It's apt that the word in Azerbaijani for goodbye and thank you, "sag ol", is the same. It condenses things a bit, and sums up a lot of my mixed emotions around leaving Azerbaijan and returning back to the United States.

I've been back for about a week now and have been warmly welcomed by family and friends. It's wonderful to be home, although I'm not exactly sure how I define "home" anymore.

Regardless, I want to say "sag ol" to this blog and its faithful readers. I don't know who you are, or where you are, but I appreciate your following along and I thank you for your support during these last 2+ years.

This has been an extraordinary experience it has been comforting to know that there were people pulling for me on the otherside of the pond through it all.

So, it is with great pleasure that I write this last post and encourage anyone who is interested in Peace Corps or Azerbaijan to contact me or visit peacecorps.gov for more information.

My friend Emma (AZ 6) wrote this lovely blog about the not-so-glamorous side of development work. I think its really thoughtful and in many ways echoes some of the feelings that I have about being a Peace Corps Volunteer in Azerbaijan.

Have a look!

http://bakutothefuture.blogspot.com/2010/10/for-its-own-sake.html

One problem with living abroad for 25 months is that after awhile you begin to forget what America is actually like. Lately I've been finding myself exhibiting distinctly Fievel-like behaviors, dancing around my bedroom imagining how there are no cats in America and streets that are paved with cheese.

This could be a real problem.

Mainly because I know that there ARE cats in America and even though the cheese aisle is significantly bigger in American grocery stores, the streets are by no means paved with it.

All that to say that I am trying to remember that America isn't perfect. I'm sure that there are people who harassed me in America and there were people who verbally abused me on the street in America. I'm certain there were children who were completely horrible to me and streets that were very unsafe to walk at night, and corruption.

I can't seem to remember though.

And what a disappointment that will be...to fnd that there are cats in America.

But at least there will be a HUGE cheese aisle at VG's.

This seems problematic...and somewhat disconcerting.

"Azerbaijan Scraps Airport Visa Service"

Read the full story at:

http://www.eurasianet.org/node/62167

Its apple season in Azerbaijan...and I suppose it’s apple season everywhere. But the sweet joy of familiar food makes it seem like it is only my particular corner of the world that enjoys a bountiful apple harvest. Siyazen is about an hour and a half south of Azerbaijan’s most well known apple region, Quba. Ladas putter into own town from Quba with sagging real axles heavy with trunks packed and crates piled on top of the roof of red and green apples.

This overabundance creates a buyers market to be sure. That is to say, apples are pretty much free. My local apple guy sold me 2 kilos of apples for 50 qepik…so about 5 pounds of apples for a little more than fifty cents. And I think he may have ripped me off.

After giving myself carpal tunnel peeling and slicing, I dropped my crop into a pot and after a brief applesauce phone consultation with Loki, a volunteer in Zagatala (her blog is fabulous http://farfromnome.blogspot.com) boiled them down to a pulp flavored with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and lemon juice.

I fell asleep reading that same afternoon and woke up to find that my host family had eaten ¾ of the rather large pot that I had cooked up.

Two lessons to be learned here:

1) I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t like applesauce

2) Never leave your applesauce unattended

As I move towards the end of my service in Azerbaijan, this is in the front of my mind. Thanks Mags :)

Normal day,

let me be aware of the treasure you are.

Let me learn from you, love you,

bless you before you depart.

Let me not pass by in quest

of some rare and perfect tomorrow.

Let me hold you while I may,

for it may not always be so.

One day I shall dig my nails into the earth,

or bury my face in the pillow,

or stretch myself taut,

or raise my hands to the sky and want,

more than all the world, your return.

Trip away was AMAZING!

More highlights below.

Vardzia Church.

Black Sea Bridge.

Botanical Garden Lion's Den.

Happy.

Photo documentation of my trip to Georgia with my buddy Jeremy.

Don't hold the drinking horn upside-down. It will dump all down the front of your top.

I mistook this spider for a chipmunk. It was HUGE. It looked at me. It challenged me to a duel.

People who live in Tbilisi told us this bridge was lame. But we thought it was fun.

I was riding in the car with one of my students the other day and I think he was trying to impress me with his sophisticated musical tastes.

That is the only explanation for what we were listening to.

Celine Dion (My Heart Will Go On), followed by Enrique Iglisias (Hero), followed by Whitney Houston’s theme from The Bodyguard.

I am constantly surprised by what kind of music teenage boys in my town listen to when they are trying to be bad-asses. I’ve been in the sport hall at the stadium with 21 year old guys blasting music that any self-respecting male his own age in America wouldn’t be caught dead listening to.

I guess it’s all just a matter of taste.

But I have to admit I do find it amusing that the demographic in my town that harasses me the most would probably love to listen to Delilah’s Love Live on the local soft rock radio station.

Michael and I have been frequenting our favorite teahouse again lately now that the weather has broken and it is no longer 115 degrees at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I should mention before I get too far into this thought that we are ALWAYS the only women at the café. Women do not go to the café, to the park, to the stadium…basically everywhere I go on a regular basis. So, I get it that for some people in this town, this might be a reason to stare at us. I am not naïve. However, I have lived in Siyazen for coming up on 20 months now and it should not be stare-worthy when Michael and I take our usual table at the teahouse.

The other day, Michael walked up to the table and sat down. “The thing that people don’t seem to get in this town,” she said, “is that harassment isn’t harassment if the harass-ee completely ignores your entire existence on this earth.”

I have to agree.

But this opens up a whole new box of kittens.

If what our parents taught us is true, that the bully is only trying to illicit a reaction from you and it’s best to just ignore them because soon enough they will get bored with your lack of reaction and move on and harass someone else, then the teenage boys in Siyazen are a different beast all together.

I have a strict no-reaction policy when dealing with harassment in Siyazen. In fact, the one time that I remember ever reacting to harassment was recently at the stadium when someone kicked a soccer ball at Michael and I while we were doing laps. It happened to scare the bejeezus out of me and I may have turned around and used some un-lady-like language. But it was in English, so it was basically the same as turning around and speaking Elfin.

That said, the same teenage boys have been harassing me in Siyazen since Day 1. So, the question remains, is it really harassment?

Usually it goes like this:

Me: Walking along minding my own business

Group of 3-4 teenage boys: Ay English…Hov are you…Barack Obama…I luf you…I want f*** you…

Me: No reaction. Continue walking.

Group of 3-4 teenage boys: High 5s and peals of laughter and perhaps following me for 3 blocks saying variations of the above.

So, is it harassment?

I guess it is.

It feels like harassment.

But it seems more like a childish form of self-amusement.

Yesterday was a monumental day.

I knew it would come.

It was bound to come.

It was the first time I have ever heard my own host mom pressure me to get married.

I usually get this pressure from other people’s mothers in Azerbaijan.

My friend’s parents.

My student’s parents.

My director.

My colleagues.

My aunts.

The custodial staff at school.

There are very few people, especially women, in my life here who have not, at some point, had something to say about how I’m not married. How I best hurry up and tie the knot because soon enough it will be too late and no one will want to marry me, and worse yet, I won’t be able to have kids.

My normal response to this is something along these lines:

In America it is normal for people my age not to be married.

Most people get married for love in our country and until I find someone who I want to partner with, I’m not planning on getting married…even if that means I never get married.

This of course is totally unacceptable to Azeri women.

In fact, it’s even come to me assuring them that, “Yes, my parents love me and that in fact it is not their responsibility to find me a husband…I can take care of that myself just fine.”

I read Don Miller’s blog every now and then when I’m killing time at the internet club. He’s a good writer and he offers thoughtful insight on spirituality, culture and how to live as a person of faith in post-modern America. Anyway, he wrote this article the other day about “What men are looking for in a woman and what women are looking for in men.”

I read it a few days ago, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

The thing that stands out for me is how much culture influences our views of marriage and when, to whom, and for what reasons it is appropriate to marry. Miller’s view of marriage and partnership is one that makes sense to me, but if I were to explain this view of marriage to any of my Azeri friends it would sound like I had completely lost my mind.

Because here, in my community, in alot of cases, marriage has very little to do with love. It has a great deal to do with babies, and family honor, and the “God-given” roles and responsibilities of men and women.

I have to admit, I feel a lot of pressure to get married because of my experiences in Azerbaijan. It warps my mind and my sense of my “American reality.”

They say upon re-entry to America some PCVs have trouble readjusting. So, if I ask you to marry me within a few weeks after I return to the States, please say no…for both of our sakes.

Today was moving day! Our classes are no longer going to be held in the dusty dark corner of Ibrahim's Business Center. After months of using empty computer boxes for tabletops and jockeying with internet club users for control of a limited number of chairs...we now have our own space! Notice the lovely resource cabinet(s) and new table! Before.

