PREFACE: Here's who awaited and greeted me, with a big smile, in Sylvania, Ohio: my great-grandson, Philip! So precious! And his mom, my first-born grandchild Julia, and her mother, my daughter Elissa, and Julia's brother, Tony; and my grandkids Alli, Josh, Kyle, and their mom, my daughter Michelle, carrying a new grandson, Chase. A new family member is on the way! We live within a mile radius of each other, except for Tony finishing up school and finding his way in southern Ohio. I am home. I am "returned!" I am officially a RPCV, a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. Can you believe it’s been two years? Philip was 2 years old when I left; now he is reading!

This is my final PCV blog. My Ukrainian adventure has come to an end, but not my Ukrainian experience, my stories, my memories. They will always be with me. They are a part of who I am. Now a new American adventure begins, and a new blog, "Life After Peace Corps.” I look forward to sharing more adventures on the journey we all share.

So here are some final thoughts on what the Peace Corps experience means to me. It’s been a life inspired, a life of purpose. Thanks, dear friends, for following my adventures and cheering me on. It’s been a team effort, that’s for sure!

A Life Inspired, A Life of Purpose: The Peace Corps ExperienceWhen I began work at the public library in Starobelsk, a Russian-speaking village of about 18,000 in far-eastern Lugansk Oblast, Ukraine, I had a minor run-in with a librarian who thought all Americans were ignorant and arrogant. He went on for quite a while, to the embarrassment of the director, but I smiled and said I understood and it was okay. He ranted while I nodded amiably. It helped that I understood only every other word or so!

Near the end of my service, this librarian came up to me to say how much he has liked seeing me work with the Library. The English Club and the English-book collection have brought more people and new energy to the library, he said. He admitted, a bit sheepishly, that he had a bad view of Americans for a long time, especially while growing up, but now he sees we can be friends. I was the first American he had ever met. I responded with a big smile. “I am so glad we got to know each other!”

This is the essence of the Peace Corps experience. When we began our Peace Corps journey, many of us Community Development (CD) PCVs thought that using our skills and experiences in support of Ukrainian NGOs was the top priority, the number 1 goal. We were in Ukraine to be useful, to do good work, to transfer our skills. We embraced this goal with enthusiasm.

Now I think that the two other Peace Corps goals are equally important: getting to know a country and its people, and their getting to know us and America. On this level the Peace Corps experience is about modeling and mentoring good will, optimism, a “can-do” spirit, a positive but flexible attitude. It is about modeling how change can take place and mentoring some ways of achieving goals, one step at a time, from the bottom up.

What does this mean? For me it meant working with an NGO to address human rights abuses through a “Know Your Rights!”civic education project. It meant having fun with kids at a summer Camp, walking around with a globe, maps, and a dictionary, ever-ready to connect and instruct. It involved discussing history, poetry, folk traditions and holidays at English Club meetings. It meant engaging members in hands-on projects like making peace cranes, origami pumpkins, Halloween masks, holiday trees and cultural maps. It meant helping an artist write a cultural preservation grant to preserve the decorative paintings of the ancient Lugansk region. It involved attending seminars of the spoken word, celebrating the publication of a book, honoring local poets and local talents from the past and the present. It encompassed leading literature discussion seminars with English classes at the University, exploring American short stories by Jack London, Mark Twain, Kate Chopin, and Thomas Wolff.

Through all these activities, it was the connections that mattered most. The Peace Corps experience is about building bridges across cultures, and of course it's true: once a human connection is made, it's hard to sever. It feels good to connect on the level of human kindness, on a level that transcends differences. It’s wonderful to be a part of the daily life of a village: enjoying meals, many meals, and toasting to good health and good fortune; celebrating birthdays and holidays, and there are many in Ukraine; visiting a friend’s farm; attending programs at local schools and cultural centers; biking along village paths to go pick apples in fall; swimming in the river in summer, or relaxing on its tree-lined banks; joining friends on a vacation in Berdyansk on the Sea of Azov; traveling around the country; meeting friends like the incomparable Stefa and Bogdan in Lviv; and having tea, many cups of tea, in homes and cafes, getting acquainted, practicing a new language, developing trust and bonds of friendship.

All these activities, big and small, personal, work-related and social, inspire and energize the spirit, feed the soul. They strenghthen the foundation of grassoots change. They create brand new networks among people and organizations in the same village who had not connected before. They build lasting friendships. This was the essence of my Peace Corps experience for two years in the wonderful town of Starobelsk, Ukraine. I will always remember. Я буду всегда помнить.

I think I recognize my friend Olga M at the far right. Starobelsk protests corruption, poverty, government intransigence ( photo from Gromadska Forum Lugansk).

Starobelsk, my wonderful town, is the center of a new freedom movement in Ukraine! The Tunisia/Egypt effect continues in eastern Europe. Change from the bottom up. Everyone thought it was impossible, but not me (not to be boastful). I saw the signs; I listened to the people; I witnessed the emergence of the future leaders of a democratic and thriving Ukraine. I knew it was just a matter of time.

The article below, from the Gromadsak Forum Lugansk (громадеький форум луканщини) tells the story: Starobelsk citizens staged a protest against the continuing corruption and injustice of the regime of President Victor Yanukovitch. Organized by "Patriotic Citizens of Ukraine," a grassroots coalition of concerned citizens, the protesters--brave warriors all--held signs protesting rising prices and taxes, the lack of government reform, ongoing political persecution, unemployment and growing poverty. A main slogan was "Freedom: Ukraine without Yanukovich." I am sure my friends were among the organizers and participants, thoughtful citizens, real "fighters for justice." Olga and Vera both told me one: "We are not afraid. We will fight for what is right." I believed them. I am so proud of my village and its thoughtful citizens. "Starobelsk rocks!" as my friend Yuliya wrote on facebook.

From Громадеький форум луганщиниВчера в Старобельске возле «Дружбы» прошел митинг протеста против роста цен и тарифов, реформаторских усилий нынешней власти, которые ведут до обнищания большинства населения Украины. Об этом сообщает Параллель-медиа. Инициаторами митинга выступили патриотически настроенные граждане, представители различных политических сил и общественных организаций: «Партія Захисників Вітчизни», «НРУ», ВО «Свобода», «Спілка підприємців Старобільського району «Промінь» и другие. Основными лозунгами протестующих были «Азаров убийца базаров», «Азаров – Тигипко – нас имеют гибко!», «Мы за Украину без Януковича!», «Свободу політв’язням!», «Приймаємо партбілети ПР в утіль по 30 коп. за кг!» В ходе акции протеста была принята резолюция, в которой митинговальщики потребовали досрочной остановки полномочий Верховной Рады и Президента Виктора Януковича, продолжить мораторий на продажу земли сельскохозяйственного назначения на 5 лет, от депутатов ВР — личное голосование, ликвидация депутатской неприкосновенности, а также прекратить политические преследования, в частности, участников налогового майдана.

DC spring scenes. Dupont Circle, my favorite neighborhood. Below right; a new Target store, Columbia Heights, an up-and-coming neighborhood around a new metro station, Howard and Don, hard to see, near flowers.

I am going home to Ohio tomorrow! It’s hard to believe I left Kyiv, Ukraine, on 9 February, and arrived in DC on 1 March, a little over a month ago. I had made a hasty trip from my COS conference in Slavsky back to Starobelsk to pack it up and say goodbye. My dear friend Natalia on Kyrova, with whom I was living, hosted a beautiful Paka Party, a bittersweet time for all of us. So hard to say goodbye. I considered myself a fulltime PCV, torn asunder from my village, my projects, and the many friends I had made over two years. It was a huge transition for which I wasn't prepared.

It was still winter in Ukraine, but I was looking forward to spring in Starobelsk, walking about town, through Lenin park, and reveling in Luba's and Natalia’s gardens. I was hoping to see the lilacs again, in such grand profusion everywhere, their scent perfuming the air, and the iris: that blessed time of year when Starobelsk becomes “a lavender world.” It’s a time I described in a blog exactly one year ago, one that Loren loved; we reminisced about the lilacs in Rochester, NY where we grew up. It was one of the last blogs Loren read and we discussed together, and it will always be special to me for that reason. He told me he loved the color lavender.

Spring has unfolded slowly and inexorably in DC since I’ve been here, and my perspective along with it. It has eased the transition back to the States, and the realization that I would not be returning to Ukraine. Spring somewhat cushioned the sadness. I've had a gazillion doctors’ appointments, and all the medical issues are resolved. Almaz and Laura W at Peace Corps headquarters were a terrific help. I’ve walked around Georgetown, downtown, Foggy Bottom, Dupont Circle, all beautiful, vibrant neighborhoods. I’ve had lovely lunches and dinners with friends; spent time with Rita, a group 36er, and other PCVs who are staying at the elegant (for PCVs) Georgetown Suites for a variety of medical issues, none critical it seems to all of us. Most of us come to view it as a vacation, after the initial shock of being here wears off. Most of us will return to our sites, like Emily, now back in China, Amy in Ecquador, Brent, back in Azerbaijan, and Sarah, on her way back to the mountains of Peru.

In my case, however, I will not go back. My PC service is officially at an end. Tomorrow, Tuesday, I take the train to my new home in Sylvania. Somehow the transition I'm making from St. Petersburg, Florida to Ohio, moving all my material stuff, doesn't seem as difficult as the transition from PCV to RPCV, moving around the mental stuff and getting it sorted out and organized. DC has given me some time to start the process, and for that I am grateful.

So goodbye, for now, DC. I'll be back, maybe when my PCV friend Jud gets settled in here. He's arriving 29 May he just told me; it buoyed my spirits just to know that. I hope I can return to Ukraine someday, too, or host friends here in the states. Who knows where life will take us, but I will take life as it comes.

This is a SAMPLE federal budget from Pew research foundation. I thought it was interesting and a way to start thinking about the whole shebang.

The fight over the budget is not about spending. It’s not about “reining in” government, and the deficit. It’s not about “fiscal responsibility.” It is about values.

If it was about spending, we would all be taking a hard look at the largest parts of our budget, where cuts would really matter. What programs are we cutting, and why? How will that help the overall budget? What items are we NOT cutting, and why? What about those tax loopholes for the wealthiest Americans and huge corporations like Haliburton, who pay no taxes? What about the tremendous “welfare for the rich” programs that seem to be held sacrosanct? Even Warren Buffet and Bill Gates talk about this, and with more sophistication than our current legislators. What about the billions we give to dictators who line their own pockets and stomp on economic and political freedoms for their people, and the wars in Irag, Afghanistan and now in other countries? How effective are our very expensive post- 9/11 national security programs, and what about them?

If this “debate’ was really about cutting government spending, the so-called “negotiations” wouldn’t be getting “stuck” on funding for planned parenthood, cancer screening for women, medical research, the defense of marriage act, or NPR.

So we are down to the nitty gritty: the Republicans want to “rein in” government spending for the middle class, the working poor, women, kids, the sick, disabled, and elderly. They do not want to rein in government for the rich. Obama ran on the opposite platform, that government has a role to play in our lives. Why isn’t he jumping on this, and the fact that the economic problems we face stem from the riotous deficit spending policies of the Bush/Cheney administration. Where were the tea party zealots then? The president and his economic advisers would do well to educate the American people about the real issues and the real options. I think this is a huge gap in the Obama administration’s handling of this crisis, and of its handling of economic issues in general.

And finally, if this “debate” was about "spending," wouldn’t you think twice about the COST of closing down the government, then re-booting it, no matter where you are on the political spectrum? Would you be yelling with glee "Shut it down," when that will cost taxpayers money and hurt not help the economy? Is this like destroying a village in order to save it? If you really want to cut spending, does this make sense? But, and here's the heart of the matter, is this argument making a dent? Do the know-nothings who are refusing to compromise (on things like women's health) care? Doesn’t look like it. And that’s the real story.

If the government shuts down, so will Peace Corps headquarters. This will mean a skeletal crew there, and no work getting done. It might mean that my trip home will be delayed, and more egregious, that PCVs all over the world will not get their meager allowances. It’s small potatoes, but it’s the trickle down effect of a government shutdown.

The only good thing for some of us PCVs on medevac is that we are ‘stuck’ in Washington. The government’s a mess, but the city is beautiful. We can enjoy the unfolding spring, the cherry blossoms, the greening of trees, nice sunsets, and good friends. My daughter Elissa went back to Ohio on Tuesday, but we had a nice dinner at an outdoor Harbourside restaurant the night before with friends Howard and Don. These are the small joys of being in DC.

Outside of that, there is the drama of politics at its lowest level. America is in the grip of an ideological minority who doesn’t care about consequences, who care only about pushing their agenda. That agenda involves cuts in education, arts, cancer research, NPR, medicare quarantees for seniors, programs for workers and the working poor. Their drastic cutting doesn't of course include tax cuts for the richest Americans and corporations who don't pay anything. Just the opposite: they extend tax breaks for the wealthiest Americans and tax breaks for large corporations.

“Shut it down,” a tea party Republican screams gleefully at a tea party rally outside the capitol. “Shut it down!”

Isn’t this great? A lawmaker who doesn’t care. What responsible lawmaker would want this? Just shut the government down? “My way or the highway?” Why doesn’t Obama jump on this outrageous behavior? Call it for what it is: protecting the wealthy, screwing the middle class, workers, the poor. This is not about “reining in government spending.” This is about the arrogance of right-wing zealots who don’t care about the US government at all. It’s truly appalling.

It’s ironic that the nation’s capital is greening into a lacey lime green while the federal government is “de-greening,” to the point of shutting down. A few characters and ignorant ideologues with “grandiose” illusions have added to the melodrama. Our elected representatives are running roughshod over the will and voice of ordinary Americans. It’s as if we are not even here. They will run the government as they see fit, and the rest of us be damned. The common good be damned. It is so annoying and frustrating that I am beginning to feel like an Arab in one of the Middle East countries run by vicious tyrants that we supported for over 30 years.

At least the government is still running even in Ukraine, I told a PCV friend. HAH, was the somewhat frivolous response. “The Ukrainian government doesn’t have to ‘shut down,’ because it doesn’t ‘run’ in the first place.” Goodness, what’s the world coming to.

People are yearning for self-determination while politicians, worse among them in our Congress the tea party Republicans, treat us as if we are in the way. That’s the untold, unexplored connection between our domestic policies and our dysfunctional foreign policies. I suppose the first step is exposing these weaknesses and the nature of the problem. That is being done now with painful clarity, like unpeeling the layers of an onion rotten to the core.

How callous can one be to think that closing down the government is going to do anything but hurt a lot of people. I am thinking we need to put Bill Clinton in charge of the economy. We have no coherent domestic economic policy. As far as I can see, all Obama’s economic advisers have let him down, and the rest of us, too. There needs to be a leader at the head of the economic ship of state. We don’t have one now, and we are descending into economic chaos made worse by ideologues who are “know nothings” and won’t compromise. Does any sane person think defunding NPR and other “nickel and dime” programs , like student aid or peace corps, are going to solve our economic crisis? Give me a break! Whether the government shuts down or not, our Congress and president have some problem solving to do to get the entire government on track. I can't see a bunch of ignorant minority right-wing ideologues derailing the whole American government as if it were a lego set on the stage of a billionaire's yacht.

My next move: a new apartment on the second floor of this old house in downtown Sylvania, Ohio, photo by new neighbor Robin C, and flick photo below by AR Avaritti.

I am nearing the end of my DC medical visit. It’s been great being in DC, a good transition back to the States, but it's as if time has been suspended. I've been in the waiting room long enough! Time for something to happen. The surgery went well. I am AOK! My daughter Elissa was a great help, a blessing. This week I have a few more follow-up appointments with my surgeon (more than I wanted) and my final Close of Service medical appointments, and then I will be going home, to a new home, in Sylvania, Ohio.

My Peace Corps service has come to an end. It happened a bit too fast for me, and it’s a hard adjustment, but I am ready to resettle. I am going into the unknown again, not sure what awaits me, not sure what I want to do. I will feel my way forward, like I did in Starobelsk, but with more ease, flexibility, and life lessons under my belt. I think I’m more relaxed with life as it comes.

I now have attachments I never thought I’d have, attachments to Ukraine, the culture, the people. It will always be a part of who I am, a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. How blessed I am. So I will make a new home in Sylvania, Ohio, near my daughters and grandkids; get my stuff moved up from St. Petersburg, Florida; settle in and settle down.

