to slit its throat or stab it in the heart. I’ve talked to one former Peace Corps volunteer who served in Africa who’s host family called on him to stab their pig in the heart with a pen knife. It’s a hard organ to hit with a knife so small.

I’ve heard that slitting the throat or stabbing the heart are both extremely bloody and take over a minute for the pig to die. In the meantime it makes horrible squeals and cries that are truly awful. I was told this is how we would do it. Enter feelings of foreboding and reluctance.

Luckily for me I was not asked to take an active role in the killing, although I’m sure in the pig’s final judgment he would at least find me complicit in the act, and probably didn’t care for me snapping pictures of his demise, although maybe my camera flashes distracted him from the knife in his neck. In my final judgment of the pig I found him very brave... and eventually quite tasty.

So here’s how it went: Three men dragged the squealing pig from the pen and pinned it to the ground. It seemed to have no illusions about the grim reality that lay in store. It was a big hairy hog, not at all resembling the sweet pig from Charlotte’s Web, although one couldn’t but help feel sympathy for it. One of the men took a long knife and stuck it into its neck, and then using long, quick slices he rapidly cut through the jugular, windpipe and a good portion of the neck. I was mildly shocked by the violence of it, recalling various war movies I’ve seen. The strange addition to the scene were the smiling village kids, looking at me and my camera and discomfort with what appeared to be glee. I wanted to yell to them, “I’m not recoiling in horror you judgmental little punks. I’m just aware of the loss of life and gravity of the moment.” But they and their sly grins and laughter simply didn’t see it my why.

So as the children laughed and I fixated on the pigs suffering, the butchers continued to hold the pig down as it thrashed and grunted. Blood spewed from the wound, making horrible burping and gurgling sounds. This thrashing went on for a minute and then the pig shaking body finally relaxed. So the men let go of it and stepped away. And then it grunted. The pig, empty of blood, actually grunted. And then it started kicking again. I thought maybe it was going to rise up and attack us, but it just kicked and twitched. One of the men let out a sigh, grabbed an axe and drove it deep into the gash to sever the spine. That seemed to do it. The body twitched and shook for a bit, but soon it was over.

After that, the men set the pig on a metal table and poured hot water on it to clean it and loosen the hair. They then shaved it with a knife, burned off the rest with a blowtorch, and hung it up by the ankles to clean it.

Unfortunately, the wire holding the pig up broke and it fell to the ground in a heap. I politely refrained from photographing this moment as the men sheepishly hoisted the pig back up and re-hung it. I did, however, slink off to the house to tell the family who got a big laugh out of it.

The butchers rinsed off the pig again, blow torched its skin, and burned of tips of its hooves. Soon they’d cut off the feet, the head, and gutted it. The organs spilling out of the chest cavity really brought about the reality of what had happened. Sort of reminded me of the time I followed a college Human Anatomy professor into what I thought was his office to ask about adding his close, only it was a lab room with a human cadaver cut open revealing all its insides. I’ve included a picture of that so you too can truly appreciate the similarities between our organ structures.

Once gutted, the rest of the pig was soon taken down and hacked apart with an axe. I searched in vain for where one would get the pork loin or pork chops from. USDA butchering guidelines don’t apply here. Meat is meat.

Some of it salted and placed in a pot, other pieces wrapped in plastic bags for refrigeration, others set aside as payment for the butchers, but one very enterprising butcher soon skewered some of the meat onto some thin apple branches, salted it, and began grilling the meat. They placed a branch of bay leaves on top of it for flavor and when we tasted it at the small supra that followed it was absolutely delicious.

The only down side (besides the pig’s death and the river of blood staining the yard) was that the hind legs of the pig are to be ground up (with the head) and later fried like hamburgers (cutleti). I eat this at half my meals.

“What about smoking them and making some prosciutto?” I thought. I could travel the land building smokehouses, teaching the locals of this marvelous cuisine... although since I don’t know how to do that I should try to find some Italian intern. Perhaps that’s the secondary project I’ve been searching for. That would be a good thing to be remembered for.

But, more likely, I will be recalled as the weird American guy who kept taking pictures while they killed and butchered the pig and cringed (slightly). Or perhaps I might be better remembered as the guy who made his host mother hold the chicken down when he chopped off its head. What a sissy American.

Georgians are not ones to shy away from celebration. Supras break out at a moments notice and there are a plethora of saints’ days to celebrate as well. In my village I find there is virtually nothing they won't celebrate. And thanks to the old calendar they used to follow, there’s also two Christmas’ and New Years. I missed the modern calendar ones since I was in Paris, but I made it back in time to celebrate the old calendar ones.

On Christmas Eve I went to church with my host mother. Snow was falling heavily and I envied the women who have to cover their heads in church. Men must take off their caps so I was freezing in the unheated church, and had to find warmth from the candles we all held.

Before that, the neighborhood children roamed the streets in small groups, knocking on doors and singing a single carol announcing the birth of Christ. For their singing, the families rewarded them with candies, fruit and small amounts of money. It's like Halloween with Jesus. At my house the boys also received a shot of liquor for their efforts. Drink up boys. It’s mighty cold out there.

When the clock struck 12 on New Years, my village erupted in fireworks and gunfire. In my room, the neighboring town of Bagdati sounded a lot more like Baghdad. I huddled in my bed while the sky filled with bullets and bottle rockets. The snow covered vineyards and hills lit up as I pulled the covers up and watched my breath turn to steam amidst the coldest winter Georgia’s (allegedly) seen in 70 years.

Some two weeks prior, my neighbors celebrated the modern calendar’s Christmas and New Years with wine filled supras and they congratulated everyone on the year to come and wished them the best. And when the old calendar New Year came, well... they did it again. I was just walking home from the village center, minding my own business, planning to take a nap, when I was suddenly dragged into a neighbor’s house that had already seen hours of revelry. I raised glass after glass to our friends, our families, our neighbors, our siblings... and on we went. Everyone deserves a good year and we toasted to them all. I slunk out far earlier than they wanted, and I’m sure they’re still busy toasting even now. When it’s this cold and the heat only comes from a wood stove in a distant room, the wine is about all one has to keep one warm.

And unlike America, where people make New Years resolutions they never carry out to diet, reduce their drinking, stop going out to parties so much, the people in my village appear to be doing the opposite, and with far greater success than the Americans and their resolutions. It seems in my village they've resolved to celebrate much more. More food, more wine, more singing and dancing, more general merriment. So the supras keep coming and there's simply no escaping it.

It just never seems to have an end. Men block my exit at the local store until I've toasted to their friends and families and the happiness and health they will have in the New Year. The cops pull up in front of my house and haul me off for a supra at a cousin's friend's neighbor's house where you toast the New Year some more. And then there's the distant village reached by snow covered roads where you get to toast again. Sometimes there are breaks. And sometimes one might attend three supras in a day. The New Year is still being celebrated. And it's January 18th. Will we still be celebrating this at Easter?