Masters of the drill...sort of.

Now you don't need to stop me on the street to ask me to give you English lessons. No, seriously. You don't need to.

A successful project tastes kinda like wood and varnish.

Couldn't have done it without this guy!

Michael's birthday is next week but we had a party yesterday. It was fun. See... The Grill Master...Ruslan

Divine.

My sitemate and me.

Soooprize from the host family.

Blowing them out.

I hit her a little harder than I thought.

Slow to anger and quick to forgive.

Mmmm.

Good friends.

I like reading men's magazines, OK.

I don't know why, but I find them totally fascinating and addicting...in the same way that I find trashy gossip magazines like US Weekly (I mean, who can resist "Who Wore it Best?") and People to be irresistable.

I like to think of my men's magazine obsession in two separate categories...classy and unclassy.

Classy = Esquire.

Unclassy = Men's Health.

Men's Health has these fun little gems of wisdom tucked inside its glossy cover, which inevitably features some obscenely good looking, sweaty, ripped Matt Damon look-alike. Wisdom such as "How to carve a turkey like a pro" or "9 gadgets that make you look like a spy."

So useful!

And Esquire...wow. In the last issue I read I was able to get a complete run-down on the differences between slacks, pants, trousers and jeans and interviews with Woody Harrelson, Clint Eastwood, and Jeb Bush, to name a few. I'm telling you, run to the newstand gentlemen...this is some quality reading.

It was in this same issue of Esquire that I learned a very useful new expression...FDR as a verb. Esquire defined it this way: to quickly organize, implement, and manage a massive overhaul as soon as you are empowered to do so. Used in a sentence: "Barack Obama is gonna have to FDR the hell out of everything."

I love this word.

And, fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I was able to use it in a sentence just the other day. It went a little something like this:

My sitemate: Hey, how's the grant plan coming along?

Me: Well, I've been trying to FDR it, but I keep getting hung up on a few key details.

And its true...this grant plan has really thrown me for a loop is some really unexpected ways.

But if there is one thing that I have learned after 22 months it's that, at this point, giving up would be a total waste and I think more painful in the longrun than my current situation.

Now that I think about it, alot of the work that I do in Peace Corps is more or less FDR-ed.

For example, Michael and I are running a summer camp in Siyazen. It's three days a week during the month of July. We have no money, no resources, no local Azerbaijani people to help us, and on average, about 15 kids a day ranging in age from 8-17 showing up.

I think it's fair to say that we are FDR-ing the camp.

I wonder if sustainability has any role in the FDR scenario?

Not to be dramatic, but I really do feel like there has been a death in the family.

After a long, painful battle with a degenerative virus, my IBM Think Pad (which I'm told is so old that they don't make them anymore) has gone to that big computer playground in the sky. This isn't that big of a deal, I had come to accept that I would be computerless by the end of my service because this death has been a long time coming...but the reality is sinking in.

No more music.

No more movies.

No more frequent emails or blog posts.

It will mean more trips to Baku (the next nearest internet connection 1.5 hrs away) to work on any projects requiring typing or technology of any kind.

Ouch.

The upside is that I dug out some great books from the Peace Corps lounge when I was in the capitol the last time.

"Mountains Beyond Mountains" by Tacey Kidder. The story of Paul Farmer's quest to tackle infectious disease in Haiti and beyond.

"A Short History of Nearly Everything" I've been told it's Bryson's best. "The Last Temptation of Christ" and Gladwell's "Blink".

I think I'm gonna be ok.

Provided my fan continues to pull it's weight in our home.

Here is something I have noticed about Azerbaijani culture…Azerbaijani people love to compare things. And people.

A few examples.

-your Azeri is better than volunteer X's.

-your Azeri isn't as good as volunteer X's.

-you are fatter than volunteer X.

-you exercise more than volunteer X.

-your character is better than volunteer X's.

-you smile more than volunteer X.

-you travel less than volunteer X.

-you work more than volunteer X.

-you don't come to see us as much as volunteer X.

-you eat more than volunteer X.

What exactly is the proper response to these kinds of comparisons?

I would say they are all inappropriate comments, if not downright rude, by American cultural standards.

Which is usually what I say when people tell me that I'm more/less fat than another volunteer.

The conversation will usually go something like this:

"Julia, you are fatter than volunteer X."

Don't say that to me. It's very rude in our culture to talk about someone's body.

"Oh, it's not rude at all in Azeri culture."

I will be very offended if you talk about that again.

"Julia, don't worry…we LOVE fat people!"

Groan.

But there is another piece of it that is equally as uncomfortable.

I am often asked to make such comparisons myself.

I have been asked all of the following questions more than once:

-which one of you in fatter?

-which country is better, America or Azerbaijan?

-which one of my daughters is more beautiful?

-whose food is better, mine or your host family's?

-which of these students is smarter?

-which food is better, Azerbaijani or Georgian food?

-whose home is better, your host family's or ours?

-whose wedding was more beautiful?

Groan.

I have been told that this propensity for comparison is a cultural thing.

But cultural or not, it is very uncomfortable, as an American, to be pushed to say which students are the smart ones and which are the dumb ones during an English lesson.

And I don't want to have to say which daughter I think is more beautiful when I am sitting around the dinner table as a guest at someone's home.

But I don't think that this discomfort registers for Azeri people.

They do it to each other all the time with what seems like no malicious intent.

They just want to know who is the best…and if it happens to be them, well, all the better!

Lately, I've been noticing these kinds of thoughts flashing through my mind: "This time last year I was…" I attended the end of the year ceremony at the school of my student who will be studying in America next year. I went to the ceremony at that school the previous year as well, but somehow it just felt different.

This time last year I had been living in Siyazen for only 7 months. Childs play. The rose colored glasses were still on and I still had hope that certain situations would work themselves out eventually with only a little determination and some elbow grease. After about 10 months those lovely rose colored glasses were ripped right off my face. I realized I was in it alone. And that anything I wanted to do in my community from that point on I was going to have to do on my own. Now, as I approach the 20 month mark I've got my blublockers on and am powering through the final 5 or 6 months with a mantra. Grant, Go home. Well, technically it was Germany, Greece, Grant, Go home. But the Germany part is finished and the Greece part is finished. Now two remain. During the month of July I'll be working on getting the grant project that I wrote get up and running. My local counterparts and I have a plan to put a community resource cabinet in the internet club. The cabinet will be stocked with media in English, Azeri and Russian available for check-out as well as sports equipment and art supplies. I'm excited about the project and even more excited to be able to do some hard core skills transfer during my last 6 months of service…a goal that has somehow managed to evade me during my first 20 months of service. Implementing the grant plan should take me through September and during the month of October I'll write the final report. Then in early December I'll go home. So really, not much time remains. But I can't help but think how I was feeling at this time last year…excited about GLOW camp, and happy to finally have students with some free time during the summer. I was happy that winter was finally over and that the mud had dried up on the road to the stadium, but I had no idea how to hang a mosquito net, or the torment of a sweaty, sleepless night. Things are different now, but also familiar. They say that people can develop muscle memory in martial arts. The idea being that once you practice a skill or a move your body in a certain way, it remembers it and will know how to do it in a crisis. I think I have some Peace Corps muscle memory. But with that comes the knowledge of exactly how hot it will get at the end of July.

Sorry for the obscene post.

That's embarassing.

I guess that's what I get for not updating my virus protection.

Can anyone tell me exactly what a firewall does?

http://disulovo.angelfire.com/

The New Busy is not the old busy. Search, chat and e-mail from your inbox. Get started.

The Parthenon

The Richards at Qala Alti

Outside my apartment

Me and my MOOOOOOOM!

About this time last year Danielle, our friend Scott and I participated in a triathlon in Baku. We had a grand old time and vowed to spread the word to the Peace Corps community and do it again the following year…which brings us to last weekend when close to 15 PCVs came out for the event!

It was a blistering 40 degrees and the course had almost no shade. Thankfully, some friendly expats stood along the route with garden hoses and sprayed us down as we looped through the neighborhood that looked a lot like the neighborhood in Edward Scissorhands. By some miracle of the Lord nobody died of heatstroke (although I was not feeling so good by the end of the day) and lived to attend the picnic and concert organized by the race committee for all the participants, their families and the neighborhood which hosted the race the following day.

While I was running the 5k portion of the event, my mind, in its sweat-lubricated lucid state, got to thinking about why so few Azeri's I know in Siyazen exercise. Now, to be clear, I have never seen another woman down at the track. The track is a place where women do not go, for many reasons. Not the first being the pack of wild dogs that hangs out on that side of town. I have the first two shots in a three vaccination rabies series and have surprisingly good aim when it comes to throwing rocks. So I'm all set in that department. But for the most part, I hang out with women in town and they don't exercise in public. In fact, they don't go out in public very often at all.