I will lighten up my load in the process, get rid of furniture and stuff I have accumulated over the years. I have found that I really don’t need much in the way of material things. A bed, a table, a lamp, some books. I grew to enjoy living in one room. It was all I needed. I felt comfortable in a room in a house, sharing space and meals and life in general. I am not sure where my next adventure might take me. I want to keep learning, exploring, stretching.

I am moving on. Also, a new blog, My Post-Peace Corps Life, will emerge shortly, after I'm settled in Sylvania!

Fresh from the garden, many wonderful meals with friends, with loving attention to detail and great generosity; Luba's Easter bread and colored eggs; 12-dish Christmas eve dinners; growing , preparing, and celebrating food.

Well, I have gained about 10 pounds since being back in the States. What’s going on? It must have something to do with the American vs the Ukrainian diet.

In Ukraine, a meal starts with a bowl of soup, often borscht, the tomato,chicken or meat-based vegetable, potato and cabbage soup, sometimes made with beets, sometimes not. There’s a green variety of Borscht, too. I also like the chicken soup, strong chicken stock and lots of fresh vegetables with potatoes or noodles. After soup comes a helping of meat, a beef patty, fried liver or pork, a piece of chicken, served with potatos fixed in a variety of ways (boiled, mashed, fried). Other times we have vareneky (dumplings) or perogies (a kind of ravioli), a little fish, or stuffed peppers, which I love, especially Luba's. Valya and Nicolai make homemade chicken kielbasa (sausage), the best I ever had.

Accompanying this course, always, is a salad of some kind, picked fresh from the garden most of the year--tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, dill, garlic, peppers, eggplant, squash, carrots, and lovingly preserved mushrooms or pickles. Fresh-baked bread is a staple. The food is not overly spicey but tasty. All natural. My host moms, Valya in Chernigov, Luba and Natalia in Starobelsk, pride themselves on their fresh and natural cooking. Meals are nutritious and delicious. After dinner, a cup of tea, sometimes with dessert, cookies or cake (tort).

There are special holiday meals, too. On Christmas eve (рождественский вечер),which in Ukraine is 6 January, a beautifully set table (the best china and glasses come out of the cabinet)is filled with twelve dishes, representing the 12 apostles, and also 12 months of the year, for the more secular. The 12 dishes include the best variety of salads ever, special plates of pickled fruits, mushrooms, and eggplant; carrot salad, crab and corn salad (a favorite), beet salad, sausages and cheeses. At Easter there is special Paska bread (паска хлеб)and colored, often intricately decorated, eggs, some to fill an Easter basket to take to church to be blessed by the priest. Sumptuous and bountiful meals mark parties, birthdays, anniversaries, local and national holidays (and there are many). Of course there are grand and frequent toasts, with vodka or cognac, sometimes wine, but always with lots of food, gusto, and laughs. I’m not a great cook, but I had the best meals in Ukraine. That's probably because I hardly ever cooked, truth be told. And we rarely if ever went to restaurants in Starobelsk

What am I eating here? I’m having hamburgers and french fries (trying to limit the latter). I’m eating prepared foods, sandwiches and frozen meals, a bit heavy on beef dishes, maybe because I didn’t have a lot in Ukraine, some but not a lot. I think the portions are larger. Not good. In the morning, bagels and a bowl of cereal go down with two to three cups of coffee, with lots of sugar and milk. I’m eating more carbs, overall. In Ukraine, breakfast is usually whatever is left over from supper the night before, a little meat, vegetables, bread. I even got used to having liver in the morning. And no harm done. Lots of good restaurants in DC, too, and I'm taking advantage of them.

Okay, I see it now. Я панимаю. I understand. I ate more balanced meals in Ukraine, more natural, and healthier portions overall, than I am eating here in the States. It didn’t take long to fall back into old habits. No fresh vegetables from the garden, or from the storage cellar prepared for the winter months, or from street vendors, roadside stands, or the ever-lively bazaar, where you could always buy fresh produce from other people’s gardens.

In Ukraine you could buy produce from lots of small stores and shops, too, or the new “supermarkets” that are opening everywhere, but they are not as loaded as our giant foodstores. The selections are much smaller. Stores here are overstocked with pricey canned, frozen or preserved foods that have few nutrients but lots of calories. And there are so many choices. I was overwhelmed, when I first got back, at the many kinds of cereal to choose from; I must have spent 20 minutes just starring at the different boxes, all offering heart health and good nutrition. It was confusing, so I finally just went for the corn flakes.

When I get settled into my new home in Sylvania, Ohio, I’m going to have to pay more attention to what I am eating. This waiting around for appointments, going back and forth to Peace Corps headquarters, and seeing friends is wonderful, but it is leaving me too much free time to snack. How easy to get off balance. Things I got used to in Ukraine, living for two years with wonderful gardeners and cooks besides, are no longer an option, unless I live on a farm. I am going to have to think about my diet again. It’s my first lesson in post-Peace Corps living.

The greening and flowering of Washington continues in spite

of colder weather we've had recently. I love the cherry blossoms and pansies, and I was thrilled to spot some pink camellias next to a downtown office building.

Cheer up, Ukraine. Don't despair. Spring is forcing its way into Washington, and it will do the same in Ukraine. It’s been cool here for a few days, too, down to the 30s, but that hasn’t stopped the greening and flowering of trees and bushes. Nor has sleet and snow. Yes, we had a little snow. Howard, Don and I walked to breakfast Saturday morning wrapped up in wool hats, gloves and scarves. Still the flowers are blooming. I thought it was warmth that brought out the flowers. But I think it’s as much longer days as warmer days. The cool weather has slowed things down a bit, but the process is inexorable: it's like watching a tree blooming in slow motion. Once spring starts, it doesn’t stop. What a wonderful lesson from nature in persistence!

This is to reassure my friends in Ukraine, where winter lingers. "I've had it with winter," a PCV friend admitted. "It's gloomy," said another. "Our winter too long this year," Vera emailed me. But really, Spring IS on the way. As soon as the daffodils and forsythia and apricot trees start to bloom in Starobelsk, it won’t stop there. Luba, Valya, Tonya and Natalia will be able to get back to their gardens. I know they can't wait. Nothing brings Luba more pleasure. So hang in there Ukraine. Spring comes to all of us; rebirth is insistent, persistent, and universal. All we have to do is wait.

So I offer this hope, a shorter version, in Russian as well!

Весна заставляет свой путь в Вашингтон. Она былапрохладной в течение нескольких дней, вплоть до 30-х годов, но это не остановило озеленение и цветение деревьев и кустарников. Я думал, что это тепло, чтовывел цветы. Но я думаю, что это как гораздо большедней, как теплые дни. прохладная погода замедлилвещи вниз немного, но это сделано весной лучше вкаком-то смысле. Как смотреть дерево расцветает взамедленном движении. Как только начинается весна, это не останавливает. Этозамечательный урок упорства. Это олжно успокоитьмоих друзей в Украине, где зима задерживается. Веснауже в пути. Как только нарциссы и Форсития иабрикосовые деревья начинают цвести, она не будетостанавливаться на достигнутом. Люба, Валя, Тоня иНаталья смогут вернуться в свои сады. Слава дней!Весна наступает для всех нас. Возрождение не толькоуниверсальным, настойчивый, настойчивый. Все, что нам нужно сделать, это ждать.

Flickr photos right.

Elizabeth Taylor just died, at 79 years of age. Now we learn that Geraldine Ferraro, Walter Mondale's vice-presidential running mate in 1984, died. I grew up with Liz Taylor, and Geraldine Ferraro was a favorite politician and pioneer, so these feel like personal losses. I feel this way about every artist, author and famous person that marked and enriched my life. I felt sad when Frank Sinatra died, and Paul Newman; when historians John Hope Franklin and Howard Zinn died; and Walter Conkrite and Lena Horne. They were among the great signposts of an era, an integral part of the cultural fabric of my life. Thread by thread, the cultural fabric is unraveling.

My sister Andy and I talk about it; this must be one of the hard things about a long life . Everyone starts leaving. The signposts go down. The cultural markings are obliterated. The icons are dismantled.The familiar is replaced by the new and the strange.

Howard, Don and I talked about it at breakfast this morning. "When you are born, you are doomed," he said graphically, "to an inevitable ending." Don told of a great aunt, his grandmother's sister, who lived to 95 until a fall sent her to a nursing home, and to her inevitable end. She outlived everyone.

So has our Aunt Loretta, my mother’s sister, who at 94 is doing remarkably well 'for her age.' She still smokes, but what the heck, God love her. She's outlived everyone in our family but her cousin Bill in Columbus, including her two children, our cousins Maria and Skip, and her sister, our beloved mom. It’s been tragic, and yet she is resilient, and stubborn. I think the latter helps as much as the former.

But I wonder about longevity. I wonder about living in a world of shrinking relations and continual loss. There must be some way to come to terms with endings, but I find it hard. I’ve struggled with this dilemma with my brother’s death. "But, Fran, he died doing what he loved, on a hike with friends, and quickly. No lingering painful illness. He was spared a too-long life."

"A too-long life." That's what I'm wondering about. And the alternative, " a too-short life." And on top of that, an afterlife. Maybe this is why I'm thinking about volunteering with Hospice when I get up North, although this, too, is up in the air, so to speak.

Actually, I’m finding I have less faith in some afterlife, or eternal life of the soul, than I thought. I’m thinking endings are endings, not beginnings. Howard and Don think so too. I know Loren would argue with us about this.

On the other hand, maybe human beings need this belief in an afterlife of some kind to console the soul in the face of death. Maybe this faith that cushions endings and losses is worth hanging onto, whether you believe in it or not, whether you meet the angel of death, the grim reaper, at 75 or 95 years of age. Maybe. Who knows? Who among the dead can enlighten us? Goodbye Liz and Geraldine. Hello doubt.

Right: Rita and Amy, African artifacts at PC Resource Center, magnolia tree on the way; below and above, DC rooftops

I spent the afternoon at the Peace Corps Resource Center (PCRC) in Rosslyn, VA today. It’s a good sized office with a room full of computers, printers, scanners, fax and phones. It has a library of useful brochures and information. Amy, a RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) who served in Azerbajan, greeted my PCV Ukraine friend Rita and me. We had a little tour, noticed the great wall posters and photos and displays of artifacts, mostly from Africa, and spent time at the computers.

The Peace Corps offers many benefits to RPCVs, and the Resource Center is there to help. These include employment counseling and job placement support ; noncompetitive eligibility for government jobs; extended health benefits for 18 months after service; and terrific education and graduate school opportunities, especially great for young volunteers, most of whom are recent college graduates or just a few years out of college.

Graduate school opportunities are fantastic. Scholarships, academic credits and stipends are available from PC “partners.” PC has more than 100 partnerships with schools from Boston U to Tulane to Northern Arizona University. These are unique opportunities to combine the experience of PC service with a graduate degree. I know several volunteers from my group 36 in Ukraine who plan to take advantage of these programs.

Getting to Rosslyn and back to Georgetown was half the pleasure. It was a rainy day, in the 50s, not warm, but many trees are in full bloom, the white and pink cherry trees and the magnificent magnolia trees pretty against a gray sky. We also saw lots of full forsythia bushes at their peak. Clouds of yellow in some places. I love the way spring moves from yellow and pink to red and purple, from daffodils and cherry blossoms to brighty tulips and iris. I can see why artists of all ages and places found the season irresistible, took out their brushes, and filled their canvases.

I also discovered it’s easy to take the new “Connector” buses from Georgetown to Rosslyn, easier, faster, and cheaper than a regular bus or the metro. So that was a good experience, too. Along the way I stopped to see my friend Esther at the Federation of State Humanities Councils, because it turned out the office was just down the street from the PC Resource Center. The degrees of separation between people around the globe seems to get smaller and smaller.

It’s a pink and yellow world in the nation's capital now, which makes these explorations a pleasure. It's the little things in life that matter sometimes. Not that our global anxieties are far from our thoughts, but that the beauty that surrounds us, and the little adventures we take, keep our spirits up.

Below photo of English Club: "Peace Cranes," colonel.korn flickr photostream.

We made peace cranes at the English Club once to thank Judy’s class in Virginia for contributing to a Peace Corps Partnership Grant that helped the Starobelsk Library build it’s first English books collection. My Peace Corps service is ending, but those books will last forever, a legacy made possible by American friends who care.

Now I’m thinking we need these peace cranes for the huge idea they symbolize: peace in the world. Dreamers have long tried to end wars, to find substitutes for war, to no avail. Perhaps there’s something about aggressive human nature that makes war unavoidable. Perhaps war is a prelude to peace, showing how worthless violence and killing are. But at what a cost? And what have we learned?

My brother Loren thought it had to do with patriarchy. Where strong men rule, where cultures worship them, make them heads of state, leaders, heroes and warriors, there also wars take place. Loren believed the dominance of patriarchy needed to be balanced with the presence of the goddess, with female spirituality. Without this balance, violence and war are inevitable. It’s looking that way now.

Moammar Gadhafi’s hold on power in Libya, long after the Lockerbee disaster, many UN resolutions, and a rebel uprising against his rule, is one of several contemporary examples of senseless ruthlessness and violence in the face of the people’s yearnings for self-determination. Bombing defenseless people in the streets? Killing innocent civilians? Unbelievable, yet he did it. Ruling with an iron fist and lining his own pockets with millions of dollars while the majority of people live in poverty? Yes, he is guilty, just like the former dictators in Egypt and Tunisia, all dictators we once supported in our long-established, woefully misguided foreign policy. Same with other dictators we support in Yemen, Bahrain, and even Saudi Arabia.

Should we be in Libya, a third war? Fact is we are in there, big time, hoping other western nations, and also the Arab League, in an unprecedented action, will support it, and take the lead. This sounds implausible, but who knows? It started with a UN resolution 1973, according to President Obama and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. It's about "stopping Gadhafi from killing his own people" we are hearing, over and over.

But what is the political, economic and social situation in Libya, the historical context? Who ARE the supporters of Gadhafi? Who are the rebels? Is it a tribal situation, or religious sectarianism, like in Iraq? Why is Libya different from Yemen and Bahrain, where the people are also exploding against their despots, and confronting brutal repression.

Regime change? No-fly zone? US cruise missiles hitting key cities and sites along the Libyan coast? Is this international intervention? What mission are these tactics supporting? Where will this lead? Where will it end? What is our appropriate role?

Loren would say we need some balancing force to emerge. But what might that be? Without Loren's take on this, I can only imagine. I imagine the best hope is for a quick end to this new war, which for the US should be neither an "odyssey" nor a "dawn"(an unfortunate and rather tortuous name for this supposedly quick operation that we will turn over to others soon).

I imagine some balance coming from a limited form of human intervention and a large form of divine intervention, mostly the later. I imagine the rebels getting organized to take over their own country. I imagine Gadhafi fleeing, soon, into dictator purgatory, pursued by over 1,000 peace cranes.

For a story about the origins of peace cranes see : http://www.buddhistcouncil.org/bodhitree/Books/Story_of_the_Peace_Crane.pdf

For a Buddhist peace site, The Bodhi Tree: http://www.buddhistcouncil.org/bodhitree/Introduction.htm#_top

Sunday, 19 March 2011

I saw my first robin of the season today as I walked through the park between Georgetown and Dupont Circle. The flowering trees and bushes are ahead of the robin sighting, but I almost jumped with glee. I wanted to call Loren to tell him about it, then remembered, dejectedly, that Loren is not here, not on earth to enjoy this change of seasons, this annual rebirth.

I long to hear his voice, to have him tell me about spring in Tallahassee, which he and our sister Andy shared and loved. At the very first sign of spring, Andy heads straight to her garden. Loren went straight to a nature trail to hike. I see him hiking now, in the grassy meadows, along the Aucilla river, at St. Marks’ Wildlife Refuge, with friends from the Tallahassee Trails Association.

On the way home from Dupont Circle that evening I saw the full moon shining brilliantly over stately Victorian buildings. I stood still for a long time. The silence of the moon. I thought it was shining brighter than usual, closer than usual, as bright and close as the lights lining the streets. It was, indeed, a "supermoon" I learned later on a weather report.