And, not just women. Men don't really "exercise" either. When people go down to the track they are there for a specific purpose. Teenage boys come and have their judo, soccer, wrestling or boxing practice. But that's not exercising…that's training. They are dragging that old tire, filled with concrete, and attached to a rope across the field for a reason…though I'm not sure anyone exactly knows what that reason is.

But when I go to the track, I exercise. Running lap, after lap, after lap for the pleasure of the burn in my calves and crimp in my side, in preparation for nothing besides another day in Azerbaijan. It brings me great joy to sweat off half my body weight in the withering sun that is already high at 6am. My Azeri friends seem to understand this as well as the idea that there are some great health benefits to exercise. One time when I was at the police station (which is another story) the police officer was shocked that I looked so young and healthy at age 28. After some conversation about me, while I was sitting right there, they determined that it must be because I exercise and "look after myself well."

Despite this understanding, for a lot of people who I know, exercise will not be a part of their lives. My tutor gets a starry look in her eye when she talks about a machine that she saw on TV that sounds a lot like a StairMaster from the way she describes it. But when I ask why she doesn't do any exercises without the machine she says its because she is lazy and tired after her lessons and doesn't have any motivation to do exercise. I think this is the case for a lot of people in Siyazen. Life is hard here and at the end of the day, nobody wants to lace up their running shoes and join me for a quick jaunt down to the stadium. They want to drink tea and watch tv and talk with their families. Maybe I would want to do that too if the tea was iced and I was at all interested in Azeri soap operas or if my family lived here.

I think that our understanding and appreciation for exercise in America is a great privilege. We have the time and the money to invest in leisure activities that keep our bodies healthy. Many people in the world don't have this. Many people in the world don't even consider that the pails of water that they carry to and from the well everyday could be a great strength and cardio workout…it's just life…part of the grind. And while we don't have a well in our neighborhood, my host mom is certainly stronger than I. She can whip tops off of sealed jars before I can even fish out the sticky-lid-twisty thing…and she picks up pots of boiling water with her bare hands…HER BARE HANDS!

But, in a race up the stairs to our fourth floor apartment…I would surely win.

Dan and I at the picnic. PCVs before the bike start.

Me and my fearless teammate.

The next Lance.

How many times a day would you say you use a bucket?

I had this thought today while I was filling my third bucket of water before 8am.

In America, I used a bucket maybe once a month…depending on the month.

More in the summer, less in the winter.

And sometimes I say I used a bucket when I really didn't.

Like: "Yes Dad, I washed the car twice this month!"

In our apartment we use buckets constantly. We have about 7 buckets that live in our shower room. And they all have specific, though not exclusive, purposes.

One is always catching water that leaks from our water tank. But this is a good thing because we use this water to fill another bucket that we use to flush our toilet. Sometimes, if I'm lazy and just need to wash a few things I use the water out of the water catching bucket to wash my clothes. But, if I have a lot of clothes, or really really stanky clothes, then I use our "stove" bucket (you can tell it's the stove bucket because it's black on the bottom) to heat water on the gas stove and dump that water, because you can't actually wash things in the stove bucket, into a different bucket which is only for washing clothes. But…you can't wash things in boiling hot water because you will burn yourself. So you must fill another bucket with cold water and dump that into the clothes washing bucket. This creates a nice hot, but not to hot, temperature.

We also have a toilet flushing bucket. This bucket sometimes does double duty as the transfer bucket. But usually we use a pitcher for transferring. But, if there is bleach in the pitcher you can't use that to transfer water into any bucket.

And, we have a yarn dying bucket. This is actually a cauldron that onetime I mistook for the stove bucket.

The yarn dying bucket is not a stove bucket.

But one time we did use the cauldron as a water bucket over the winter when we didn't have water for 5 days.

Then there is the bucket that my host sister uses to mop the floor. This is a bucket that only has one function also.

Do not use the mopping bucket for anything besides mopping.

Additionally, do not use any other buckets for mopping.

Only the mop bucket may be used for mopping.

We also have two buckets that are used for garbage pails. We used to have only one until I decided (after about half-a-day of living with my host family) that I didn't want to carry my used toilet paper into the kitchen and throw it under sink with the old tea leaves for the baby to pick through when no one was watching her. Now there is a bucket only for toilet paper in our toilet room.

Buckets are useful. Especially in Azerbaijan.

So, I've been back from Germany for about a week now and the transition has not been easy. I'm not gonna lie, there was a crying in public moment at the bus station last weekend. The reality is that life in Azerbaijan can be very difficult. And it's nearly impossible to find curry wurst here. The upside is that I have some great pictures to remind me of all the fun I had...and how sore I was from laughing for about 6 days straight! And, it turns out that the key to getting really great vacation pictures is to travel with a man who makes his living taking photos. These gems are courtesy of my pal Arthur who is very talented. Check out more of his stuff at http://www.arthurinthesky.com/ Where the wall used to be. Now marked by red bricks all throughout Berlin.

The opera. "The Elixir of Love".

Someone puked during ACT I and so we got better seats during Act II.

The Three Little Pigs Hostel. Or as the Germans would say: The Three Little Schweins.

Not my favorite.

Inside the dome of the Reichstag.

Desserts.

Potsdam. Arthur to Julia: I have a great idea....go stand in the middle of the street.

Julia to Arthur: Really? But there's cars.Arthur to Julia: It'll be fine. Just go. HONK!! SCREECHING TIRES!! HONK!!!

MMMMMmmmm.

Ecohostel. Best of the best.

Cool neighborhood.

Bike tour.

Unstoppable duo.

My friend Aaron (who writes an excellent blog that he updates often) is working on a project called Writing Olympics. It's an international writing competition for students of all ages. 15 students from Siyazen participated in the project this year...and even though nobody won any gold medals, it was a cool experience for them. Anyway...they need money to pull off the project. If this interests you, and you've got some dollars burning a hole in your pocket, consider donating! Just click here!

So, I know I haven't written anything in awhile. I haven't been feeling inspired. However, that doesn't mean that things haven't been happening here! Below are some pictures of what's been going on during the month of April. Writing Olympics...man, that took some convincing to get kids to participate. Somehow Ilham got in this shot...he did not participate in Writing Olympics.

Grill Master 1: Mathias

Burgers (aka American Kebabs) at America Days

Grill Master 2: Amy

America Days

Our lovely Charges D'Affaires...Don Lu at America Days.

Corey, the dearly departed...back to America.

Americans teach Azerbaijanis how to do the Soulja Boy at America Days...hmmm.

Khayal...what's more American than Michael Jackson...wait...

My masterful egg decorating skills.

Pizza making (slightly out of sequence).

Easter egg coloring...happens in all cultures I guess.

Danielle is NOT the manager this time.

Michael and host fam.

Bulvar fountain shot.

Ladies out for a stroll in the Old City, Baku.

Shaz and I tackle 5 Barmaq.

GLOW curriculum committee brainstorming session. This is where all the magic happens people.

Walking and talking with Judy.

Sheki Chicken...you are my friend.

And you are my friend also.

A few weeks ago, on a rainy afternoon, I read Mitch Albom's latest little book, Have a Little Faith.

The inside flap describes the story as "a book about life's purpose; about losing belief and finding it again; about the divine spark inside us all. It is one man's journey, but it is everyone's story."

I gave it 2 out of 5 stars on my goodreads.

It was a lot like Tuesdays with Morrie, which I didn't really like, but cried like a baby at the end anyway.

The most striking part of this new book, all 249 pages of it, came at the very end, the very last line in fact. Albom wraps up his (in my opinion) average book with this shocking declaration:

"I am in love with hope."

I was blown away.

I had to flip back a few pages just to be sure I hadn't missed something.

No. I hadn't.

Out of nowhere Mitch Albom said that he was in love with hope.

Now, I am a person who prays.

I believe some things about God that might be unpopular with the post-modern crowd.

This Sunday I will celebrate Easter with far more joy than you can stuff in a plastic pastel basket.

But that is quite the statement from Mr.Albom, sports writer for the Detroit Free Press.

I don't know many people who can say that they are in love with hope.

I want to be, and maybe I'm taking baby steps towards that kind of wild and passionate love affair.

Right now, I'd say I have a little crush on hope.

There are some signs of hope in Azerbaijan.

A call to prayer which comes later in the evening…summer is on its way.

Children who excitedly ask me if we are going to have summer camp this year.

Friends visiting.

Talk of Berlin.

Plans to meet up with my family.

It all feels warm on my back.

Novruz is basically over and even though I learned a lot last year during this holiday that is celebrated in Muslim countries to welcome in spring, I gotta say, I think I learned more this year.

Last year I was distracted by the fire jumping, the "xonça" and the copious amounts of pastries, rice dishes, and grape leaves that were being served to me pretty much every hour on the hour.

This year I can actually speak and understand Azeri language.

This year I could ask questions, and sit and listen quietly, and learn.

This year I learned about the less obvious parts of Novruz.

This year, on the last Tuesday before the Novruz holiday I sat in the family room with my host mom and her best friend. I drank tea while they prepared what I learned last year were the Azeri national sweets, şora, şekerbura, and pahklava.*

As my host mom rolled out another layer of dough for the pahklava, she looked up and said to me, "Julia, Novruz is a lot of work for Azeri women."

Yeah, it seems like it, I said.

And it is.

These national sweets are extremely labor intensive.

Last year my host mom and sisters stayed up until 4am crimping the teeny-tiny little designs into the shells of the şekerbura.

And this is definitely women's work.

I have never seen a man involved, or even present in the house, while national sweets are being prepared.

In fact, until recently, I wasn't sure what the men were doing while the women were cooking and cleaning the house for the holiday.

I got a glimpse of what the men do when I went to my host sister's house for her youngest son's birthday. Her family lives in the second largest city in Azerbaijan, which is about an hour away from Siyazen. I had to leave the party early in order to get back for my evening group. My host brother-in-law drove me to the bus station.

But a lot of other things happened before I got to the bus station.

I was standing on the side of the road waiting for a city bus when my brother-in-law passed me on the road with a couple of his buddies in the car.

He pulled over and told me to get in the car and he would take me to the bus station.

So I hop in the car and we start having the normal car conversation…

"Julia, how's your work going," he asked.

Fine, I said.

"What did you think of the birthday party?"

It was lovely, I said. I can't believe how big Nerci is getting.

"It's a pity you can't stay for whole the party."

Yes, but I must get back. I have to work.

"Really? You are working tonight."

Yes, I work everyday. I sensed the opportunity to ask the question that I had been dying to ask. What do you do all day?

"I do this."

What do you mean?

"I do this.”

You drive around in your car with you friends?

"Yep. What do you think of my car?"

It's fine, I guess.

While the women are cooking and cleaning and preparing everything for a party or holiday at home, the men are driving around town in their cars with their friends. Maybe they stop at a shop (like we did with my brother-in-law) to buy some sunflower seeds, or pick-up/drop-off one of their friends (which also happened on the way to the bus station).

I guess I'm not surprised.

It's what I suspected was the case.

But hearing it straight from the horse's mouth with no shame or excuses gripped me in a way that was quite unpleasant.

Especially when I knew what was going on back at the house with my host family…a fury of meat-grinding, dish washing, child wrangling, diaper changing, tea brewing etc.

But from what I can tell, this sexual division of labor is clearly defined, established, and supported by both genders.

I don't think Azeri women would appreciate the help of their husbands in the kitchen.

Not to mention the fact that cooking together is one of the few sanctioned social activities for women that is appropriate…and that they have time for, once all of the other household chores and child rearing responsibilities are taken care of.

And it also seems that for the most part, women like it this way.

It appears that a large part of a woman's identity is tied to turning out the perfect tray of pahklava. Or the most tender pot of aş (Azeri national rice meal).

It's no simple feat.

Cooking these traditional meals is a test of skill, patience and endurance.

Mothers teach their daughters secret family recipes.

These daughters teach their own daughters how to roll the perfect grape leaf, a task at which I am basically hopeless.

But I can whip up a mean batch of spaghetti with tomato sauce in less than 20 minutes.

It may not be a national meal, and it may not go with a national sweet, but I think you'd be hard pressed to find an American who doesn't like spaghetti.

*People ask me all the time what the American national sweet is…and when I say we don't have one…they can't believe it. For those who insist that we must have one I say it's chocolate chip cookies and/or apple pie.

I got in trouble today at school.

As I passed by the key-man's office and gave a friendly hello, I was beckoned inside for what looked like was going to be a good old fashioned talking to. All the custodial staff were gathered around the key-man's desk and speaking in loud, fast, angry Azeri.

I tried to get caught up…Something about mud, something about children, something about mopping the floors, something about me, something about my shoes.

Then everyone in the room was looking at me.

Me: So you want me to wash the floors after sports group?

Them: NO!

Me: You want me to wash the floors before sports group?

Them: NO!

Me: You want me to teach English classes? (I already knew the answer to this question was yes…an old Second Nature trick…)

The head custodian, who I believe loves me and hates me in equal measure, looped her arm in mine and marched me down to the gym. We arrived at the door and she flung it open and said, "See! It’s clean!"

"Yes, it is clean." I said, still unsure of where this conversation was going.

"Your students make it dirty!"

"That's not true," I said. "They must change their muddy boots to sport shoes. And if they don't have them then they must take off their shoes and do their exercises barefoot."

"Oh," she said.

"In fact," I pointed out, "We haven't used the sport room in two weeks so this mess was not from us."

"Oh. That's good," she said and walked off.

A few minutes later the key-man came down to check on me. He kindly explained that the custodial staff had just mopped up a ton of dust from the gym floor and were angry about it. "Dust is very dangerous for the children's health," he explained as he blew cigarette smoke in my face. "If they breathe it their throats will become ill."

I've gotten in trouble at school once before. I accidentally burned a hole in a table during our Halloween Party. I had decorated the tables with candles, scary jack-o-lantern faces and spiders to create some spooky atmosphere in the characterless cafeteria. I got distracted during the elimination round of Pin-The-Witch-On-The-Broomstick only to turn and see one of the tables ablaze. Thankfully, I had an extremely efficient team of about twenty 10-year old girls to help me extinguish the fire and clean up the mess which was relatively contained. But I feared the wrath of the director. The school is brand new and I had been trusted with the key to the cafeteria on a weekend when no one else was there. And what do I do? I go and light something on fire. Fortunately the director was not upset, but the cafeteria workers were not pleased, and they are entitled.

But, I have learned this. A sincere apology, an admission of guilt and a promise that it will never happen again has gotten me forgiveness or at least a second chance on every occasion.

And I need those second chances.

Sometimes I even need third and fourth chances.

I've also learned that kids tend to be more forgiving than adults.

Not to mention less judgmental.

And better at Pin-The-Witch-On-The-Broomstick.

Today my host mom told me some shocking news.

"Julia. I think someone wants you to be miserable."

This was new.

Right out of the gate I was lost.

Usually this moment comes 10 minutes into complex conversations about the economy or politics, or when I'm trying to write down someone's phone number.

But I knew all those words, and by the look on her face, this was serious.

I needed more information.

"Really?" I asked. "Why do you think so?"

"Well, someone has given you two flowers."

Back on track.

Now at least I had some context.

She continued…

"If someone wants to give you a nice gift they will give you 1, 3, 5, 7, or 9 flowers. But if they want bad things to happen to you, they will give you an even number of flowers."

"Ah-haa." I said.

There was no danger afterall.

"Those flowers are from my student," I explained. "One is for me and one is for Gunay (my host sister)."

I had come home in a whirlwind and tossed them on the dining room table together, unintentionally creating a world of worry for my host mom.

And flowers make a lovely gift, according to my host mom. Especially for women on International Women's Day (March 8). Last year I awkwardly accepted half a dozen ceramic figurines, a plastic rose, a pair of granny-panties and 2 bottles of perfume. This year, I am armed with all kinds of tricks and treats that I've been collecting over the past few months…magnets, lip gloss, stickers, and, not to be tacky, but also half a dozen ceramic figurines.

I've been told that Women's Day is a lot like Mother's Day in America, but you don't have to be a mother to celebrate…just a person with two X chromosomes. And actually it's a government holiday so my office will be closed and kids won't be going to school. Which incidentally, creates more work for women since gender roles are very rigidly defined and men do essentially zero housework or child rearing.

Ironic.

But, there is a new proposal bouncing around in the vestibules of the Azerbaijani parliament to cancel International Women's Day and replace it with a day which would honor Zarifa Aliyeva, the president's late mother, on April 28, her birthday. Read about the debate here.