If it's a supermoon Loren must see it too, I thought, I hoped, although my hope is stronger than my faith. The brightness of this moon must touch his soul, somehow. I want to believe this, with all my heart. I want to believe that the lightness of his being was reflected in the light of this full moon.

Saturday afternoon, 19 March, a bright spring day: Libya has knocked Japan right out of the news. The U.S. fired over 100 cruise missiles on Libyan targets, the headlines scream. I’m not even sure what this means. Doesn’t this place us right in the heart of a war? Where is the so-called “broad international coalition”? And if Gadhafi is digging in his heels, doesn’t this mean we are in for a prolonged conflict in northern Africa, kind of how we got into Iraq, going after Saddam Hussein, 8 years ago?

Underneath this horrendous news ran this banner: Japanese radiation spreading, reaching California. Meanwhile, Japan is still reeling from the effects of the massive earthquake and tsunami, thousands killed, thousands still missing. A war and a disaster. Unbearable catastrophe.

Most of us are far away from the sound and fury of these natural and man-made disasters. Here on a bright sunny spring day in the nation’s capital, life seems serene, benign. It’s hard to imagine the depth and extent of the crises and the human suffering.

The bad news is so bad I don’t know how the journalists are deciding which is more newsworthy. It doesn’t look like any of these events, neither the spread of nuclear radiation nor the spread of war, will end soon. They will linger in reality and in the news for a long time. Good lord, what next?

Photos: A Slavsky Road (Carpathian mountains, Ukraine); an Iris in Starobelsk.

The One for Whom You Create

Poets, lose your pens,

Painters, toss your brushes

in the sea,

Musicians, give your instruments

away,

then go for a long walk.

When you're done,

keep walking,

notice the beauty all around you.

Don't try to remember

a single thing,

breathe.

This holy moment is your poetry,

your art, your song.

Do not concern yourself with giving it form.

From Mitch Ditkoff’s Blog, Heart of the Matter

This is a nice poem, found by accident on a blog called Heart of the Matter. Sounds like Deepak Chopra or Eckhart Tolle. As usual I struggle with the concept. I have some qualms about the message of this poem. I think this is taking the “NOW” to the extreme. Sure we breathe and take in the moment. We go for long walks and notice the beauty around us. We are grateful for the moment.

But do we want to breathe in a world without poetry, music, art? I have experienced many “a holy moment” in reading the poetry of Mary Oliver, listening to Bach or the Beatles, admiring the paintings of Frieda Kahlo, Georgia O’Keefe, Picasso, the sculpture of David Smith. I, for one, am glad that these artists and every artist on earth in all times and places have concerned themselves “with giving it form.”

Okay, I might be off base here. I’m open to suggestions. I welcome your insights. But now I will take a long walk, from Georgetown to the National Cathedral, and breath in the moment.

Top collage: Peace Corps Headquarters; cherry blossoms; Emily relaxing in our Georgetown suite. Below: Georgetown scenes and PCVs Amy, Claire, Brent, Ina and Emily at dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant.

I am adjusting to being in DC rather than in Ukraine. First I felt torn from my site, lonely for Starobelsk. I missed my friends. I still miss my friends. I even miss being surrounded by the Russian language.

But Washington is my old hometown. I’m strolling familiar streets and sites, seeing some friends, reconnecting with a place that was home for almost 20 years.

It’s been interesting going back and forth to Peace Corps headquarters at 22nd and L, NW, from Georgetown to downtown. It's a rather nondescript, typical DC office building. It’s architecture is plain compared to PC headquarters in Ukraine, but serviceable, lots of offices with serious government workers, and tons of security just to get in. There have been lots of appointments at the office and also at nearby doctor’s offices. I’m lucky. My tests have gone okay and show no serious issues, no cancer. I’m very fortunate.

It’s also been nice to share a room at the Georgetown Suites with another PCV. Emily is a TEFL volunteer in Southeastern China. She’s one of 200 English teachers there, all concentrated in Eastern China. She’s really here for no good reason and just trying to get back to Hong Guang, which is near Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province. We know it as Sechuan, and for its spicy cuisine. Chengdu was the capital of China 2000 years ago; the site of a technological miracle that diverted a river to irrigate the plains in 800 AD (which the Communist tried but could not duplicate) and, more recently, in 2008, near the site of the devastating earthquake that decimated an elementary school and killed thousands.

The University where Emily teaches was established because Chairman Mao stood on the site, spotted a tractor in a field, and announced there should be a university there to build tractors. So the school went up. Apparently Mao walked about China like this, seeing things, making pronouncements, and then seeing them come to life. This was when Mao was considered a “spiritual leader," and what he said was law. There is no “spiritual leader” in China today, Emily says, just power grabs between civilian and military leaders, a situation that complicates internal stability and international relations. Emily thinks China’s political and economic situation is precarious and that some kind of crisis is looming. This is somewhat contrary to what we hear and read about China rising, so I was fascinated by this “insider’s” view.

When I asked Emily what value the Chinese prized the most, she said “harmony.” Sounded nice. ”But not how we think of it,” she added quickly. “It has more to do with maintaining the status quo, not rocking the boat, than maintaining harmonious relations among different peoples. In fact they value ‘harmony’ at the expense of human relations, the latter not a priority at all,” she believes. Harmony as a form of oppression, she said. Interesting. The ying and yang of harmony, although Emily might take issue with this, too.

There are other volunteers here in DC, for various medical issues, none serious it seems. Claire is a Youth Development volunteer working with special needs kids in Peru. After PC she wants to get a PhD in psychology and work with people with autism. Ina is a volunteer in Antiqua, lives on the beach, speaks English. We tease her about it: it’s a hardship post, but someone’s got to do it. Amy is in Hondurus and Brent in Armenia. We’re all over the map and we enjoyed sharing stories, mostly hilarious, over dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant.

PCVs are a pretty laid back bunch, mostly young (unless it’s a big PCV country like Ukraine), take things in stride, funny and somewhat irreverent. They have interesting takes on the countries they serve and on their own country. They are open, tolerant, and have wide-ranging interests.

So the Peace Corps experience continues in new and different ways. Once a PCV, always a PCV. It’s a fascinating community of kindred spirits, no matter where you are.

l Collage featuring Taras Shevchenko statue and bouquet of flowers; Annex of Phillips Collection; Suzanne and me in front of Ghandi statue.

Washington is turning green. Well, it IS St. Patrick's Day. We're all Irish today, and it feels right! Every bar in DC is celebrating. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Spring is coming to Washington, so I imagine it unfolding in Ukraine. The trees are budding, the bushes leafing, the forsythia popping, the daffodils blooming, the cherry blossoms are blushing pink. I see what is here and now, and I think Ukraine. It will be like this for the rest of my life, I think, maybe especially in Spring, so welcome after a long hard winter. It was exciting to see the daffodils along Panfelova and the paths into town,the apricot trees in Luba’s yard, the tulips around the university, the Kaston (chestnut trees) in Lenin park, the iris and lilacs everywhere, in profusion. A palette of yellow, purples, lavender, and pink.

On Saturday I walked to the Philips Collection, a favorite art museum, to meet my friend Suzanne, enjoying the fresh air, savoring Spring. We toured the museum, saw an exhibit of works by David Smith, a favorite sculptor, and posed in front of the statue of Mahatma Gandhi across the street. We had lunch and talked politics, just like old times.

On my way back to the hotel I saw another beautiful statue and was moved by some unknown energy to take a closer look. There on the corner of P Street and Massachusetts NW stood Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian poet! That elegant statue has always been there, but this is the first time I really saw it, the first time it spoke to me. A love of everything Ukraine enveloped me, like it did Shevchenko, and I felt a love for that country that has been my home for two years. A fresh bouquet of flowers adorned the base of the statue, a gift from the Embassy of Ukraine. Shevchenko looked approvingly at the blue and yellow bouquet that symbolized Ukrainian culture and history, the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

Springtime Washington. Springtime Ukraine. The connection’s never been so strong, so beautiful!

The cherry blossoms are weeping. Japan is suffering one of the worst natural disasters of modern times, a huge earthquake that triggered a mind-bending tsunami that has destroyed northern coastal cities such as Sendai, a once-lovely city of one million, considered Japan's "greenest" city (photo montage, below right, Wikipedia). Nature’s fury unleashed. We are powerless in the face of it. The destruction is unimaginable. It's like watching the twin towers crumble after the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I know it's not the same, but I feel that same sense of helplessness and horror.

It's how the painter Edvard Munch felt when he witnessed a blood-red sunset in Norway caused by the ultra-massive explosion of Indonesia's Krakatoa Volcano and a resultant devastating tsuanmi that totally wiped out this far-away island in 1883. This natural disaster was the source of his famous painting, "The Scream." I never knew this before, that a monster disaster, an explosion heard and seen round the world over 100 years ago, inspired this painting. “Suddenly the sky turned blood red,” Munch recalled. “I stood there shaking with fear and felt an endless scream passing through nature” (quoted in Wikipedia).

I was glued to the TV for several hours, then turned it off. Did I detect a hint of glee in the reporters’ coverage, an earth-shattering event that was good for the news. Somehow I think the news stations like these disasters. It brings millions to the tube. It goes on for days and days. Breaking news. Breaking news. Disaster. Death. Destruction.

Maybe I am being overly sensitive. Afterall, we do want to know what’s happening. But 24/7 for days on end? This is what I am not sure about. Perhaps the best thing is that the overkill news coverage mobilizes disaster relief. Japan helped Louisiana after Katrina, and joined other nations in helping Haiti after the earthquake, and now these nations will help Japan, along with humanitarian organizations and caring individuals hearing the horrifying news.

“An endlress scream passing through nature,” a horrific natural disaster made worse by nuclear meltdowns and a rising death toll. Another Chernobyl, another Hiroshima and Nakasake, loom. Massive radiation contamination. An unending crisis, one on top of the other. We pray for Japan, for the people lost, for the survivors of these families who grieve surrounded by nothing but rubble, destruction, a flooded wasteland, and now nuclear fallout. Some things are beyond understanding. The cherry blossoms are weeping.

Turning points, flickr photo.

I'm having another turning in my life. I turn 71 today. Amazing grace! Last year I turned 70 in Toledo, Ohio, when I was visiting my family to celebrate the turning from one decade to the next. The English Club had a surprise 70th birthday party for me when I got back to Starobelsk (photo, below right). I thought I’d be turning 71 in Starobelsk, too, but it didn’t happen that way. A turning, and I am in Washington, DC.

It seems like everything turns. The seasons turn. Our lives turn, like the old soap opera, “As the World Turns.” Maybe that program’s still turning, I’m not sure because I don’t watch TV much and never during the day. But the world is definitely turning, on its axis, around the sun. The sun has crossed the equator, and winter is turning to Spring in the Northern hemisphere. The moon is turning closer to the earth, closer than it's been in decades, and we will have a huge full moon on 19 March. I'll be watching it with Loren, and all those I love all over the world.

And so we are turning corners in our lives, turning the pages, turning from one chapter to another.

Now comes another turning. My Peace Corps service in Ukraine is nearing an end, whether here in the States or there. I am also turning another chapter altogether in my decision to move from Florida to Toledo after Peace Corps. I had no idea this would happen when I left St. Petersburg. Some turning, and I will be re-turning to the place where I raised a family, and where my family still lives.

Sometimes these turnings and changes are great and sometimes they feel terrible, I remarked to a PCV friend. “Yeah, but if we aren’t turning and changing, we aren’t alive,” the friend said smartly. Looks like I will have more turnings ahead. It’s inevitable. It’s how we deal with them that matters, as the sages tell us. It reminds me once again of the Byrds' great rendition of the great Pete Seeger song based on one of my favorite verses from Ecclesiastics:

To everything (turn, turn, turn),

There is a season (turn, turn, turn).

And a time for every purpose under Heaven.

The life that I have

Is all that I have

And the life that I have

Is yours.

The love that I have

Of the life that I have

Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have

A rest I shall have

Yet death will be but a pause

For the peace of my years

In the long green grass

Will be yours and yours and yours.

By Leo Marks

I first learned of Leo Marks when Chelsea Clinton and her husband chose this poem as part of their wedding ceremony. It contains lovely sentiments, which can be interpreted in different ways; it touches a deep chord. My interpretation is that “my life and my love are for those I love, forever.”

It’s a lovely poem for a wedding, but the strange thing is that it is also a nice poem for a funeral. A wedding and a funeral. The beginning of a new life and the end of life. It seems odd. But once I learned a little more about Leo Marks, maybe it’s not so odd after all.

Leo Marks was a cryptologist, someone who creates and breaks secret codes. He was the son of an antiquarian bookseller in London, according to my favorite source for this kind of information, Wikipedia. He was first introduced to cryptography when his father gave him a copy of Edgar Allan Poe's story, "The Gold Bug." This is one of Poe’s most bizarre short stories, as I remember it, but I can see why a budding young cryptologist would find it fascinating. Young Marks demonstrated his skill at code breaking by deciphering his father's secret price codes. What a shock that must have been! It was the beginning of a long and brilliant career.

His father, Benjamin Marks, was joint owner of the Marks & Co bookshop at 84 Charing Cross Road, which achieved international fame with the 1970 book of that title by New York writer Helene Hanff and the later plays and movie. I loved the movie. A wonderful story, literary and enchanting, of unrequited love.

As a teenager, Leo Marks earned pocket money by setting the notoriously difficult London Times cryptic crossword. He became a cryptographer during WWII, a story he tells in his autobiography, "Between Silk and Cyanide," a behind-the-scenes look at the agents and policymakers of Winston Churchill’s secret service agencies. I’ve put the book on my ever-growing reading list.

According to reviews of the autobiography, Marks had no trouble breaking codes, but he could not break through the red tape and competition among different intelligence agencies, the Services Research Bureau or SOE among them, to get them to adopt a new system of codes that he thought would save lives. Marks said he was not a soldier or an agent, but just someone trying to keep them alive. He was considered brilliant at his work and sent many agents into enemy lines in occupied Europe armed with secret codes and life-saving techniques. His book is about his valiant but unsuccessful struggle for a new system of codes (“silk codes”). But the old system prevailed, and interestingly it was based on encoding poems, classical and contemporary, Marks own poems among them. What a fascinating subject this turned out to be. So Leo Marks wrote poems encoded with secret messages and secret knowledge that he hoped would save the lives of soldiers and secret agents working against Hitler.

Well, then, what does Leo Marks’ poem, “The Live that I have,” mean? What secrets are encoded in it? Intriguing! But we’ll probably never know.

It's amazing what you find out when you are exploring something of interest and branch out from there into new and unknown territory in the world of knowledge. It’s like Mary Oliver said about living your life in “Wild Geese:’

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Life calls to you “like the wild geese, harsh and exciting.” I think Leo Marks would have liked this particular poem. And maybe could have used it to encode messages that would save lives.

The awesome layers of rock, from different ages and eons, that make up the majestic Grand Canyon, are like the layers of experience that compose our lives.

Our lives are layers of experiences, one on top of the other, sometimes running parallel to each other, sometimes blending together. Being a Peace Corps Volunteer has created another layer. For someone in her 7th decade, that's a lot of layering. It's gets down to that AARP adage (attributed to Abraham Lincoln) about "adding life to your years, not years to your life."

My Peace Corps adventure comes on top of many other layers: growing up in Rochester, NY; going to Wheaton college near Boston; attending graduate school in Madison, Wisconsin; children and family life in Toledo; humanities work in Washington, DC and Florida; teaching American history and women’s history at the University of Toledo and at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida.

These layers of experience sometimes seemed connected, sometimes disconnected, even disjointed. They brought joy and sorrow, achievements and mistakes, and often a sense of contribution to community, like my teaching, civil rights, and family violence prevention work in Ohio and, in DC, serving as an elected Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner for my Dupont Circle neighborhood.

Now I am completing my Peace Corps service, and I will be moving back to Toledo, close to my children and grandchildren for the first time in 26 years. I never thought I’d return to Toledo. When I was away, returning seemed a remote possibility. It felt like going backwards. Now it feels right. I have come full circle: I will add another layer of experience on top of the others, with a renewed sense of purpose and meaning. I will return home, enriched by my Peace Corps experience.