Here's what I thought about some of the stuff I read/watched in February... Books: "The Book of Ruth" by Jane Hamilton Oprah's Book Club book. Shoulda known it wasn't going to end well. The main character/narrator is simple and loveable, but the whole story seemed all too familiar to what I see happening all around me in Azerbaijan…barring the ugly, horribly violent ending. Eek. "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Shaffer A darling little book sent to me by one of my mentors. It restores your faith in people and their ability to band together and take care of each other. And read good books. "The Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion A dear friend sent this one to me. I liked it very much, although I would say the title is misleading. In fact it was a year full of tragedy and disappointment. Maybe don't read it in February when you are feeling lonesome and like winter will never end. "Around the Bloc" by Stephanie Elizondo Griest A young woman travels to Cuba, Russia and China to see for herself what living in a communist country is like. Interesting in light of my experience in a former Soviet country. Movies: Kill Bill A friend insisted that I watch this. I wasn't expecting to like it…but by the end of the first film I had a crush on Uma Thurman. How to Plan a Revolution A BBC documentary about the November 2003 elections in Azerbaijan. Biased, but worth a watch on YouTube. Dexter: Season 1-3 I've been told that this Showtime series is not particularly popular in America. But PCVs in Azerbaijan love it. Is this indicative of a broader issue…PCVs relating to a serial killer with a conscience? Come Early Morning It stars Ashley Judd and the guy from Burn Notice. It was a selection at Sundance in 2006. I liked the story, the lack of resolution, the soundtrack and the sweeping scenes of middle America in the background.

Hotmail: Free, trusted and rich email service. Get it now.

My esteemed colleague and lovely region-mate wrote this grant to help support GLOW 2010. We still need about $50 to make it happen.

GLOW is an incredible program.

It matters.

It changes girls' lives.

Think about it.

I wrote this after GLOW 2009 camp.

Consider donating at the Peace Corps website.

Last week in my conversation club I presented this scenario to my students:

You work for the Azerbaijani government. War has started. Only the people in a fall-out shelter in Siyazen have a good chance of survival. The President, Ilham Aliyev, has told you that there are 12 people in the shelter right now. But, only 6 people can live in the shelter and survive. Your committee must decide which 6 people must leave the shelter: 6 must go and the remaining 6 will live.

Take 5 minutes to individually select the 6 people you believe should remain in the fall-out shelter.

1. 95-year old female doctor,

2. Army General

3. Biologist, black man

4. Mullah

5. Judo Champion

6. Winner of Yeni Ulduz (2008)

7. Student in medical school, gay

8. 15 year-old boy, didn’t graduate middle school, farmer

9. Minister of Finance

10. 38-year-old male master carpenter, was in prison for narcotics

11. 22-year-old army nurse and midwife,

12. Math teacher, beats students

Now, I understand that this activity is designed to be divisive. It is intended to bring out personal stereotypes, prejudices and a variety of other 'isms' that may or may not be culturally acceptable within a given society.

That said, I had not been prepared for my own reaction in facilitating the activity. My students made some shocking choices. They cut people who I didn't expect them to cut, and for reasons that I didn't expect.

It was sobering. And disturbing to watch.

I'm not gonna lie, I was crestfallen.

Which isn't really fair because at the very beginning of the lesson I emphasized the fact that there were no "right" or "wrong" answers, and that whatever the group consensus was, well, that would be the right answer.

But I was simply not prepared for what happened.

It was much harder than I expected.

I told the group, 7 students in total that night, that everyone had to agree on who was to remain in the shelter. If even one person objected to the selection of an individual, the individual would not be accepted in the shelter. However, the group was welcome to present convincing arguments to attempt to change the minds of people who disagreed.

Several individuals were shoo-ins right away; the 15 yr old farmer ("because he is a child"), the army general and the nurse-midwife. But the remaining three spots were so contentious that at one point the group decided that instead of coming to a consensus, they would choose a leader and the leader would decide who was to stay in the shelter.

This surprised me.

The group would rather choose someone ('choose' not 'elect') to impose a choice on the entire group than decide together who will remain in the shelter by mutual consensus.

Interesting.

I pushed them to come to consensus.

"It’s supposed to be hard!" I said. "Don't give up."

"We can't do it," they said. "There isn't a way for everyone to be happy."

"Hmm," I said. "Well, let's look at it again…"

I did not participate in the activity and served only as moderator, keeping a list on the board of the accepted individuals and did some diplomatic peace-keeping during tense moments. But I felt myself reacting to the group's decisions…especially when a student used me as an example in her argument.

"Black? White? It doesn’t matter," she said. "Julia is white and we are not. But we know her heart is clean."

But the black biologist didn't make the cut.

I felt personally wounded.

But in the end, they did it.

They made the cuts and everyone went home.

I left feeling the weight of the exercise.

For me the challenge wasn't in choosing who would stay in the shelter and who would not.

It was in pushing my students to make the choices for themselves.

It was in stepping back and allowing the exercise unfold.

It was in watching them struggle, recognizing what it would mean for them, for me, for the future of Azerbaijan, if they failed.

It was in observing their interactions with each other.

It was in letting the process be the teacher and realizing how differences between cultures, and the lenses through which we view and experience the world, color every single aspect of our lives.

And in the end, it was true…there were no right or wrong answers.

But there were six who stayed in the shelter.

Hiba buys a banana. Alison bakes. Emma watches the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. I paint my nails. I call these Bad Day Behaviors (BDB) and I would venture to guess that the majority of PCVS have them.Some are more/less healthy than others, and some of us are pushed to them more/less easily than others. It had been months since I'd last painted my nails. But I did a double coat of raisin colored polish a few days ago.And it came out of nowhere. It was meant to be just a normal trip to the local school. Little did I know, polish was in my near future…I went from 'calm-and-cool-Julia' to 'crazy-yelling-at-children-Julia' in about15 seconds when a 19-year old boy backed me into a corner and after about 10 minutes of harmless needling, forcefully demanded that I give him my phone number. After the second coat of polish was dry I called Emma. "Are you more upset that you let him get to you, or that you yelled at him?" she asked."Both." I said. "And that no one helped me." This kills me too. I am not new in town.Everyone in my community knows me. Ok, not everyone. But, certainly everyone at school knows me. There was absolutely no reason for me to be on my own, fending for myself, verbally-sparring with…the person I was verbally-sparring with. It never should have happened. In fact, I can name about 5 reasons why it never should have happened. The first being that young people need to have constructive things to do in their free-time so that they are not loitering around the grounds of a school waiting to…let's say…cause mischief.But that's true on every continent and therefore a moot point.I am not one to blame-shift, and I will take 75%...no, that's too generous…60% of the responsibility for what happened. Because I am an adult.And, believe it or not, I'm also a human being.One thing that has been a constant struggle as a Peace Corps Volunteer has been this feeling of being "on" all the time. There is no room for 'crazy-yelling-at-children-Julia' in my community. Because I am 'calm-and-cool-Julia.' I am 'harass-her-all-you-want-because-she-will-ignore-you-and-keep-on-walking-Julia.' And in Peace Corps, where a lot of us are operating in Panic Stage 9 a majority of the time, its easy to go from 0-60 in 15 seconds. But the other thing that really bugs me is that my reaction, yelling at a child, was pretty much par for the course. It is more or less acceptable for teachers and authority figures to yell at children. Yell at them, and shame them. So, while I am loosing sleep over loosing my cool, nobody at school will even remember what happened. For me, this feels odd. And there's a part of me that wants to apologize for what I did. But that would be completely inappropriate in this situation and in this culture and could cost me some of my hard-earned respect. It has been such a long time since I have raised my voice to anyone. Unless you count yelling at the taxi drivers to "BACK OFF!!" at the bus station, I almost never do it. In fact, I have only one clear memory of yelling in anger and it was in the coat room in Mr. Keller's 3rd grade class, which I did to gain control of a bullying situation and I still feel bad about it. (Brian, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for yelling at you. But let's face it…you were being kind of a jerk.) In the end I think it does actually all boil down to control.We all live in strictly controlled societies, whether we realize it or not.Behaviors are socially controlled.Gender roles are tightly controlled.Adolescent boys are often out of control.And I lost control of a situation that was doomed from the start. Bring out the nail polish.

I was flipping through the 5th form textbook this afternoon trying to find a good text to use in my conversation club as a warm-up activity. I came across this:

"Did you know that…

The Azerbaijanis usually shake hands when they meet friends. They always stand up when the elderly people enter as a sign of respect.

The Americans usually shake hands when they meet friends. It is usually for them to kiss when they greet each other.

The British shake hands only when they meet people for the first time. When they meet friends they just smile and say 'hello'. "

Grammatical errors aside, this explains so much.

I cannot tell you how many awkward introductions I've stumbled through wondering if I should stand up, sit down, shake hands, or kiss new acquaintances on the cheek. In fact, I believe that around this time last year I wrote a blog about how terrible I am at executing the euro-kiss in situations just like this.

I've gotten better at the kissing bit (my general rule of thumb is kiss all women present upon entering a room), but if I had known the source of my confusion was coming from misinformation in the 5th form textbook I would have worked harder to instill the true American greeting traditions in the minds of the impressionable 10-year-old Azeri kids that I know.

Anne Lamott wrote that "rubble is the ground on which our deepest friendships are built." I would add that being snowed-in in Baku with not quite enough underwear to last for 6 days strengthens some very significant bonds as well.

When four days in Baku turned to six due to inclement weather which made the roads throughout Azerbaijan impassable, we had no choice but to hunker down and get comfortable…first at the hotel Peace Corps put us up in for our Mid-Service Conference, and then in the homes of generous expats who had extra beds, couches and floor space to offer.

It was the first time that our entire AZ6 group had been together since we swore-in as PCVs in December 2008. So much had changed, not all of it for the better. It became abundantly clear that our ability to socialize normally, make small talk, communicate effectively and behave as contributing members of a developed society had been severely compromised.

I fear for my return to America.

Some of my own maladaptive habits should be no problem to shake in America (wearing winter clothes inside), others may take some intention (blurting, hoarding clean water, getting lost in conversations that last more than 10 minutes).

One of the most surprising parts of interacting with other Americans is how much talking is necessary. I had not realized how relatively speech-less my days had become until at Mid-Service Conference I was being expected to not only speak and verbally express myself on various topics for close to 5 hours a day (not including socializing during meals), but also listen attentively to others speak and verbally express themselves.

Now, I am not an anti-social person. I have been told more than once that I am a good listener and a fair communicator. In fact, it used to be part of my job to teach teenagers how to listen and communicate.

But, this is soooo not what I have been doing at site for the last 14 months.

I was exhausted at the end of every single day.

Thankfully I now have a sitemate who encourages me to verbally communicate my thoughts, engage in conversation and behave more like a normal human being.

What would I do without you, Michael?

The upside of being stuck in Baku for multiple snow-days in a row was that we got to do all kinds of fun things (pictured below)…this is the kind of stuff on which our deepest friendships are built:

Smoke cigars Skype with family.

Skype with friends.

Ride public transportation with crazy American sleeping bags.

Hang-out.

Hang out some more.

Beat Elmer in a handstand contest.

Girl talk.

Dance class.

More dance class.

I've been told that it's bad luck to turn the page of your wall calendar even one day before the first of the month. But, when my friend Alison came back to Azerbaijan after her visit to America over the holidays she brought me a present; a calendar featuring 'Words for Mindful Living' from Thich Nhat Hanh (for those of you who are like me and did not immediately recognize the name of the Vietnamese Zen master, there you go, you're off the hook).

I couldn’t help but flip forward through the months of 2010.

His words are like poetry that melt into glossy photographs of ceramic pots and cherry blossom branches.

I love it.

September's inspiration will be:

"If you want a tree to grow, it won't help to water the leaves. You have to water the roots."

…otherwise known as 'capacity-building,' an integral part of the Peace Corps' approach to development.

Peace Corps defines development as "any process that promotes the dignity of a people and their capacity to improve their own lives." And with this definition PC takes a person-to-person approach. Meaning we focus on developing people and their abilities rather than on developing 'things'.

By increasing the capacity of local people to identify specific needs within their own communities, find and effectively utilize the resources which are available within these communities, Peace Corps helps people to create the conditions necessary to learn new skills that can help achieve these two previous goals.

Perhaps Thich Nhat Hanh was a PCV in a past life.

And, while she was never a Zen master, today is my mother's birthday. I would put her words for mindful living on a calendar in a heartbeat as they have offered perspective in some terrible moments.

Happy Birthday Mom.

May it be your best year yet.

I walked into my favorite shop a few days ago to pick up some supplies for my host sister. I barely had one foot in the door when the shopkeeper said,

"Julia! Thank goodness you're here! We need your help. What do you know about air conditioners."

I said, "I'm not very good with technology," my usual disclaimer when people ask me to help them with the computers, radios, dvd players, ipods, washing machines, printers, etc.

He handed me the remote control for the air conditioner (which was the word he was using to describe the electric heater/cooler mounted on the wall of the shop).

I wasn't really sure what to say because I was so confused by what I saw.

There was a standard "Power On/Off" button in the middle, and a "Timer" button below that.

Pretty straightforward.

But, above that there was a button labeled "Health" and to the right of it, a button labeled "Feelings."

"Huh," I said. "This is very strange."

"Well, what does it say?" my shopkeeper asked.

"I know what it says, but I don't know what it means," I said.

I gave him my best guess on what the buttons meant:

"This one here is for turning off and on.

This one is for if you want the thing to come on at a specific time when you are not here.

This one, I'm not certain, but I think it is for when the air is very dusty you can push to this button and the machine will clean the air.

This one I'm also not certain about, but I think it is for if you want the air to be warmer or colder. You can choose the up-way for warmer or the down-way for colder."

We'll see.

Today I went back to the shop and the air seemed to be both clean and warm, a clear indicator that my predictions for the "Health" and "Feelings" buttons were correct.

Maybe?

It's January in Azerbaijan.

It's cold.

It's dark.

It's rainy.

Let's just say…I'm doing a lot of reading.

One of the best things I've read lately was something Martin Luther King Jr. said in an address to the SCLC in 1967:

When our days become dreary with low-hovering clouds of despair, and when our nights become darker than a thousand midnights, let us remember that there is a creative force in this universe, working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil, a power that is able to make a way out of no way and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows. Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice—

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do—

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Mission Accomplished: Tbilisi, Georgia in 3.5 days

Accomplices: 1. Emma

2. Jon

3. Mathias

Budget: $175

Wow.

We did it.

It was amazing.

I would do it again in a heartbeat.

I would recommend it to anyone.

Mark Elliot in his Azerbaijan with Excursions to Georgia writes:

"While God was busy dividing the world amongst primordial tribes,

the Georgians were out drinking. They flattered the not yet omniscient

deity by toasting His honour and God decided to give them the most

beautiful land of all, the land that he had been saving for himself: today's Georgia."

We did a fair amount of toasting of our own and despite our best efforts to give ourselves a crash course in Georgian language on the night train, our Georgian "cheers" came out sounding vaguely like a cross between Italian and Azerbaijani. Thankfully the Georgians we met were gracious and generous and the long weekend we spent with our neighbors to the west was overwhelmingly comfortable.

However, the beds on which we slept at our hostel were not. You know you have slept in a bad bed (and "bed" might be a little generous in this case) when you look forward to the cots on the night train.

Thankfully, we spent little time at our hostel and even less time in "bed." We were too busy having fun! bv

Day 1:

• Arrive in Tbilisi a little worse for wear and with zero Georgian language capacity or currency.

• Engage in strained, pantomime-heavy conversation with money-exchange guy (who may have taken us for a ride). Leave with pockets full of Lari benefiting from a 2:1 Lari:Manat exchange rate.

• Buy return tickets to Baku with the help of Mathias' visual aid which left little to the imagination.

• Navigate relatively simple metro system and locate hostel, with the help of friendly locals, not far from metro station.

• Unload backpacks and hit the streets for some dinner, wine, and general merriment along the main drag in Tbilisi, Rustaveli Ave.

Day 2:

• Wake up relatively early with the intention of more or less following Lonely Planet's "Tbilisi in a day."

• Khajipori (local Georgian cheesy bread dish) and Turkish coffee got us to lunch.

• Hit up some ancient churches and a fortress of note.

• Discovered my true calling is postcard photography.

• Opt for the public option at the bathhouse.

• Realize, after it was too late to do anything about it, that the public baths are BYO soap, shampoo, flippy-floppies, and towel.

• With the help of our fearless navigators, manage to find local synagogue and Heydar Aliyev park.

• Eat and drink at low-key jazz bar.

Day 3:

• Travel to nearby region for "cultural day".

• Tour Stalin's birthplace, museum and personal railcar.

• Explore ancient cave-dwelling civilization.

• Return to Tbilisi for dinner and what turned out to be one of the best nights out I've had in a long time.

Day 3.5:

• Hike up hill to most famous and recognizable orthodox cathedral in Tbilisi.

• Hike downhill for round two at the bath, accoutrements in tow.

• Last meal.

• Board the night train back to Baku.