It was hard being yanked out of my site so quickly, and probably unnecessarily. These appointments in DC could have waited two months. I’m working on my attitude to try to turn this lemon into lemonade. I’m having trouble with this. My dear colleagues voted me the "Toughest PCV" in group 36, a special honor. But this has been one of the toughest changes yet. I only had two months to go. I could have prepared the English Club and other projects for my leaving, had a smoother transition to a new PCV, done some goal setting and planning for the future. Instead I was taken out in one fell swoop, like a deus ex machina on a theater stage. But this is not theater; it's real life. And that's what feels so bad.

The only good side to all this is that my daughter Elissa was here in DC and between appointments we explored Washington, a really great walking and touring city. On Saturday we spent several hours at the National Museum of the American Indian, an absolutely stunning museum, from its brilliant architecture to its fine exhibitions. It's a testiment to the persistence of cultures and the human spirit in the face of horrendous oppression and adversity. The American Indians, our first people, are still with us, working hard to preserve their cultures into the future, for all time. It's a lesson for the present.

Elissa has returned to Toledo and I remain here in DC, but my heart is in Starobelsk. I am not sure what’s coming next. More tests, more doctors' appointments, and then what? I am working on my attitude. I didn’t have to be booted out of Ukraine, as it were, but now I think it would be painful to return and have to go through all the goodbyes again. So I am taking it one day at a time. I am a working PCV until 18 May, no matter what happens. I was assured of this before I left Ukraine. Once a PCV always a PCV. That is the only comfort right now.

Peace Corps' 50th anniversary logo. Below, my daughter Elissa next to a Kennedy poster in the lobby of Peace Corps Headquarters, Washington, DC.

“Peace requires the simple but powerful recognition that what we have in common as human beings is more important and crucial than what divides us.” Sargent Shriver, first director of the Peace Corps, 1961-1966

I feel blessed to be a part of the Peace Corps as a volunteer in Ukraine. It’s hard to believe that its 50th anniversary is here. I remember when it started in 1961, in the happy halcyon days of the Kennedys. Over 200,000 Americans have served in 139 countries since then. Today there are 8600 volunteers in 77 countries, serving our country in the cause of peace from the bottom up.

The world has changed since 1961 and so has the Peace Corps, for some people not fast enough, for others at a good-enough pace given the difficult process of transitions. We contemporary PCVs are not as isolated as the early volunteers, who didn't have the internet and cell phones and the technology that keeps us connected. Current PCVs wonder how our predecessors, the pioneers, did it in those early days; we are lucky we can stay in touch with loved ones. Also, we are working on a host of different issues, from agricultural development to AIDS/HIV education, information technology, non-governmental organization development, human rights and environmental protection. We are in villages, towns and cities around the globe, "a legacy of service that has become a significant part of America’s history and positive image abroad" (http://www.peacecorps.gov/).

Here is a listing of some of the Peace Corps' newest programs and projects (http://www.nationalpeacecorpsassociation.0rg/):

HIV/AIDS in Africa and the Caribbean

The Peace Corps has intensified its role in the global effort to fight HIV/AIDS by training all Volunteers in Africa as educators and advocates of HIV/AIDS prevention and education. Regardless of their primary project, all Volunteers are being equipped to play a role in addressing the multiple health, social, and economic problems related to the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Peace Corps programs in Botswana and Swaziland are devoted entirely to fighting the disease. In addition, efforts are expanding into the Caribbean, where more Volunteers are focusing efforts on combating HIV/AIDS.

Information Technology

Volunteers provide technical training and support to groups and organizations that want to make better use of information and communications technology. They introduce people to the computer as a tool to increase efficiency and communication and to "leap frog" stages of development. Volunteers teach basic computer literacy skills, (e.g. word-processing, spreadsheets, basic accounting software, Internet use, and webpage development) and they introduce host communities to e-commerce, distance learning, and geographic information systems.

Expanding Into New Countries- Africa Region

Since Ghana received the first Peace Corps Volunteers in 1961, more than 60,000 Americans have served in 46 African countries. The Peace Corps continues to enjoy strong cooperation and support from the people of Africa. At the end of fiscal year 2011, some 3,000 Volunteers and trainees will be on board, working in 25 countries. In 2003, the re-opening of the Chad, Botswana, and Swaziland programs poised the Africa region for substantial growth.

Europe, Mediterranean and Asia Region

More than 48,250 Volunteers have served in the Europe, Mediterranean, and Asia (EMA) region since 1961. EMA has well over 2,500 Volunteers and trainees working in 20 countries, most of which are undergoing rapid economic and social changes. Throughout the region, Volunteers work with governments, local organizations, and communities to provide needed technical expertise and promote cross-cultural understanding. Together, Volunteers and their counterparts work to address changing needs in agriculture, business, education, the environment, and health.

I would add to this description the work volunteers are doing in NIS countries, the Newly Independent States of the former Soviet Union. Volunteers work in all areas and on all issues relevant to the transitioning economic and political conditions of these former Soviet republics. It is transformative work at the local level, step by step. It is about getting to know these countries and their cultures, and about them getting to know about America. Where there were enemies, there are now friendships. Where there was fear and hate, there is now acceptance and tolerance.

Inter-America and Pacific Region

Since 1961, more than 73,000 Volunteers have served in the Inter-America and Pacific (IAP) region, in more than 46 countries. Today, more than 3000 Volunteers work in 24 posts in all six of the agency’s sectors: agriculture, business development, education, the environment, health and HIV/AIDS, and youth. The Fiji program was re-opened in 2003 and a program in Mexico opened for the first time in 2004.

Celebrations of the 50th anniversary are now taking place worldwide. We are celebrating in Ukraine, joining PCVs all over the globe. We hope the spirit of the Peace Corps infuses international affairs and diplomacy at the highest levels in this fast-changing world, where the yearning for freedom, self-determination and peace are driving popular protests, people's revolutions, and drastic social change.

Check out www.peacecorps.gov or the National Peace Corps Association website for more information and ongoing updates on what's happening where. Below is a list of agency-supported commemorative efforts. This calendar will be updated continually as events are confirmed: January 3, 2011:Worldwide launch of the agency's 50th Anniversary Year Commemoration efforts including release of a commemorative poster created exclusively by a prominent American artist.

March 1, 2011: Worldwide launch of inaugural "Peace Corps Month"

March 2–4, 2011:Director Aaron Williams and Chris Matthews at UCLA, panel presentation and a film screening.

March 5, 2011: Kennedy Service Awards Ceremony, Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum in Boston, Mass.

March 17, 2011: National Archives and Records Administration panel discussion, Washington, D.C.

March 24, 2011: Director Williams will visit the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

April 2011: Congressional Community Event in Washington D.C.

May 18, 2011: Lillian Carter Awards Ceremony for Outstanding Senior RPCV, Carter Center in Atlanta, Ga.

June 30–July 11, 2011: Peace Corps will be a featured program at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival on the National Mall, Washington, D.C.

Summer 2011: Peace Corps will honor the departure of the first group of Volunteers to Ghana and Tanganyika (later called Tanzania) and passage of the historic congressional authorization of the Peace Corps in September 1961.

September 23, 2011: United States Institute of Peace panel discussion, Washington, D.C.

Me with Volodymir, Tonya, Luba and Natalia, Vera and Lyda, and collage with "Paka" party friends. including Tonya and Olga.

I’m in Washington, DC. I found out while on vacation in Prague that Peace Corps wanted to send me to Washington right away for more medical tests on some breast issues that came up on my Ukrainian mammogram. When I got to Slavsky in the beautiful Carpathian mountains for my Close of Service conference, I was confronted with the option of going directly to Kyiv to fly to the US, or leaving the conference after one day to return to Starobelsk to pack and say goodbye.

I am so close to the end of my Peace Corps service that the possibility of returning is slim. I pleaded with PC medical staff to let me stay for two more months, to no avail. I said a hasty goodbye to my PCV friends in group 36, the best group of volunteers ever, and took the 23-hour train across the country from the far west to the far east and then the 6-hour bus ride from Khargiv to Starobelsk to pack it up and say goodbye to friends. I was in a state of shock, I think, processing this fast turnaround, and I made the trip with a heavy heart.

So this is how I spent the past weekend in Starobelsk, my last days in Ukraine. It was a whirlwind of activity in a reluctant frame of mind. I went to the Library to say goodbye to my librarian friends and English Club members and later had a "Paka" Party at Natalia’s for some of my closest friends. We had a wonderful and moving last supper with Luba, my first host mom on Panfelova; Olga and Tonya, my fellow travelers and constant helpmates; Asya and Sasha, who helped me grieve for Loren and spread gentle good will; Lyda and Volodymir and of course the lovely Natalia who made me welcome in my second apartment on Kyrova. These were the people who took in a stranger and shared all they had. They made me a part of their families, their community, their lives. How blessed I am.

I received many special toasts. It was hard to hold back the tears in the face of so many compliments, the sharing of so many great memories. I got some lovely presents, but best of all were the heartfelt good wishes. I have never felt so embraced, so comforted, so complimented.

The only dear friend who was not at the dinner was Natalia the university English teacher, my tutor, my interpretor, my closest confidante, without whom I could not have accomplished as much as I did. Instead she and her husband Vasyl, and their sons Artur and Artyom, offered to drive me to Lugansk to catch the train to Kyiv. It spared me a lonely bus ride, and it was a time for Natalia and me to reminisce and share. She said she didn’t come to the dinner because she was too sad at my leaving. I changed her life, she said. I taught her to follow her dreams. I changed Starobelsk, and everyone I crossed paths with. I made her community richer and the lives of the people more hopeful. I made her more hopeful, she said. She wants one day to come to America on a temporary Visa to work and live for a while, to have a new adventure, “like you, Fran. I want to be like you.” Good god, what did I ever do to deserve such kindess and generosity of spirit?

So this is part of the Peace Corps experience too. Beginnings and endings. My beloved brother Loren used to remind me that ‘there are no ends in nature, only beginnings.” I hope so. Still, it was hard to say good bye, paka, dosvedanya dear friends, dear Starobelsk, dear Ukraine. I received so muich more than I could ever give. I will always remember. Я всегда буду помнить.

“I really do inhabit a universe in which words are capable of shaking the entire structure of government, where words can prove mightier than ten military divisions."

Vaclav Havel, former president of Czechoslovakia and then president of the independent Czech Republic until 2003.

I was in Prague and so I decided to look for one of my heroes, Vaclac Havel, the brilliant, talented poet and former president of the Czech Republic. He stepped down in 2003 and has since returned to theatre, teaching, international relations, and writing. He is one of the people in this world, along with the likes of Jefferson, Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, with whom I’d love to have dinner. I’d ask Havel about his life’s work, his passions, his role as a leader of the “velvet revolution’ that peacefully freed the country of Communist occupation. I’d ask him how a poet became a president, how a poet, playwright, and artist became a political activist and an icon of independence. I’d listen to him read his poetry and newest plays over coffee and dessert, savoring every moment with this great man.

Prague, the Czech capital, is an incredibly beautiful city, I think one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. How wonderful it must have been, how enriching and inspiring, to grow up here. My search for Havel began with a night cruise down the historic Vltava river. It was our group’s introduction to the city, led by experienced guide Bella, who lives in Prague and speaks fluent Russian. She knows the city like the back of her hand. She pointed out the sights along the river as we passed under lovely bridges, including the Charles, the oldest in Europe. As night fell and over a hearty dinner with some great Czech beer, she gave us some history, talked a little about Havel and the revolution he helped lead. Havel wasn’t on the boat, but his presence was felt.

After the cruise, Bella led us on a walking tour of the city. As tired as we were, after a 27-hour bus trip from Lviv that included a 7-hour wait at the Ukraine-Poland border, it was a wonderful walk, like a luscious dessert topping off a grand five-course dinner. Our group of 30 diverse people, many from Kyiv where the tour started, turned out to be such enthusiastic tourists it was contagious! We walked through squares, between buildings, under elaborate archways, around grand churches, cultural centers and towers, and stopped for closer looks at many, including the Maisel Synagogue, a fanciful pure white building that shines like a beacon in the night. Kind of unusual architecture for a Synagogue I thought, but, then, we are in Prague, and everything imaginable is possible.

There’s something about seeing a city for the first time at night that is wondrous: all the sites are lit up like a gigantic Christmas tree of many colored lights, decorated with the most elegant arts and crafts, Bohemian crystal in every shape and color, elaborately carved, painted and enchanting decorations. It reminded me of the antique Christmas bulbs that belonged to my grandmother and to her mother and my mother, which we get out every year to adorn our trees, but multiplied a thousand-fold over a magic fairytale land of one’s dreams. It’s dazzling.

But it was getting late, and I think Havel was either relaxing in his beautiful home in Wenseslas square, or listening to jazz at one of his favorite jazz cafes. When Havel invited Bill Clinton to Prague, they attended one such café, and Bill took a turn on a sax! What a team! Our group, however, as enthusiastic as it remained, was ready to call it a day. I would look for Havel tomorrow.

During the day, Prague is even more stunning, because you can see all the details of the magnificent architecture that defines the city. I think Havel must know them intimately; they inspired his poetry and his patriotism.

The city is packed with palaces and churches, ornate gates and towers, theaters and cultural centers, sacred and secular monuments and statuary in a range of gorgeous architectural styles from the Medieval to the Renaissance, Baroque and Gothic and up through 18th and 19th-century classics. Havel no doubt inhabited or visited them all at one time or another: the humanist and artist who used words not weapons to bring a revolution. I was in his footsteps.

I realized it didn't matter where we were, Havel's spirit was there. Surely he worshipped at times at the glorious St. Vitus Cathedral, part of the Prague Palace and Monestary complex, on a hilltop overlooking the whole city. His family once lived nearby, an intellectual and upper class family. The Cathedral was built over several centuries, not years but centuries, so it contains all of the different styles and elements that are part of prague’s architectural heritage. It features lovely slender Gothic towers, distinctive on the Prague skyline, along with incredible Neo-Gothic and Art Nouveau stained glass windows. The nave rises into the heavens, it’s that high. The spirit of Havel hovers. I could see how such beauty and artistry would inspire a revolution.

Just as important as the magnificent and monumental palaces and cathedrals are the lovely and lively town squares: Wensaslas Square (Vaclavske namesti), Old Town Square and Lesser Town Square, centers of commercial and cultural activities, where people gather and where Czech partisans in 1968, and later in the late 1980s, held organizing meetings and public protests. Havel’s motto then, during those revolutionary days, was “Truth and love must replace lies and hate.” I could imagine him stirring up a crowd, surrounded by the stunning beauty of a Prague square, with these words.

The walk down from the hilltop to the squares, on winding cobble-stoned streets lined with the former homes of merchants and craftsmen, is a feast in itself. You get both beautiful panoramic vistas of the city, and close-up views of the beautiful details of every building. You get a sense of the prosperous and proud city of the past, and the free city of the present. Havel’s family, I learned, was very much a part of this culture in this place. Havel absorbed it all, from an early age, a proud Czech with an artistic vision and a world view.

The details of Prague architecture fuse into an elaborate mosaic of red and brown roofs with white and pink chimneys, interwoven with green, yellow, rose, lavender, ochre and colorfully painted facades, decorated with pastel paintings, bas relief, decorated doors and windows above which are lovely house signs. Bella explained that these signs are not only artful decorative items, but also tell of the original owners' occupations. Thus there are signs featuring musical instruments (we saw one with three violines, very lovely), knights on horses, swans and birds, fabric and metal objects, fruits and vegetables, each designating a profession or trade, or perhaps a special interest.

Among these beautiful houses is the Storch House in Old Town Square, built in the late 19th century on the site of a Gothic building. The walls are covered with frescoes and colorful decorations, called I learned afterwards, “sgraffito” decorations, the origin of what we today call “grafitti” on our urban buildings. A knight on a white horse painted boldly on the Storch House turned out to be St. Wenceslas, the patron saint of the Czech state.

The Old Town Square (Staromestaske namest) also features a fantastical (if there is such an adventive) Astronomical Clock. Every hour, moving figures, the apostles, appear in the upper windows, marching around the tower, along with the toll of bells and the sound of a live trumpet filling the square with majestic sound. The crowd applauds, and the trumpeter, in regal red dress, bows. We are enchanted!