I sat between a teenage girl and two live turkeys on the bus back to Siyazen. I contemplated how I could turn this experience into a blog for the hour and half ride back home. But the truth is, on a scale of 1-10 my level of shock was only about a 3 when the driver reached under my seat and pulled out an open box containing two live turkeys. The teenage girl to my right, after smearing some on her own wrist, promptly snatched mine and applied a strong perfume to kill the stench of bird beak and feathers. Now I must say, in general, I am terrified of birds. But these turkeys were being so quiet and polite. They weren't even gobbling like American turkeys would be if they had been loaded onto a crowded bus on a cold day, headed for certain death in Siyazen. I almost felt sorry for them. What a terrible way to spend the last hour and a half of life. I smugly clicked my tongue in disapproval of my feathered seatmates and flipped to my 'Christmas 09' playlist on my ipod, evidence of what's been rumored to be sweeping through our AZ6 group of Peace Corps Volunteers…the next stage of culture shock: adaptation.Before I left for Azerbaijan I followed several current volunteers as they blogged about their adventures in the then difficult to pronounce land that would soon become my home. One woman, at about the same point in her service as I am now, wrote something to the effect of "I don't know what to blog about because I don't know what's interesting anymore." And the new arrival of the AZ7 group offers a stark contrast to our own slightly more seasoned experiences after over a year in our communities. Through the eyes of my lovely and amazing new sitemate, everything in Siyazen is fresh and exciting and bursting with opportunity. But for me, it's just life. Not much phases me these days. I vaguely remember watching an old episode of 'Sex in the City' (you know, the really old ones…where Carrie talks to the camera) in which one of the girls says she thinks that New Yorkers are some of the most jaded people on the planet. I think this could be true. It could also be true that Peace Corps volunteers are the second most jaded people on the planet. In an effort to escape my fate of becoming a jaded Peace Corps volunteer, I am taking annual leave next week. I will be leaving the country for the first time since my arrival last September. I believe there are only 3 PCVs in our group of 60 who have not yet left the country. I am one of them. I am traveling with another one of them. We are going to Tbilisi, Georgia for 3 days…well, maybe 4 if we can convince our friend to skip school on Wednesday. Oh yeah, and Barack Obama sent me this e-mail:"Michelle and I extend our warmest wishes for the holiday season to Peace Corps volunteers around the globe. On behalf of all Americans, I applaud your service and dedication to peace. Your commitment to and compassion for people throughout the year are the greatest gifts one person can give to another. Wherever you may be spending the holidays-and I realize most of you may be far from your homes and loved ones-know that I have a deep and abiding appreciation for your gift of service. We wish you a joyous holiday season and continued success in the coming year. –Barack Obama"

Hotmail: Free, trusted and rich email service. Get it now.

I fell in love in Paris 5 years ago. My then-boyfriend and I used to walk down the banks of the Seine, meet for hot chocolate or espresso in French cafes staying until they asked us to leave, and drink cheap red wine with our friends late into the night. It was magical. This was the same year that I think I really could have benefited from some medication for depression. But, by the grace of God, I don't remember that part. The depression part. The truth is, there were really awful parts of the year that I spent in Paris teaching English, parts that sent me into an unstoppable, downward spiral of loneliness and despair. But these days, when people ask me about that year I have warm memories of the children I nannied for, the students who provided me with some excellent comedic material that I still use at dinner parties, the friends who loved me through some terrible days, and the church that brought me back to life. It makes a person wonder though, what is it about the human spirit that does not allow us to remember the really painful parts of growth-producing experiences? And what is it that moves us forward, palms open, asking for more? I mean, it's not like after Paris I hung up my traveling cap and hunkered down in Southwest Detroit to start working full-time and have a family (although no judgments on those who did). No, I moved to Salt Lake City and began working at a very challenging job that pushed me to the limits of my physical and emotional capabilities. Then, a few years later, I went to grad school. My friend from Peace Corps saw a picture of me from grad school recently and said something like, "Wow, you look really tired." I was tired for 14 months during my accelerated Master's International program at University of Montana, surviving only on coffee and the holy sanctuary of the sauna at the rec center. But still, here I am, in Azerbaijan. Asking for more. More challenge. More sleepless nights. More crying in public. More gut-wrenching goodbyes when its all over. This is something I must remember to ask God about. And, as 2009 draws to a close, and 2010 all but dares me to stay in Azerbaijan, I feel resolute, bolstered by the simple fact that I am still here and I am still alive and I'm still learning. On Christmas Eve my best friends and I lay in bed, coming off our mulled-wine glow, and confessed our New Year's resolutions for 2010. Last year mine was to be more honest with myself. Vague I know, but in the end it turned out to be the best resolution I ever made, aside from flossing. It left plenty of room for admitting that I failed to keep the resolution, therefore in a catch-22 sort of way, achieving it. Rumi wrote: Start a huge, foolish project,
like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference
what people think of you. That is my resolution. Take on a big project. Follow it through to the end. Don't worry what other people think. And then come home. And maybe stay for awhile.

Hotmail: Powerful Free email with security by Microsoft. Get it now.

They say the second year of Peace Corps is easier in all the ways that we need the second year to be easier. If it wasn't, I think that many many many more volunteers would Early Terminate (ET). By the second year, we know our communities. We have some good contacts, friends even. After the first 12 months we have already screwed a few things up pretty bad, and learned from those screw-ups to boot. We have cried in public, said and done the complete wrong thing, offended community leaders, shown up when we shouldn't have and not shown up when we should have. We have been scolded more harshly than we deserved, gotten every ounce of what we had coming, and also have been shown far more grace than we were ever worthy of. But, I wonder about the other things…like how it can take 3 hours to travel 50 kilometers on a Tuesday afternoon. And how it takes some real convincing to get people to believe me when I tell them that youth development is not only an actual field of study, but that I have a Master's Degree in it, and it's a topic that's really important to the health and well-being of a community. And how, no matter how I try and explain it, people still think I'm an English teacher. But I'm trying to do things a little differently this year than I did during my first 12 months at site. When I started working in my community last year, I did a lot of projects that influenced large groups of young people in Siyazen. I probably met with a 150 students in my first 12 months, easily. Many of these students I see every now and then on the street and they manage to spit out a shy "Hell-lo" aimed in my general direction. I find this only mildly satisfying. During my second year I'm working on narrowing my focus and putting more energy into developing meaningful relationships and mentoring some of the students who have taken a real interest in some of the projects on which we have been working. In addition, at this point, I am working almost completely independently from my director and host organization. It's not how the service model is ideally meant to work, but one thing I have learned after a year in my community is that in the Peace Corps you work with what you have, and it will be, and has to be, enough. And somehow, it is. Opportunities to work with motivated community members who have big ideas but limited resources tend to fall into my lap, so much so that I have been very busy lately. I have a student who I meet with about two times a month. He is a doctor at the local hospital and yesterday he called to tell me that he was accepted into an exchange program in Austria and will be able to continue his research in the field of neurology and stroke indicators there. I have another student who I have been working with since the beginning of last year. When I met with her last week she told me that she wants to host a literature night at one of the local schools in town for people in the community to come and speak about some of the books, poetry and writers who have influenced them in their lives. My tutor told me after our lesson this week that she feels so much more confident in her English language capabilities because of her interactions with me and other Peace Corps volunteers who have lived, worked and studied in Siyazen. The students in my post-grad conversation club approached me tonight after group and requested to meet more than once a week because they want to have the chance to have one self-directed lesson and one lesson related to American culture each week. Work like this is deeply satisfying. And, sometimes work like this kicks the crap out of me, and then kicks me again while I'm down. It's such personal work. It takes so much patience, commitment, unwavering enthusiasm, and, as Anne Lamott has said, far more letting go and trusting than I feel capable of. As a recovering control freak, this "letting go and trusting" bit has been harrowing. To use some psycho-jargon leftover from my time working at a therapeutic wilderness program in Utah, I tend to be a person who is very "attached to outcomes." Some might say it's a character flaw. I'm imperfect. Whatever. I have come dangerously close more than a few times to resting my self-worth as a person on the outcome of a certain situation or project. This can be terrifying. Especially in Peace Corps where plans change at the last minute, offices keep unpredictable hours, time is relative and at the end of the day, sometimes corruption wins during OT in a game that was unfair from the start. Not to mention, it's ridiculously hard to separate my work from my personal life. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's impossible to separate my work from my personal life. When I have a tough day, the ripple upsets my whole life. Because my life is my work in Peace Corps. The lines are so blurry between work and personal life that there really isn't any point in squinting to try and make out the line. Even when I'm at home, on my own turf, where things are predictable, and no one badgers me to speak Azeri with a cleaner accent, keep my shoes mud-free, come and meet their relative, or give their kid English lessons, I'm living in a home where the language and the culture that is happening around me isn't my own. And some days, some days, that feels like work too. But, on a good day, I can be encouraged by this. It means that I'm not wasting a single minute of my time here. It means that even the time spent at home with my host sister on a Wednesday afternoon, helping her beat out carpets over the balcony of our apartment is time well-spent and accounted for. Sure, it's not glamorous or life-changing and no one is going to make a Peace Corps recruiting poster about it, but, maybe when I'm long gone from Azerbaijan, she will remember that we did that together. And that I helped her without being asked, and maybe that means that all Americans are not selfish, greedy, war-mongers. And I will remember how she rubbed my back with such care the next day because I was sore from beating the carpets. I think that is what the second year of Peace Corps is about. It's about back rubs. The reward for the hard work that we did the day before and the hard work we have been doing for the last 12 months. It's not easy. And sometimes back rubs hurt like a bitch. But they feel kind of good too, in an itchy, tender, trying-to-heal sort of way. In a painful, grit-your-teeth and clench-your-jaw sort of way. In a you'll-thank-me-for-this-tomorrow sort of way. In a Peace Corps sort of way.