We wonder off toward a grand church with a distinctive large green cupola that draws us to it like a magnet. What is this magnificent Baroque structure that dominates the Square? It's St. Nicholas Church, and it’s interior is as elegant as its exterior, full of amazing paintings and statues, lovely stained glass windows, and a beautiful ceiling fresco above an elaborate Nave. Popes spoke here, to throngs of worshipers, Havel among them. I'm not sure what Havel's religious beliefs are, but under his spiritual side lies a free spirit who loves Frank Zappa and Smashing Pumpkins and other alternative forms of music and art. At the same time, I can picture him worshipping at one of these grand churches, or enjoying a Mozart concert in the Smetana auditorium of the beautiful Art Nouveau Cultural hall or at Philharmonic Hall, a massive Renaissance building.

There is one building in Prague which is among Olga's favorites and which she said she must see again. Would we go with her? Yes, of course. We walked along the river, along a grand boulevard, to a funny-looking building that looked as if it was swaying in the breeze. "This is it," Olga exclaimed, jumping 3 feet into the air! "It's the Dancing Building!"

So this gray "leaning-tower-of-Pisa" building wasn't swaying in the breeze, it was dancing! It was happy; it was free. I later read in a guide book that it stood on the site of a building that was bombed in 1945, and that it was designed and built between 1992 and 1996 by an American architect and a Czech architect, working together, combining old and new world styles. The architects: Frank O. Gehry and Vlado Milunic. The same Frank Gehry who designed the Toledo Museum of Art addition and the modern glass building and other buildings of distinction in America.

The Dancing Building seemed such a joyful metaphor for change and hope. It embodied the eclectic spirt of Vaclav Havel, the old and the new, dancing together into a brilliant future.

I didn’t see Havel, but his spirit is everywhere: creativity and political reality fused into a magnificent mosaic composed of the past and present. Havel inhabits Prague's essence. That’s where I found Vaclev Havel, poet-president of the Czech republic.

The responses to the 2011“Starobelsk Memories” calendar have been positive and enthusiastic, evoking the pride and pleasure people derive from seeing their city highlighted and beautiful. The calendar promotes a sense of place, a sense of a shared community with its own distinctive architecture, character, environment, landmarks and memorials, and folklife traditions. When we see our town in bold relief, we feel pride.

It reminds me of my working days with the state humanities councils in DC and Florida. One of the NEH chairmen, William Ferris, a southern Folklorist and director of the Center for Southern Culture in Mississippi, was a premier advocate of a “Sense of Place.” The idea resonated in both DC and Florida, places that couldn’t be more different from each other yet so similar in their need for recovering and celebrating their distincitve identities.

In DC, the compact 63-square-miles nation’s capital on the Potomac River, the humanities council focused its grantmaking and programming on exploring and extolling the heritage and distinctiveness of the residential city beyond the Capitol, the White House and the National Mall. This is the city that thousands of residents have called "home" for generations. The DC council funded and created hundreds of programs—award-winning documentary films, seminars, publications, public forums, exhibits, oral histories--on the city’s vibrant neighborhoods, its migrant and immigrant experiences, the stories of people who came to the city in search of a better life, its art, culture and folk traditions.

The same in Florida, one of the largest states in the US with over 16 million people and immense diversity from the North to the South. The Florida council awarded grants throughout the large state to explore local history and the built and natural environments, which are unique and splendid; offered heritage tourism weekends; invoked the state's indigenous Indian roots, its Spanish heritage, and its ethnic diversity; involved teachers in Florida history; and published a magazine devoted to Florida culture and traditions. In a state where so many people migrated from other places, “making Florida home” was the Florida council’s mantra.

The Starobelsk calendar fulfills a similar purpose. It is unusual here in this small village of 18,000 in far-eastern Ukraine near the Russian border to glory in local history, to be a “booster” for the town. Most residents, who have lived here for a long time, take their environment for granted, have other priorities besides the town’s identity or a shared heritage rooted in place.

The calendar highlights and extols the virtues of the village, in all seasons, in all its variety: The town center, the park, the Aydar river, holidays, folk art and architecture, its houses and churches, the university, and the Cultural Center, library, administration building, post office, and other downtown places where people shop, chat, and gather. All places people know and with which they are intimately familiar. Yes, “gathering places,” so special in a village where everyone walks from here to there and everywhere. I did more work by bumping into people on the street than anywhere else. Gathering places, public spaces, on the streets, are central to daily life here in Starobelsk. The calendar focuses on these special places, and in so doing evokes wonderful "aha" experiences and draws people together in a collective embrace of place.

"An embrace of place." It anchors us in a distinctive environment, a physical spot on planet earth, a geographic location that fosters attachment and belonging. It grounds us in a community of memory. It speaks both to our individual stories and to our shared stories, our collective history. “Starobelsk Memories” pays homage to a town that embraced a stranger from America. It is truly a special place.

Photos: Icicles on Natalia's house. Iryna (Ira), Luba's dear friend and mine, was with us when we sledded down Panfelova, so I want to save this memory. And looking up Komyzarov on my way home to Kyrova Street.

We’ve had a few almost warm days lately, and the snow and ice are melting, the icicles are falling off houses and buildings, and the sidewalks, paths and streets are full of water. Up to your ankles. I’ve heard the crash of icicles falling to the ground outside my window. Natalia’s house had some huge icicles hanging from the roof. Huge. No more. I was warned more than once to avoid them, with dire warnings of death. Ghastly images floated through my mind: death by icicle stabbing. "It fell right through her heart, poor soul." At first I didn’t take the warnings seriously, but now I know: it really is a danger, and deaths from falling icicles have been reported in Kyiv recently.

With the melting snow and ice, I am reminded once again that my warm, snuggly LandsEnd boots with the handy dandy yaktracks are great for ice and cold weather walking, but they are not waterproof. Not at all. A brief walk to the store from Natalia’s and I had water up to my knees. I sloshed back home in soaking wet boots and socks and cold feet.

Does this mean Spring is in the air. It’s a bit early here in Ukraine. We could still have freezing weather and more snow. But lately we’ve had the kind of temperatures that make you look for buds on the lilac bushes and tulips pushing through the ground. The days are getting longer, too, with that lovely dusky light at the end of the day before sunset and the moon rise.

I’m in no hurry, though. Going with the flow, literally and figuratively. It will be on to Prague this week, no matter what the weather, then to Western Ukraine: Lviv, Tourka, Uzhgorod, Slavsky for my PCV group 36 Close of Service conference. After that I'll go to Khargiv to visit Natalia's daughter Anna, studying at one of the famous universities there, and explore that city a bit.

When I return to Starobelsk at the beginning of March, then I’ll really start thinking Spring. Making a final trip to Kyiv. Going home, back to the States. Leaving my Ukrainian friends. Returning to a post-Peace Corps life. Our lives, like the seasons, always changing, always turning.

A large group of people greeted me at the English Club at the Library on Saturday (5 February), an unexpected surprise. Turns out it was the English Club from the Agricultural Lyceum (yes, they have an English Club!), which is where my wonderful calendar designer Nik teaches physics. The Lyceum is a great option for students who want to continue their schooling after high school graduation but aren’t sure yet what they want to study. The Lyceum offers practical and technical courses, and general classes in history, sciences, and languages. It’s similar to the original concepts of our community colleges or technical schools, and most every town in Ukraine has at least one.

The leader of this wonderful group was their English language teacher Artom, an articulate and thoughtful man who also teaches at public school #3. Joining Artom, in addition to 10 students, was Ina, a biology teacher; Iryna, school psychologist; Rita, a writing instructor; and of course Nik.

Actually, this was Nik’s idea. He decided he wanted to organize an exhibit of the "Starobelsk Memories" calendar and the Starobelsk Library English Club at the Lyceum, with photos and signs in English and Russian. He recruited students and teachers to help him, with their first task being to attend a club meeting at the Starobelsk library. Good going, Nik! He wanted to get us together and create new opportunities for sharing, discussion and photos for the exhibit. Young people like Nik and Artom are Ukraine’s future!

The students were bright, talented (several musicians among them) and attentive. Some were more proficient, more confident, in the language than others. Most struggled in English the way I struggle with Russian, and I let them know this. I understand, I told them. I could hear a few sighs of relief. No one was expected to perform; it was okay to stumble. We went on to introduce ourselves and talk about where we live, our families, what we like to do. New members and regular members interacted and learned from each other.

I had prepared two lessons for this meeting, one on the "Meaning of Freedom," using documents from the "Know Your Rights" project, and with Egypt and other earth-shaking protest movements in mind, and the February theme of Love and Valentine’s Day. It was too much to do in one session, but we made a beginning. Both subjects engaged the students and teachers, and we had some good discussion, with great effort to be inclusive and give everyone a chance to participate, and to shine. Any responses in English were greeted with a huge smile from me and applause! Iryna, the director of the Library, rewarded us with tea and offered cake. It was a lovely meeting.

Usually I never know what will happen at an English Club meeting: who will come, what news will emerge, what issues will be discussed. I go in with ideas, and sometimes I use them. Other times the meetings take on a life of their own. They have unexpected twists and turns, shoot off in unanticipated and interesting directions. If we hit a dead end, I can usually pull something out of my tote bag to fit most occasions--colored paper, pens, a few poems, a few project ideas.

It was a little like that today. We talked about freedom for a while, then about the situation here in Ukraine, then about love, which branched off into talking about love of a dear one, love of family, love of friends, and love of country. What is love? How does it make you feel? We made quite a list of adjectives: warmth, security, safety, patriotism, family ties, belonging, trust, love is blind, love can hurt, love smiles, love is a happy face (good one!), and love is kind, love is tolerant, love is forgiving (my personal favorites).

We were kind of all over the map, but we were talking and thinking and sharing. We were encouraging, inclusive, and accepting. No responses were right or wrong. We modeled and mentored in a relaxed, informal way. And that's what the English Club is all about. The meeting turned out to be another enjoyable moment in the waning days of my Peace Corps adventure here in Ukraine.

These were handouts we used for the public forums that were part of Victoria NGO's "Know Your Rights" project. My small contribution was presenting sessions on Rule of Law and Balance of Power in American government. Another handout included the basic documents of American government, the US Constitution, BIll of Rights, some examples from the Federalist Papers. Options and different points of view were discussed. Translation needs work, but I think the main ideas were clear. It helped when we had an interpreter, but if not people could follow me using the handouts. A question and answer period followed each presentation. Questions about theory versus practice, principles versus reality lent themselves to great discussions of change and reform overtime. I'm blogging these as part of our final grant report to the Peace Corps, and as part of the journal of my Peace Corps experience in Ukraine. These documents have taken on added meaning since the explosion of protests in Tunisia, Egypt and other countries, and we've taken the opportunity to discuss them at English Club meetings. Discussions of democratic principles and the Common Good have been thoughtful and fascinating.

Rule of Law in the United StatesВерховенство права в США

6 основных принципов верховенства права в США:

1. Никто не может быть выше закона. Никто незастрахован от законов. правительство и егодолжностные лица несут ответственность в соответствии с законом.

2. Всех граждан и всех выборных и назначаемыхдолжностных лиц обязуются поддерживать Конституцию США, образованная в 1787 году, несколько раз вносились поправки, но все же главный "закон страны."

3. законы должны действовать одинаково для каждого гражданина, и для правительства. Законы должны быть усилены, должны быть стабильными и справедливыми,и защиты основных прав граждан и собственности.

4. Законы должны выполняться, ясно, написаны и опубликованы.

5. "Все мужчины и женщины созданы равными", и есть определенные "неотъемлемые права" (the Bill of Rights), закрепленным вБилле о правах к Конституции США, в том числе:

* право на свободу слова

* право собираться

* Право на справедливое судебное разбирательствосудом присяжных из ваших коллег, к адвокату и"невинные пока вина не доказана."под названием"надлежащей правовой процедуры".

* право на свободную прессу

* права голоса

Balance of Power: The Three Branches of Government and the U.S. Constitution.

Разделение властей

Balancing Act: Три (3) ветви властиСоединенные Штаты 3 ветвей власти: исполнительной, законодательной и судебной ветвями власти. Отцы-основатели США при написании Конституции в 1780, хотел, чтобы разделить власть, чтобы избежать диктатуры. Конституция США нашей системы для создания, исполнения и пересмотра законов.

* Исполнительная власть: Глава президента, следит за соблюдением закона. Можно рекомендовать новых законов. Утверждает законы после того как они проходят в Конгрессе США.

* Законодательная власть во главе с Конгрессом США, в составе Дом Reprsentatives и Сената: принимает законы.

* Судебная ветвь власти во главе с Верховным судом, толкует Конституцию США, обзоры законодательства и дел, связанных с государствами человека. Верховный суд 9 членов, назначаемых президентом, одобрен Сенатом, и срок назначения.

Многие из этих принципов были принятыМеждународные суды и трибуналы, а такжеОрганизации Объединенных Наций в своей "Всеобщей декларации прав человека" (1948) и lnternational пакта огражданских и политических правах (последнее).

Wikipedia photos of Donestk and the Euro2012 logo. We passed this stately church on the way to the bank.

On Tuesday I took a six-hour bus ride to the big Donbass city of Donetsk, and then 3 hours later I took the 6-hour bus trip back to Starobelsk. All those hours riding a bus just to get to a Peace Corps-approved bank to get a new ATM card so I can access my PC account and the $250 I get in my monthly allowance! That’s because my old card was eaten by a local ATM machine and reported a “hot” item when my wallet was stolen at the end of December on the train from Lugansk to Kyiv. Luckily my wallet was found and returned with my passport (but no money), so I got to go to Egypt. What a miracle that was, and in so many more ways than anyone could have predicted.

There was no heat on the bus, but the driver was a real expert at driving on snow and ice. The roads were as bad as those photos I've seen of the roads in Chicago after the recent blizzard blew through the Midwest.

I've become an expert in layering up for winter weather, so I snuggled down and relaxed for the ride. A few times I thought our time had come as we skidded this way and that. But not yet. The bus driver was in God’s hands and God, or the goddess as Loren would say, correcting me, got us home.

Unfortunately I didn’t get to see much of Donestk. It is a big city of over a million and it will be one of the sites of the 2012 European Championship football (soccer, of course) games. It looks like a prosperous city. It was once called Stalin and then Stalino, a big steel producing and coal mining city on the Kalmius River surrounded by the farmland of the Ukrainian steppes. It's had a tortured history of Nazi occupation, destruction, and rebuilding. Today it is the home of president Yanukovich and his good friend Rinat Akhmetov, Ukraine’s richest man.

The city looks to be in pretty good shape for Euro2012. There are even signs in Russian, Ukrainian and English at the ugly old bus station! Streets are being graded and paved. The huge Donbass Stadium, built by Akhmetov, is ready, according to my taxi driver, who spoke about as much English as I spoke Russian. It's a big football city, home to two winning teams.

So you'll be hearing a lot more about and from Donetsk in 2012, especially if you're a soccer fan. Maybe its teams will bring a victory to Ukraine. That would be a huge morale booster for the entire country. Go Donbass! Hope springs eternal.

Surviving in impoverished Egypt:

Vendor at a fruit stand; taking tourists closer to the pyramids; collecting trash; a guard at the Luxor Temple.

The guard at the Luxor Temple caught me hiding behind a beautiful hieroglyphic-inscribed papyrus column, crying. I was thinking of my brother Loren, wishing he could be

here, sharing his vast knowledge of the history of Egypt, wanting to hear his voice again. The guard asked if I was okay, in halting English; I smiled and said yes, and thanked him. I was embarrassed. He took me by the hand to another corner of the temple and said this is where he and other Egyptians pray for good health and loved ones. "Put your forehead on this spot," he said, pointing to a well-worn shiny round spot on a marble panel, and pray. It looked a bit like the round lumps on the foreheads of devout men who have prayed five times a day for years and years, only indented. I did what the guard suggested, and I felt better. He held out his hand, and I gave him 5 pounds. He had helped me, and now he asked that I help him. I realized, as much as I disliked the hustling, haggling, and begging, that poverty and survival dictated the behavior as much as anything. If someone found it annoying and reprehensible, well, okay, so be it; the vendor, trader or hustler would just go on to the next tourist, give it a try, and keep going. All day, every day.