Your E-mail and More On-the-Go. Get Windows Live Hotmail Free. Sign up now.

Me and my host sister.

My b-day dinner.

Me and my best friend!

Me and host sister.

Instead of giving spankings they yank your ears.

http://en.trend.az/news/politics/foreign/1596971.html

This means my new sitemate will arrive TODAY! I have been alone in Siyazen since September and am so anxious to have an American counterpart in town...

I was at the post office today with my friend from town. We were standing in the hall chit-chatting when a post office worker opened her door, stuck her head out and said "Hey! You girls there, NO LAUGHING!" I felt blindsided. No laughing!? Was she serious? My friend and I looked at each other and laughed in the way you can only manage to do when someone tells you to stop laughing. "No, no Julia, we really mustn't laugh," my friend said. "That's ridiculous," I said. "She can't tell us not to laugh!" "But maybe we are disturbing her," my friend said. My friend is infinitely more polite and far more distinguished and disciplined than I am. Come on. No laughing!? I ask you. Have I ever gone a day in my life without laughing? I don't think I have. There have certainly been days when I have laughed to keep from crying and even fake laughed to save myself or someone else from public humiliation, but asking me not to laugh is like asking me not to get all googley-eyed around a baby. I can't help it. Even when I think about the saddest day of my life, I think I still managed to laugh, or at least allow my lips to curl around my teeth just the teensiest-eensiest bit. Not to mention lots of funny things happen here. I say and do the wrong thing all the time, people tend to get all awkward and goofy around me, especially teenagers and old people. And I'm sorry but nothing is funnier to me than people falling. Of course not hurting themselves and falling. But take last week for example when one of the kids in my dance class tried to do a spinning leap and landed flat on her face. Maybe it was cruel, but I laughed. Or the time I tried to organize a wheel-barrow relay race in my sports class. You bet that was just about the funniest thing I've ever seen. Sometimes the safest thing to do in these situations is to laugh. Don't take yourself too seriously. Move on. I call it character development. Some people need to lighten up. And the ironic thing is that I believe that I am by far the most serious member of my family. Some people are surprised when I say this, but I think it's true, and I think Mom, Dad and Sister would agree. Maybe it's relative, but my family is very funny in that quick-witted, cheeky, one-liner sort of way. But still. If there was a laughing-moratorium issued in the Richards household, well, I can't even imagine what might happen. A coup? If there were a laughing moratorium issued in Siyazen, I think it would be business as usual. I'm not sure that Azeri culture views humor and laughter in the same way that Americans do. That is to say, necessary. One time during PST my host father asked me not to make so many jokes because it isn't proper for a woman to be funny. When my host sister laughs she covers her mouth as if she's trying to hold it in. On April Fools Day last year, also celebrated in Azerbaijan on the 1st of April, I hit my students with some of my best culturally appropriate material… "What did the 0 say to the 8?" "Nice belt." "Why does Will like the letter 'W' so much?" "Because without it he is ill." "What did the scarf say to the hat?" "You go on a head, I'll just hang around." Ok, it's not Second City, but I thought maybe they'd chuckle a little. Not even a little. And they couldn't think of a single joke to tell me either. Not a knock-knock joke among them. But whenever I do something silly at home or at school, or mix-up a word or mispronounce someone's name, people seem a little relieved and glad for an excuse to giggle together at my imperfection. Maybe it has more to do with me than I realize. I know people are very concerned about face and keeping up appearances and not insulting or offending anyone. Unfortunately these are not things that I think about with any sort of regularity. I usually need gentle reminders not to blurt out the first smart-alecky remark that comes into my head. But I'm learning. I'm learning to be more careful with my words, with my casual appearance, with my muddy boots. But, honestly, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop laughing. Especially when people tell me not to.

Chat with Messenger straight from your Hotmail inbox. Check it out

We get 3 English-speaking TV channels here in Siyazen. One channel is TNT which shows reruns of programs from the early 90s like Ally McBeal and Party of Five, another is Al Jazeera (http://english.aljazeera.net). This news program, based out of Doha, Qatar, has drop dead gorgeous newscasters with exotic accents reporting headlines such as "Taliban claims the US is launching an attack against them". But my favorite channel is e2. e2 rotates the following programs in the evenings; Desperate Housewives, Breaking Bad, Heroes and sometimes Mad Men. In the afternoons we get Rachel Ray, Martha Stewart, Conan O'Brien, Ellen and Gossip Girl during the day. Another reason I like the channel e2 is because the "2" does things to indicate which programs are coming up next. For example, the "2" cooks meth in a makeshift lab to indicate that Breaking Bad reruns are up next and vacuums in a sexy negligee before Desperate Housewives. In the afternoons the "2" fries an egg before Rachel Ray comes on and dances with a black "2", which we can only assume is Tony, the African American DJ on the show, before Ellen comes on. Slightly off-color but, whatever. Ellen is really the only option in terms of anything worth sitting still for in the afternoons. With The Ellen Show you get the whole package; opening monologue, dance party, clips from YouTube, fun guests, ridiculous games, sometimes music, and sometimes a fundraiser. I've cried a few times while watching the Ellen show. Last week I cried while watching a man dressed up in a hot-chocolate-mug costume dance around in a circle with Ellen to Christmas music. Today I cried when Ellen gave her tickets to the Obama inauguration ceremony to Tony, the DJ. Obviously we are getting last season's episodes, but that's about as up to date as I need to be on this side of the world. Especially since I have the headlines from Al Jazeera to keep me abreast of all pertinent world news. While watching Ellen however, it occurred to me that there are huge chunks of American pop culture, celebrity gossip and techno-gadgets about which I have approximately zero idea. For example, what is a "kindle"? And how is "twitter" different from texting? Guests come on the show to promote movies I've never heard of, even some actors I've never heard of. I guess there's a new doctor on Grey's Anatomy? Mariah Carey has a new perfume on the market? Clint Eastwood has a new movie? And with the arrival of the AZ7 group, myriad of techno-gadgets in tow, it has become clear exactly what we are missing in the way of electronics; laptops smaller than my Azeri-English dictionary, iPods that play movies and generate their own playlists, and something called the "iTouch" which sounds even creepier than the "Genius" feature. I am always a bit behind the times when it comes to technology and I'll admit that Best Buy sometimes makes me break out in hives, but after 27 months in Azerbaijan I fear that I will be a Luddite for the rest of my life. I still think my little wind-up flashlight is pretty jazzy. Despite the techno-gadgets and pop-culture references on her show, Ellen makes America go down easier. After reading an article in People Magazine about her marriage to Portia and then watching her show with me one afternoon, my host sister and I discussed the topic of homosexuality and gay marriage in America. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month, The Ellen Show donated money to the foundation every time someone got dunked in the dunk tank. We talked about women's health and how important it is for the people who have enough money to share that money with people who don't have enough. After Michelle and Barack Obama appeared on the show we talked about the accessibility of our politicians and how Americans want a president who looks like them and someone who reflects their values. The Ellen Show allows us to talk about jokes, music, movies and fashion and also opens the door for other conversations more serious in nature. I don't think I've ever mentioned this on this blog before, but the US Peace Corps has three goals designed to address it's mission of promoting world peace and friendship through service: I. To help the people of interested countries in meeting their needs for trained men and women. II. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served III. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of all Americans. I would say that watching The Ellen Show contributes to goal number 2. Although, I will admit that explaining the game "Whistle While You Work" in which blindfolded contestants lick ritz crackers off of a plexiglass window before whistling "Wind Beneath My Wings" doesn't do much for international relations, but it's still a gag.

Thanksgiving. Arguably the National Holiday of the United States was celebrated by Peace Corps Azerbaijan last weekend at Charges D'Affaires Don Lu's home in Baku. Dinner was potluck style and we all ate too much, laughed too hard and spoke too much English. Below are highlights from the PCV post-dinner talent show. I tried to get some videos up here but the internet was too slow. Maybe next week... Micah. A Tribute.

Alison. Emcee extraordinaire.

Jon. Thanksgiving 09.

" Little town, it's a quiet village."

John and Charlie.

Don Lu counting Elmer's push-ups. First Finger Human Pyramid.

Jeremy and Meredith sing and nose flute Kumbaya.