One of the things you can't help but notice when walking the streets of Cairo and other towns and cities is how difficult daily life is for the majority of people. They collect trash, plastic and cans for a few pounds. They work as vendors and at day jobs, in hotels, in restaurants, in hospitals, for businesses if they are lucky. They try to get as much money as they can from tourists. It's survival. Half of Egypt's 80 million people live in poverty. Unemployment is rampant and seemingly intractible. Certainly the Mubarsk government, with its $1.5 BILLION in annual aide from the U.S., never used a penny of it to help the people. Our Egyptian guides sniggered at the huge statues of Mubarak we passed along our way to the temples, and said that's where the money goes, and into Mubarak's pockets. There was an underlying animosity at US foreign policy, but I didn't sense any anti-American sentiment. Egyptians liked Americans, and enjoyed the bartering and the bantering. What they could not abide, and it was beginning to show then, was the persistent daily endless struggle for survival.

That's what American foreign policy has done to the people of Egypt. It has caused untold anquish and suffering, and the people have had it.

Now they have taken their destiny into their own hands, and the status quo governments in Egypt and abroad be damned. Time for a change. The Tunisia effect. "Tunisia is the solution," one news report quoted a protestor as saying. Journalist Roger Cohen, in a thoughtful NYT opinion piece, interprets the protests as Arabs finding their voice at last, moving "from a culture of victimization to one of self-empowerment." What a difference this could make in the world. That's why Mubarak should just leave, now, so an interim coalition can take over. Why prolong the struggle and the agony? Make way for hope! Where will all this lead? Who knows. I've heard lots of concerns, lots of fears. But honestly, for the people of Eqypt, it can't be any worse than 30 years of Mubarek's US-supported dictatorship.

The Egyptian Museum is a national treasure, a journey through 5000 years of history, a vast warehouse of artifacts from ancient times. It's Egypt evocative. The Egypt we dream about.

This is why in the midst of the choas of protest on Cairo's city streets, citizens formed a human chain around the Museum to prevent looting and damage to the building and its fantastic collections from the tombs of the pharoahs.

Where we stood on the main side of the rose-colored Museum, coming out of our Hostel; where we contemplated the best way to get to the other side of the busy street; where we stood to take photos, now there are tanks. It is such an unreal juxtaposition.

Jud and I consider ourselves lucky to have been there in more tranquil times. But even then, I realized the tranquility was more mirage than reality, more a patina on deep discontent than a reflection of people's true state of mind.

Ideas were stirring. I felt it on my tour to the Pyramids and especially to the Valley of the Kings and Queens, and Hasheptut's tomb. Those soft sarcastic voices, the jokes, the feigned laughter, have now become shouts of outrage and protest. The widespread discontent underlying Mubarak's Egypt, a pseudo "stability" that underpins the US's support, at $1.5 billion a year, of a dictator, has erupted into the streets. The genie is out of the bottle. Let's hope someone like ElBaradei will carry the day.

If contemporary Egyptians honor their past, they will protect it, use it as a foundation to build a brighter future for new generations. They will coalesce around an inclusive democratic regime of many voices, find common ground to work toward common goals, whatever their differences. Then the U.S. can put its money where it's principles are, and reverse a foreign policy that has caused widespread hunger, poverty and devastation. Then the need for tanks in the streets of Cairo will also be a thing of the past.

Egyptians protest in Cairo; a protest in Boston/Cambridge area supports the pro-democracy protests in Egypt and questions American policy (fickr photos, gaelic nielson and others). I’ve written about Egypt Evocative, Egypt Provcative, Egypt Seductive, and Egypt Unveiled, about the country along the Nile’s awesome antiquity and beauty, but I never thought I’d write about Egypt Unplugged.

Imagine having the power to shut down internet access to a whole country. The government asked all four internet providers to unplug Egypt, and all four complied. That action alone reveals the extent to which Hosni Mubarak’s totalitarian regime will go to stay in power, and the depth of the oppression the people have suffered for so long.

Is it any wonder that protests still rage in Egypt? Is it any wonder America has been forced, by crisis and under pressure, to reconsider its foreign policy? President Obama said that review will include the $1.5 billion we give to Egypt, too. What? We give $1.5 BILLION to Egypt? Why? To line the pockets of the dictator? Certainly the people never see a dime of that money, and we know it. Even a casual tourist can see that.

American foreign policy exposed. We have supported and kept in power an oppressive dictatorship for 30 years. We are complicit in the people’s oppression. It raises a lot of questions, and doubts, about the kinds of regimes we support in the Middle East and around the world. It has echoes of Haiti written all over it.

But look what it took. Only after the Mubarak government shut down the internet in the entire country, an “unprecedented” action the press has called it. Only after the use of excessive force against peaceful protestors, and more than 60 people dead. Only after the president for-life dug in his heels to stay in power. Good heavens. Of course the U.S. has no choice but to review it’s overall policy toward Egypt, and indeed, the entire Middle East and Northern Africa. And where is our Secretary of State in all of this? Where is Hilary?

It’s now evident to a broad public what perhaps the experts have known for a long time: that our foreign policies have been a boiling cauldron of misguided self-interest for too long.

There are broad principles at stake as well, principles we preach to others incessantly: freedom, equal opportunity, equal justice under the law, the right to protest, consent of the governed, the search for common ground in a democracy. It’s hypocritical to preach these principles then undermine them. It’s the kind of inconsistencies in our foreign policy that infuriate the rest of the world and undermine our credibility. I would go so far as to say it’s the kind of foreign policy that encourages terrorism. At least let’s practice what we preach in this ever-shrinking world. Let’s put our money where our principles are. That’s the only way to make the world safe for democracy.

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Time to make a new beginning in Egypt, across the board. That’s the message we’re hearing from Egypt now. And let’s pray it happens sooner rather than later, that more lives are spared, more hope restored.

We pray as well that Nobel laureate Mohammed ElBaradei, the articulate long-time challenger to Mubarak who just returned to Cairo, is safe and can remain a voice of reason and change. Many fear for his life. What a sorry state of affairs the protests are unveiling and revealing.

How lucky I was to visit Egypt before the inevitable turmoil erupted. The people yearn for freedom and opportunity. They want the dictator out. They want real change. I hope the young leaders and visionaries like ElBarade can find common ground for bringing Egypt into the modern world with the same granduer it bequeathed to us from its glorious ancient past.

Maps of Egypt, Tunisia and Ukraine to right

What do these three countries--Tunisia, Egypt and Ukraine--so different from one another, with such different histories and cultures, have in common?

In all three countries, long-simmering discontent with political intransigence, corruption, persistent unemployment and poverty is erupting into public protest. Other nations with similar long-standing problems are also lining up, on the verge of unrest. Yemen's an example

The human need for self-determination cannot be held down forever. It will break out in time, a tiny spark enough to cause a giant conflagration on top of years of mounting discontent and rage. It's like a volcano that smoulders for years and then finally erupts.

The anti-government protests now rocking Cairo, Egypt, Suez and other cities, echo the protest phenomenon in Tunisia, where the people came together to overthow an oppressive totalitarian regime. The people of Egypt, like the Tunisians, are fed up with the one-man rule that has dominated their country with an iron fist for over 30 years. They are fed up with corruption, lack of basic freedoms, police brutality, and the daily struggle for survival.

Egypt has 80 million people, almost half of whom live below the poverty level. They are finding their voice. They are speaking out. And they are making no bones about it: they are inspired and emboldened by the example of Tunisia.

I wasn’t surprised, because when I was in Egypt at year-end I regularly heard quiet complaints, more in the form of jokes or sarcasm or a feigned resignation, about their “president for life” and his self-promoting monuments throughout the capital city and in other cities along the Nile. The criticsm was muted but persistent. It seemed only a matter of time that people’s discontent would find an outlet. The 10,000 protesters in Tahnir Square, waving Egyptian and Tunisian flags, called for the president's outster and for the formation of a new government.

An AP article by Maggie Michael (1/25/2011) and journalists from Egypt quoted a 24-year-old hotel worker who lives on a salary of $50 a month as saying: “This is the first time I am protesting, but we have been a cowardly nation. We have to finally say no.” Another protestor proclaimed, “We want to see change, just like in Tunisia. ”

"Just like in Tunisia." Something similar I think is happening in Ukraine. Thousands of protesters, for example, turned out in Kyiv's Independence Square to call for changes in the tax codes, which they say favor the rich and hurt small businesses and working people. I heard supporters in Starobelsk cheering them on. They also called for new elections and a new national government. Protests are erupting in towns and villages, too, in outraged response to local governments adopting Comprehensive City Plans without public input, as called for by law. In Lugansk, protestors urged more transparent, accessible and responsive city governments. This in far-eastern Ukraine, not in the west where it might be expected. The Tunisia Effect.

Revolts against oppression have taken place around the world throughout time. They are often slow in coming. They often reflect decades of unhappiness, simmering rage, pent-up disgust with things as they are.

Today, the communications revolution may be speeding things up. Like in Tunisia, the calls for rallies in Egypt went out on Facebook and Twitter, with 90,000 expressing support. Same thing is happening in Ukraine, where reformers are taking to the internet and social networks to keep people informed and to call for support.

Vovo and Yulia, of the NGO East Lugansk Center for Civil Initiatives, whom I've written about in my blogs about change from the bottom up, are out there leading the actions for honesty and open government. I'm no seer, but I've long sensed the yearning for change in Ukraine, and I've long noted signs of it at the grassroots level.

This is where human agency--the people's will, the people's voice--comes powerfully into play. It is human nature, I think, to struggle against oppression. It is human nature to fight for freedom and self-determination. This doesn’t mean all governments must be alike, or like the US government or any other government. There are many models of political governance. It simply means people want a say in how they are governed. They want opportunity. They want transparency and honesty. They want the chance to shape their own destinies.

The means to the end may vary, but the human need for freedom and autonomy will win out in the long run. Simmering outrage eventually becomes outright protest. If only dictators understood this basic human need they might not dig in their heels and use violence to stay in power. They might bend like willow trees in the face of the inevitable gusts of change that blow across the paths of time.

The human need for freedom, economic opportunity, justice, and self-determination will triumph. It's just a matter of time. The Tunisia effect.

Photo collage: General Panfelova dressed for winter; cleared streets and sidewalks, thanks to city plows and street shovelers; the Cultural Center and Ukrainian flag; my favorite book store (книги) in town, right across from the Post Office (пошта).

It's been snowing a lot lately in Starobelsk. We now have at least 2 feet of fresh snow piled up on the ground. With my newfound sense of winter wonder I am enjoying it. It looks like a fairy tale picture right out of an old nostaglic children's book.

The amazing thing is how fast and efficient the town is in getting out the snow plows and clearing the streets. All the main roads are just fine, Lenina, Korykomov, Kyrova and other streets leading in and out of town. The same with the sidewalks: I walked a clear path from the center of town out to the bus station, no problems. All clear. Homeowners, business-owners, and residents are out with shovels, making a clear continuous path. Winter doesn't slow down this town at all. It's normal'no (нормално).

Ukraine can teach many American cities, say Washington, DC, or New York City, for example, a thing or two about snow removal. Fast, efficient, effective. The snow kings and queens of the world. It makes me happy just being able to say that!

The English Club with the new 2011 calendar, hot off the press. Andrew ran out and bought me a rose, he was so pleased to have one of his very own. We had a great time at the English Club this weekend going over my new 2011 calendar, “Starobelsk Memories/старобельскии избранное.”

This is the calendar idea that was floating around for a while, sat at the Library, and just didn’t fly. So I decided to do it myself, as a memory book of my time in Starobelsk, something to leave behind here and to share with friends in America.

The calendar is a personal journal rather than a tool for promoting a cause, as originally conceived. The Library thought the start-up costs too high and the benefits uncertain. I understand. These ideas can be risky. Maybe the next PCV will run with it. Maybe the Library will think of ways to keep the cost down, the price up, and make a little money for books, computer supplies, and things for the English Club. Maybe another NGO will have uses for it. Or maybe the idea will continue to float.

Meanwhile, I have a bouguet of memories to mark my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Starobelsk, Lugansk Oblast, Ukraine. Turning lemons into lemonade, that's what PCV's are pretty good at!

So what memories does this wonderful town evoke? This was our English Club "question du jour." We went month by month, talking about every photo, the design by Nikos--English Club member, teacher, graphic designer by hobby--and the seasons each encompassed. We talked about what makes a place special, unigue.

It was good English practice, and good fun. And I could see it really helped create a "sense of place," a sense of identity and belonging. I think that's why everyone loved the calendar. It spoke to one and all. Each page meant something special to each member, and also something shared. Their hometown. A sense of place. How blessed I feel to belong to this particular community of memory, to share a sense of place in Starobelsk, Ukraine. I never imagined it. I will always cherish it. I will always remember.

Peace Corps photos and logos. Shriver in Ghana, the first PC post.

I was in college in Massachusetts when the Peace Corps idea was born in 1961 and President John F. Kennedy appointed Sargent Shriver as the first director. I was in graduate school in Madison when Lillian Carter became a PCV in India at age 68. I remember thinking “how neat!” I’d like to do that some day. And so the Peace Corps idea simmered in the back of my mind for many years as I raised a family, did some teaching, made life changes, had different jobs, moved around the country.

By the time I retired, in 2004, the idea came into focus again. It began to take definite shape. I decided it was time to make the dream a reality, and in 2009, after a lengthy application process, I was accepted into the Peace Corps and sent to Ukraine. I turned 70 last year, during my Peace Corps service in Starobelsk. Maybe I'm channeling Lillian Carter!

The road from Peace Corps idea to realty has had many twists and turns but the Peace Corps experience has been transforming. Serving in Ukraine has been an incredible adventure.

In this spirit I remember Sargent Shriver, who died on 11 January 2011 at the age of 95 after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. Shriver was the pioneering director of the Peace Corps, a new government agency with idealistic goals: to share American expertise with other countries; to learn about their needs, cultures and dreams; and to have them learn about America through our service. It began in Ghana: changing lives from the bottom up.

The Peace Corps embodied exuberant hopes for a peaceful world and positive change. It still does.

More than 200,000 PCVs have served in 138 countries since the PC’s founding 50 years ago this year. It remains a noble enterprise, bearing fruit slowly but surely, one volunteer at a time.

President Obama called Shriver “One of the brightest lights of the greatest generation.” What a wonderful tribute! Shriver’s legacy will live on as long as the Peace Corps remains relevant and the volunteers serve in the spirit of Shriver’s dream.

Priests and the Holy Father of the Church of the Monestary stand on the river, next to an ice cross sculpture, blessing the waters of the Aydar; people of all ages gather to honor the holiday of Orthodox Epiphany or to take the plunge into the icy river; Olga after her self-baptism.

I went to the river with my friend Olga on 19 January for the annual Orthodox Epiphany holiday called Krishenia (крищение). I had just finished a blog on religion, ironically, when she called to invite me. I asked several people what it was all about and they said vague things about water being blessed by priests and having special curative powers, and people jumping into the river. Through the ice? Yes, through the ice and into the water. There's a special religious holiday for this? I finally figured out, with some help from PCV Stacey, that it is an Orthodox holy day celebrating the baptism of Jesus Christ.

The priests from the Church of the Monestary held a service on the hard iced-over river, standing next to a cross carved out of ice, sparkling white and very beautiful. They blessed the water in a series of colorful rituals, dipped a wooden cross into the river three times, and said a few words about loving one another (Olga translating). It's the only time of year, as far as I know, that the priests comes out of the Monestary and into the community. After blessing the water and proceeding back to the Monestary, just a few blocks away, the priests dipped bouguets of dried basil and other herbs into jugs filled with the river water and sprayed the crowd, blessing them, washing away sins, purifying them. It's like being reborn, a celebration that reminded me of the Easter holiday.

After the service, many brave and hardy souls, Olga among them, took turns plunging into the icy water in a ritual of self-baptism. A hole had been cut through the ice and a ladder secured so people could climb in and out if they preferred this more delicate approach to jumping in. I shivered at the thought of either option. Security police and medics stood by in case of emergencies. I saw many people I knew and they were glad to see the Amerikanka joining in this special holiday. Of course they all joked with me about taking the plunge, ready to help me strip and jump.

PCVs do lots of interesting things but this seemed beyond the call of duty. It was -22 degrees, a normal Ukrainian winter day, bright, sunny and frigid. The weather did not deter the devout. The icicles on homes and buildings and trees along the river glistened in the sun, as dozens of men and women took the plunge. I captured Olga as she got out of the water, her eyes glowing, shimmering crystals on her face, standing in bare feet on the ice, her cloudy breathe the only thing providing some warmth.

I could never do it, I told Olga. She said she had felt that way long ago, but now she is not afraid of the cold water. “I feel better,” she said, “refreshed and energized.” At a time when Olga is worrying about her frail mother's health, rapidly declining; her daughter's need for documentation that she was born in Ukraine but now resides in Russia; and the daily struggle for survival, Olga got a needed boast. The river bathed her soul and renewed her courageous fighting spirit. Epiphany for the people.

Orthodox churches: St. Nickolas in Starobilsk; a church in Odessa; St. Andrews in Kyiv; stunning interior of Cathedral in Yevpatoria.

Here's a subject from which I've shied away, mostly because I can't figure it out. What religious faiths do Ukrainians follow? I saw a poll last summer that showed the following percentages: Orthodox 77.3; Greek Catholic, 16.5; Protestant, 2.4; Muslim, 0.7; Roman Catholic, 0.5; other 2.8.

But under "Orthodox" there is a split too: Ukrainian Orthodox of the Moscow Patriachy, 41.7% (the current president is a member); Ukrainian Orthodox Church/Kyiv Patriachy,22%; Ukrainian Autocephalous/ Orthodox church, 2.3%; and other, about 23%.

I looked at the poll and put it aside. It re-appeared during one of my periodic house cleanings (well, room cleanings) and I took another look.

Journalist Svitlana Tuchynska gave a brief history in her excellent article "Orthodoxy, autocracy, nationalism" (KyivPost, 23 July 2010). Early Kievan Rus, she notes, was pagan until 988, when Prince Volodymyr converted to Christianity, the Byzantine variety not Roman Catholic, and ordered everyone else to do the same. This church was closely linked to the state. According to history professor Volodymyr Serhiychuk at Kyiv's Taras Shevchenko National University, resistance was so strong that baptisms were forced and sometimes violent. Pagan shrines were burned and pagan priests murdered.

In the 17-18th centuries, the Ukrainian Byzantine church fell under Russian control, and more violence followed. Most of Western Ukraine, however, which was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, remained partly Orthodox and partly Catholic, or Greek Catholic. It still is. Crimea became a Muslim stronghold, while Jews were spread throughout Ukraine, with strong communities in most large cities and towns until they were wiped out by purges and the holocaust during World War II.

After the Bolshevik revolution in 1917 communism became the new religion and atheism spread. In the 1920s and 30s, according to Tuchynska, most churches were destroyed or turned into storehouses, military arsenals, or other secular uses, and many priests were murdered. Today, in post-Soviet Ukraine, Tuchynska thinks religion is again a political football. More people attend a church, and many churches are being restored, but secularism among everyday Ukrainians predominates.

According to Anatoliy Kolodny, a professor of religion in Kiev, President Yanukovitch, like his predecessor, uses religion to further his own political agenda (Tuchynska, KyivPost). Yanukovich is closely tied to the Moscow Patriarchy, a church with "a history of subservience to Kremlin leaders." Kolodniy thinks "Religion is again being used for politics as a tool of strengthening the power of the state....Let's also not forget, Orthodoxy is a huge business."

Orthodoxy is a huge business? What does this mean? I know most churches do a brisk business in books, crosses, candles, icons, and souvenirs, and I’ve contributed to the enterprises. This would be another interesting topic to explore further, or a good dissertation topic.

For now, the only thing I can say with certainty is that there are a lot of stunning churches all over Ukraine, most Orthodox. Some are quaint, but most are massive, monumental, with golden or brightly painted domes and fantastic gilded interiors that take your breath away.

As massive and opulent as these churches are, I find it interesting that they do not have pews or places to sit. Instead people wander from icon to icon, lighting candles and saying prayers. There are seldom sermons or services, seldom music, no choirs or organs, so I wonder what kind of community these churches foster.

Priests seem to perform certain rituals, at Easter say, or marriages, and on Krishenia, but they don’t seem to do anything else we associate with a pastorate. As far as I know, these churches are not noted for helping the poor or doing charitable work, unlike religious institutions of all faiths in America from their inception. Is this a byproduct of Soviet times? I am not sure. Maybe I'm missing the more subtle spirituality and social aspects of these grand churches.

Religion, like everything else in Ukrainian society, is in transition, its past complex, its present as uncertain as its future.

I just discovered this UN project against poverty (http://www.endpoverty2015.org/en/about, for more information). Below, November protest in Kyiv's Independence Square against new draft tax laws, which protect the richest and will hurt small businesses especially (flick photo by Stelih).

While Ukraine’s economy continues to tank, the rich are growing richer and the poor poorer. The gap is as bad as it gets here, where the 50 richest “robber barons,” to use a quaint late-19th century phrase, overpower the rest of the country’s 46 million people, about one-third of whom are economically destitute, with a combined networth of $67 billion or almost half of the nation’s gross domestic product (KyivPost, 26 November and 17 December). Good lord.

A recent State Statistics Committee says 16 million Ukrainians live below the poverty level, which in Ukraine is $115/month (or 907 HGR). Pensioners get $91-$100 per month at retirement. It’s impossible to live on these amounts. Impossible. In a recent experiment by the KyivPost five people tried living on the minimum wage for one month; only one lasted, barely. They could not do it. “It’s not even enough to buy food, let alone pay bills. Meat and medicine are luxuries." They suffered from constant hunger, weakened immune systems, illness, social isolation and, yes, anger. Rising anger. That’s when four called it quits.

In order to afford a healthy diet, just the basics, people need at least 2000 HGR a month, according to a Trade Union report (Kyivpost, 26 November). Current wages and pensions couldn’t be farther from that amount. How long can this go on?

At the other end of the spectrum are the 50 richest Ukrainians, a list led by industrial titan Rinat Akhmetov. He’s the richest of the rich. (“Rich man in a poor country,” Kyiv Post, 17 December 2010). Although they were affected by the global economic downturn, the richest Ukrainians held onto to their wealth, and their power. The richest list “is dominated by lawmakers or people with strong ties to government.”

“In elite cartel countries such as Ukraine, top political and business figures collude behind a façade of political competition but in reality they colonize both the state apparatus and major sections of the economy,” a USAID report concluded in 2006. The KyivPost says this still holds true today. Almost half of the richest top 50, it notes, are either in government or they are elected officials, and 12 are members of Parliament, including Rinat Akhmetov. It’s not surprising that they are close friends with President Yanukovich, all in the same ruling Party of Regions.

It’s not a good thing obviously, especially since many of these fortunes came from acquiring Soviet assets rather than creating new wealth, according to the KyivPost. The vast wealth from metals, mining, transportation, and energy are examples. A few of the 50 richest Ukrainians are in the agri-business sector, which is growing. Maybe this is a good sign, but it doesn’t change the larger picture.

The way this oligarghy functions does more harm than good for Ukraine’s economy, according to many analysts. Not only does it discourage new foreign investments, which are desperately needed, in fact key to economic revival, but also “it creates obstacles for real economic growth and integration with the world economy.”

Friends in Starobelsk are pretty much saying the same thing. The economy is getting worse every day. “The rich have everything, the rest of us barely make it,” Olga, a pensioner, lamented. Business is bad; unemployment is bad; prices for everything, the basic necessities of life, are up, way up; wages are down or non-existent; local governments are bankrupt and, worst of all, more and more people are living in poverty, an alarming increase that bodes ill for this community, and for every community across Ukraine.

I’m considered an optimist around here, but nowadays even I wonder what will happen. Protests are growing. People are calling for new elections and changes in the tax codes, which favor the rich and hurt small businesses and working people. People are desperate.

Where will this all lead? Andrey Kurkov, a Ukrainian writer, says in a BBC report “the main question is whether economic hardship will further dampen Ukrainians’ interest in politics or spark popular protests. The latter is more likely.” I hope he’s right. There are signs on the horizon, protest signs among them, that may turn the tide.

I can understand now why Loren always said he wanted to move “back home.” By that he meant back home to Rochester, NY, where he was born. We always pooh-poohed the idea, but he was adamant. He loved the Rochester area, it’s beauty and rich historical legacy. Also he was a four-seasons man. He was a man for all seasons. Going “back home” meant not only Rochester, but I think also anywhere with four seasons. He loved summer, fall, winter and spring. He embraced all seasons equally. He hiked all seasons. He hiked all paths.

Now it is winter. I got to a point where I really didn’t like this long, cold season. I welcomed a more temperate climate in Washington, DC, where daffodils push through the ground at the end of February. We had our winters, often lots of snow, but they were short. Florida outshined even DC. I grew to love the warmth and especially the winter months in southcentral Florida on the Gulf Coast. I didn’t miss winter at all. No snow, no ice, no shoveling, flowers all year round.

But Loren did. He missed winter, and since becoming reacquainted with it during my time in Ukraine, I can see why.

Not that he didn’t love Florida, too. He did, wholeheartedly, in the glorious way he had. He loved Florida’s flora and fauna, it’s rivers and streams, it’s forests and farmland, its orange groves and strawberry patches. He loved hiking its trails. Wholeheartedly. That was Loren.

Whenever he came to visit me in St. Pete from Tallahassee he’d make stops at local, state and national parks along the way to explore them, to bird watch, to listen to nature’s sounds. He did this wherever he traveled. For me it was always getting to the destination. For Loren, it was the process along the way, it was the journey. While it took me 5 hours to get to and from Tallahassee, it took Loren all day. It was his way. He immersed himself in the environment he loved, that gave him so much satisfaction and joy.

So Loren missed the turning of nature from one season to the next, the natural order of the universe, the journey of time. We’d tell him it was silly to think of going ‘back home." I’d jokingly tell him “you can’t go home again,” as many novelists and philosophers have written. But he insisted, and more so as he gained more understanding of and confidence in himself, in his own thoughts and ideas. He grew impatient with all the advise Andy and I had for him. He staked out his own ground, and held firm, sometimes just for the sake of holding firm, we felt, but now I see he needed to do that. He needed to assert his unique identity, to make himself heard, to be taken seriously, to put his overbearing sisters in our places. I’m so glad he did. I wish I could tell him so.

I have a feeling this is a human condition: this tendency to not fully appreciate someone until after they are gone. It’s a tendency, I’ll call it that for now, to let daily life get in the way of more meaningful exchanges, deeper relationships. I wish I had talked more to my Italian-born grandparents, for example, asked more questions, shown more interest, learned their stories. I wish I had listened more to my mom and dad, taken their advise, been more appreciative when I was growing up, been less arrogant in my ego defenses and my own inner uncertainties.

Maybe some people can do that, go through all the developmental stages from youth to adulthood with open minds and hearts. I am a slow learner. I have regrets. I sometimes feel guilty about it, about the mistakes I’ve made, about my inability to get out of myself and really take in what others say and do and think. Without defenses, without judgment, without opinions that need to be expressed, without screening. I didn't know myself enough to be able to be in the now with others, fully present and open.

Loren was my mentor in this, but I thought I was his. It was the other way around. I was too arrogant, too self-absorbed, too immature to know it. I could have listened better while he was alive. I could have put aside my habitual responses and just opened up to him. When I did that, and sometimes I could do it, I saw Loren’s brilliance, uniqueness and beauty. I saw the world from his perspective. I saw his soul.

It keeps me going, because my brother knew it when I was present with him, and he opened up, like a flower. It’s why we were soulmates. It’s why he put up with me. He knew I had a better side, and I knew he had a kind of wholeness that was sacred. My dearest brother, a man for all seasons.

Nothing like snow, frost and ice to bring you back to reality! After sunny and warm Egypt, wintry Ukraine has almost covered those golden images of ancient pyramids and temples in a dusty white.

I called Luba as soon as I got back from Egypt to let her know I was in Starobelsk. She was glad and invited me for lunch on Sunday. It’s a big holiday weekend in Ukraine. It was a clear day, and the trees and bushes, roofs and housetops, sidewalks and roads were covered in snow. Very pretty. A mixture of snow and sand over the ice made walking okay (in my trusty yaktraks), as I strolled up Lenina, through the University, and over to Panfelova. What a pleasure. I thought to myself that I would miss this walk, and that Ukraine had taught me to enjoy winter again.

I had lots of gifts for Luba, which she loved and added to the desk in my former room with other gifts and photos I have given her or made for her. It almost looks like a little shrine. It touched me deeply, and I secretly wiped away a tear while Luba fussed with the gifts.

Ira, Luba’s stalwart friend and wife of her boss Nickolai, was there, and Nikita, Luba’s 13-year-old grandson. That’s the sad part of the story of Luba’s son Sergei, leaving behind his son who longs to be with his father. It pains Luba too, the pain etched in her face. Whatever the details, it seems, Ira whispered to me, that Sergei will be in jail for a long time. A tragedy for everyone.

And yet this lunch with Luba, like so many others, was full of fun and laughter. Luba is a great cook and she filled me up with her borsch, which she knows I love. We toasted to a new year, to a short winter and early spring, to good health and glad tidings. Для вас. Для нас. для хорошего здоровья и удачи.

When it was time to go, Luba, Ira and Nikita all put on their coats to accompany me up Panfelova, so I thought. Luba, however, had something else in mind. She grabbed her trusty duster, went to the shed, and came out with a sled, and a big smile on her face. ‘We’re going sledding,” she announced, and led the charge. So like Luba. I demurred but Luba would have none of it. We took turns on the sled, pulling the sled, pushing the sled, and generally having the time of our lives. We laughed and laughed, fell, got up, tried again, laughed some more. Luba was at her best, full of a zest for life. A moment of forgetfulness and joy. I was happy to see her happy. Sledding on Panfelova: it was so good for Luba, good for all of us, good for the soul.

Scenes from train windows.

We were up at 6:00 am to catch the 8:00 am train from Cairo to Luxor. We chose a day train because we wanted to see the Egyptian countryside. We wanted to see Egypt unveiled. And we did.

The train station is behind a lot of rubble, I think because it's under construction. Lots of things are hidden from Western eyes, like the veiled women in burkas. We stood bewildered, bogged down by baggage and void of our morning coffee fix. Fortunately an elderly man offered to help carry our luggage and get us to the station. There was no path but the one he made. It was good enough. We tipped him 5 pounds and agreed that it was the most worthwhile tip we'd given so far. Sometimes Egypt provocative is just what we needed!

We met a lovely couple as we boarded the train, Leo, from Austria, and Lucia, from Melbourne, Australia. They were a 50ish couple who had known each other 25 years ago, met up again in Cairo, and are on their way to Ethiopia. How wonderful is that?! We chatted off and on during the train ride. I hope I hear from them again. We also met some friendly English-speaking travelers who were curious and helpful. One woman asked where we were going and when we said Luxor she told us how beautiful it is. "You should go to Aswan, too," she said. "We're thinking of a day-trip," Jud said. "You should make it a 2-day trip!" Ah boy, we don't have enough time to do all we'd like to do.

The train was clean and comfortable; a waiter or steward came through our first class car from time to time offering tea and coffee and biscuits. The whistle, however, never stopped blowing, so if sleep came it was interrupted by the constant announcement of the train going through one Nile river town after another. I caught a name every once in a while, first in Arabic, which is such a beautiful script, and then in English. A darkening sky and gray haze followed us for several hours from a small town called Matti to another larger city called Assuit. And then the heavens opened up and the rain fell.

People on donkeys, which are still the predominant beasts of burden and main source of transport in rural Egypt it seems, rushed hither and thither. A man stood with his hands outstretched, as if welcoming the rain. At one point it hailed, large stones almost the size of golf balls, falling hard on the dry ground. How odd to see hail, or rain for that matter, in the desert! At one point it rained so hard water came pouring through my window and I had to move.

We were rewarded with a beautiful rainbow in the Eastern sky as the rain subsided and the sun set. It seemed to start in Cairo and end in Luxor, the end of the rainbow! The eastern landscape glowed in stunning golden light. Oh how I tried to capture the magic, but rain-streaked windows on the moving train made it difficult!

From the windows of a train, the Cairo countryside along the river and canals looks very green and pretty, miles of fertile fields, of what I'm not sure. Fields of wild grasses, some corn, alfalfa, other vegetables, herbs maybe, some sugarcane. The means of farming looks pretty traditional, sythe and sickle, but the irrigation systems, canals and ditches carrying water from the river to fields seem to be effective. We learned only later that some of the canals are polluted and we were warned not to put even a finger in the water. Except for the donkeys and minarets, the Egyptian countryside looks a lot like Florida, with many varieties of palm trees.

After being in the bustling and chaotic city of Cairo, the rural scenes seem calm and serene. The palms compete with the minarets in reaching for the sky, lovely pastoral scenes in pastel.

Stacks of hay are bundled into humps with stalks reaching out from them, making them look like camels sitting in the desert.

And yet poverty is evident too. People live in stick huts, dank hovels and crumbling buildings along the canals and the railroad tracks. Donkeys, cows, goats, and chickens run around muddy yards. There's little to no protection against the elements, or the harsh sun. Nothing in the way of material possessions, which seems ridiculous even to note. Material possessions? For people living in huts, tents and stick structures with only a few palm fronds for a roof? It's survival.

Still, women did laundry and hung it out to dry on posts and falling fences. Boys kicked a soccer ball around a muddy field. Young children in ramshackle buildings next to the train tracks smiled broadly and waved as the train passed, so close to windows without glass that I could almost touch them.

Sometlmes Jud's side of the train had the prettier views, while mine filled with the gray-brown of poverty and slum dwellings. Sometimes I had brilliant green fields on my side, with swaying palms, while Jud had row upon row of brown brick dwellings surrounded by brown dirt paths and fields.

You have to look out of both sides of the train to get the whole picture, to process all the images, the conflicting views and visions, the beautiful and the ugly, the rich cultural overlays and the gray-brown underbelly.

On the train from Cairo to Luxor I could see both sides of Egypt.

The train was almost three hours late and we arrived in Luxor in the dark, the lights of the city shining brightly after the unusual rainstorm. We found that out later: how rare the rain and how welcome, no matter the damage it may have caused or the activities it slowed down. Rain in the desert is a gift, like the huge clear rainbow we saw over the landscape of Egypt, a sign of good luck I thought.

The train ride from Cairo to Luxor shows daily life over the patina of antiquity. It’s Egypt in the now, an unfolding panorama of rural and urban landscapes, grace and poverty, green and brown, palms and minarets reaching for the sky, people going about their business, farming, buying and selling, seeking tips and advantages wherever they can, heeding the Call to Prayer, heeding the call to survival and daily life. It's Egypt unveiled.

For me, this is always a fun part of any travel adventure. Jud and I tried one night at a more upscale place in Luxor, which had a beautiful view of the hills (all lit up) and the river, and decided that it wasn't for us! For one-quarter of the price we could stay at a unique, modish, idiosyncratic hostel that was more our type, and usually more interesting. So the next morning we got situated at The New Everest Hostel.

There were some glitches, but they soon got straightened out. People who stay at hostels are friendly, from all over the world, the staff is helpful, the places are clean and tidy. We usually run into Peace Corps Volunteers, as we did in Cairo. And Jud is good at checking them out online at Trip Advisor and www.hostelworld.com. This is a wise thing to do, and these internet sites are reliable. The hostels usually give recommendations and make arrangements for tours, restaurants, and things to do. It's a good thing to make sure your tour guide speaks English, though, which we learned from experience on our way to the Pyramids at Gize. Check Jud's blog for more advice!

The top photos are of the rooftop cafe at the New Everest Hostel in Luxor, where we had a hearty breakfast of eggs, rolls and coffee every morning. Mohammed, our young cook, made me feel special and I have a soft spot in my heart for him. He is from a poor rural family, trying to make it in the big city. May God go with him. It was also nice to listen to the music of Bob Marley, a favorite of our hosts at New Everest. The collage shows the location and the lobby, decked out in New Year's holiday finery. It is on an alley off of an alley, the real city. Once inside it is clean and cozy, and its smack in the middle between the Train Station and the Luxor Temple. Can't beat the location.

Our Cairo Hostel, Egyptian Nights, was also off an alley. We could see the Egyptian Museum across the street out of our window, a beautiful sight, day and night. It is also near the heart of downtown. The building seems in bad shape at first sight, but on second and third look you can see the beauty, in the entrance way, the high ceilings, the large doors and windows. It's not for everyone, but it was fine for Jud and me. Very clean, with a staff that wanted to please. And wi-fi, which was great.

Egyptian Nights. The name alone evokes dreamy images of the golden, magical and sometimes mysterious Egyptian past. Sergey Prokofiev's "Egyptian Nights" suite came to mind, and the hundreds of films set in Egypt, from Cleopatra movies to Mummy movies, Agatha Christie and James Bond movies, Death on the Nile and The Valley of the Kings. A swirl of images and sounds, like the poster in the photo collage (right). Now I want to listen to all the music and see all the movies inspired by and set in the Egyptian landscape.

Egypt seductive!

These 3 little girls wrangled 20 pounds out of me for soda and chips (but they were so cute!). Women traditional and modern. The Alabaster factory and shop: hard to resist, right? A Brazilian woman from our Valley of the Kings and

Queens tour group with young Egyptian women at Queen Hatshepsut's temple.

The architecture of ancient Egypt evokes powerful images of a gilded past. We see fantastic, almost surreal, monuments to Kings and nobles. We see craftsmanship andexquisite beauty. We learn how ancient Egyptians viewed themselves and the world, all in beautifully graphic ways. As one scholar said of the ancients, “They thought graphically,” in images and pictures, not intellectually, not in words. I'm no expert, but the art of tombs, temples and pyramids support this view.

Contemporary Egypt is something else. It is more provocative than evocative; mostly in the hustle and bustle of daily life. From art for the dead, to the art of the deal, Egypt has come a long way!

Egypt is a Moslem country with a mixture of Islamic conservatism and modern practices. Terrorist threats are also an unfortunate reality, reflected for example in the recent threats and attacks on Coptics, Egyptian Christians. A recent suicide bombing killed 21 Christians, I believe at a church service. Jud and I passed a large Coptic demonstration on our last evening in Cairo, with the police out in force. It’s a sad commentary on lack of tolerance, although educated and thoughtful Egyptians bemoan the trend. I also do not understand the role of women, but it seems patriarchy rules. Some women are totally covered in burkas, head to toe, some with only a tiny slit for their eyes, a vision that seems mysterious and eerie to me. Many cover their heads only, including young teenage girls. Others dress in jeans and tee shirts, contemporary and upbeat, some with and some without head scarfs. It is, moreover, customary to have many wives, and thus many children, and to treat wives without much regard for their person. Why do women accept this? Aladdin, our guide through the Valley of the Kings, expressed concern about this and the resultant over-population. "It's big problem," he said. Again, more modern practices are emerging, driven by water shortages and related problems, the influence of the internet and the global economy, and the press of modernity, but the mixture of old and new and evolving is provocative.

Architecture for the dead. Artifice for the living. This is a central contradiction or dichotomy of Egyptian life. No matter where one goes, but especially in large cities like Cairo, there are scam artists, hustlers, and vendors waiting to make a deal, to up the ante, to get as much tourist money as they can for everything from magnets to papyrus to perfume and trinkets. I found it difficult. I am one of those “soft” tourists, as Steve Ricks calls us, who is not good at negotiating deals on every little thing. We stick out like sore thumbs and draw vendors like magnets! Most distressing are the hustlers, those who accompany you on the streets as you are walking along admiring the scenery. Charming and articulate, they befriend you, gain your confidence, say things like “don’t worry, I’m not after your money,” and then take you to a family or friend’s business. I ended up at three perfume shops in this way. The first turned out to be rather pleasant, but the perfume is so watered down that it hardly has a scent now. The second one made me mad, and you would have thought by the third time I would have been wiser. Jud was. He saw through the scam immediately and continued on to the museum, while I was seduced and sidetracked by a hustler who told me about an art gallery right up the street. HAH! Turned out to be a friend’s perfume shop. Then the perfume vendor couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a happy camper. Smile, he said. Don’t worry, be happy. Full of cheer, he continued selling me perfume all the while, aggressive, persistent, insistent, relentless.

Same thing happened when Aladdin made one tourist stop at an Alabaster shop. He said it was to learn how alabaster is mined and shaped into beautiful vases and other objects. And there was a little demonstration of this, before being led into a huge warehouse of a store where we were to buy some of the products. The lead vender stopped me along the way several times to pry me with objects, and at one point even asked for “baksheesh,” a tip. Such encounters always left me flummoxed and feeling bad. Just ignore all vendors, advised Kundar and James, the professors at the American University in Afghanistan, and yell at them if they don’t stop. It’s okay to yell at them? Well, sure, you must say no very firmly.

So it’s in our hands, the tourist’s hands, to resist such efforts, to say no. The vendor’s job, the hustler’s job, is to trick us into buying, in whatever way they can. I’m not sure how to explain this, but it is always a “no-win” situation for the tourist! Vendors and hustlers do not take “no” for an answer. Some will even chase you down the street, yelling every trick in the book about the deal they have for you. Young kids learn it from their elders, by the way, and are also very adept at this art. This is the side of Egypt that makes it a challenge, and I must admit by the end of our stay in Cairo I felt comfortable enjoying tea in our hostel! On the other hand, if you are wise and firm, you can avoid being entrapped, misled, and otherwise taken advantage of for the sake of a few pounds. And there is so much history and astonishing art and beauty and adventure just being in this ancient land.

This is Egypt provocative.

Couldn't take photos at Valley of Kings, but here are some of the incredible

Queen Hatshepsut's temple and tomb, on Luxor's west bank. Just amazing.

I'm back in Starobelsk via a few days in Kyiv with lots of Peace Corps stuff, mid-term medical exams, trying to close grants (unsuccessfully because I didn’t have the right receipts and have to go back and get them), and then the long overnight train ride to Lugansk, and the two-hour bus ride through the snow and ice of eastern Ukraine. I'm unpacking and getting organized, and I welcome a rest, but Egypt is on my mind.

It’s the Nile River calling, for tourists almost like the Call to Prayer, almost like it called the Pharoahs from about the 18th to 11th centuries BC.

Today, the Nile River valley is a huge amazing archeological site, one of the largest in the world (it’s a World Heritage Site) and this is what fascinates and dazzles. It includes, among many others, the Valley of the Queens; Queen Hatshepsut’s tomb, carved dramatically into a limestone hillside; and the larger and renowned Valley of the Kings, the pharoahs’ burial sites, all on the West bank of Luxor. Digs are still going on and new tombs are still being unearthed. It's a never-ending archaeological feast.

The sun rises in the East: LIFE. The sun sets in the West: DEATH. So the pharaohs built their tombs in the setting sun, “the Necropolis of Thebes," now called Luxor. Mind-boggling art and architecture for the dead.

I toured these sites with an informative and funny guide, Aladdin (another Aladdin), along with his excellent driver Mohammed, and 14 other people. We were from all over the world: Japan, Australia, Brazil, Germany, Belgium, England and America. Among them was a former Peace Corps Volunteer, James Hunt, who served in Kazakhstan several years ago, and his wife Kundar, a former Muskie fellow who studied at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. Small world, especially since I just finished reading 54 Ukrainian applications for the Muskie Program, and discovered how many talented people apply and how extraordinary it is to be accepted. They both now teach at the American University in Afghanistan, something else I’d like to learn more about. Imagine, we are fighting a war there, and James and Kundar are teaching at the university as if nothing extraordinary is going on around them.

So here we were in the desert on the west bank of Luxor, new friends and strangers from around the world. We stood together in the rising sun, surrounded by the undulating brown hills of the Valley that holds so much history, so many legends from the Old and Middle Kingdoms, united in our amazement at the fantastic findings that the royal tombs reveal, some 63 of them, all built, sometimes buried, deep underground, some 30 or more meters under the sand. Archaeologists must have had a field day discovering these tombs, and still do! The tombs range from small to very large with over 100 chambers. Some have been raided beyond recognition, and some are nearly in tact, decorated with scenes from Egyptian mythology that tell stories in elaborate details that are works of art. Egypt evocative.

We weren’t in search of a magic lantern with Aladdin, but he showed us the power of ancient funeral arts in the elaborate designs, paintings, bas reliefs and carvings of the entrances, corridors, columns, walls and ceilings of the tombs of Ramses I, II, VI, and IX. We asked about King Tut's tomb (probably the most famous), but Aladdin said there wasn't much to see because all the furnishings and art were at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, and in other museums around the world. After seeing the Egyptian Museum I could understand that, not to mention all the Egyptian artifacts, mummies, papyrus, gold and silver items, jewelry, and art in just about every museum I've ever visited, including gems like the Rosetta stone in the British Museum in London. Egyptian obelisks adorn the world too, like the twin of the Luxor temple obelisk that is in Paris, or "Cleopatra's Needle" in Central Park in New York City, now the cause of concern for Egypt's Director of Antiquities (NYT, 7 January), who threatens to bring it home to preserve and care for it.

Also, the west bank "Necropolis" is so huge that it's impossible to see all the royal tombs in a day. It's a lot of walking in the hot sun from one tomb to another. We just scratched the surface.

Aladdin took us to four of the best, all awesome in their own way. The tomb of Ramses VI was especially beautiful, because it's almost fully restored to its original splendor. The gloriously painted walls and ceilings graphically tell the story of creation and death, of sunrise and sunset, in bold blue and gold with many images and hieroglyphics, packed with exquisite paintings, carvings and artisanal flourishes. Cameras are not allowed in the tombs, not even on the grounds, but I have vivid mental images that will last a lifetime.

We could take photos of Queen Hatshepsut's grand tomb and temple, however, and for me this was among the most impressive sites of all in the Valley of the Kings and Queens. Queen Hatshepsut is considered the most powerful of the queens who ruled Egypt. More an arts patron than a warrior, Hatshepsut, who dressed like a man, had her architect built the most expansive structure imaginable, an incredible work of art, for herself and for her father, Thutmose I. It is set in a limestone hillside, built on 3 floors, a sweeping set of stairs leading up to the temple, the ochre color rocks fanning out behind it, the carvings and reliefs bountiful, clear and colorful on walls and columns, statues and obelisks, astonishing detail, a story in pictures, graphic, haunting. Hatshepsut's temple and tomb are all that's left of her legacy, which was wiped out, intentionally it seems, after her death, and replaced with other stories. For a while, Hatshepsut's temple even became a Christian church, which some scholars think protected it from destruction. It remains one of the most glorious structures of ancient Egypt, truly a wonder to behold, an architectural feast, an archaeologist's dream.

Discoveries continue in the Valley, with a recent dig in 2008 being worked on now, and more on the way. There’s an underside to these fantastic finds: in one small village an enormous new site has been discovered and the government is forcing people to move out, without any compensation whatsoever, so archaeological work can begin. Some residents are holding out, but Aladdin thinks it's a losing battle. He was sad about it. Perhaps if people were paid for the cost of their homes, the situation might be better, he suggested. We understood, and sympathized. Aladdin pointed out a dramatic yellow house against the desert sky, informing us that a photo of this very house had served as the cover of the 2008 Lonely Planet Guide to Egypt. It now stands empty, it's inhabitants forced to leave, a forlorn presence in the Valley of the Kings and Queens.

Egypt evocative. Evocative of hopes for eternity and warriors' triumphs, mythology and reality, culture and craftsmanship, awesome architecture rivaling anything that came after, and the complexities of archaeological discoveries and people's daily lives. It's all part of the complex mosaic that is ancient and modern Egypt.

Karnak temple, a few miles across from the Luxor Temple, connected by that sphinx-lined road that is now being reconstructed, is one of the oldest and largest temples of ancient Egypt, which is saying something. It's a sprawling elegant behemouth,first described by Diodorus of Sicily (whose name comes up a lot in Egyptian historiography). The Greeks called it Hermonthis.

It was January 1 and Jud and I wanted to do different things. He went to the Luxor Museum (not the Temple) and I went to Karnak, getting a taxi from our hostel and then picking up a guide once I got my ticket. My guide was Aladden, which seemed so fitting, because his magic lantern for me was his knowledge and reverence for the site. He had a quiet demeanor, and a generous view of the Temple built for the god Amon and his wife, the goddess Mut, often symbolically portrayed in the form of a vulture (I don't know why, but it may not have the rather negative connotations we associate with it).

Older than the Luxor temple, it astounds with beautiful columns in many styles, statues, the sphinx-lined avenue, a sacred lake, obelisks, and intricate carvings. A successive line of Pharoahs added halls and chapels to the original temple, as happened at the Luxor temple. The influence of trade with Ethiopia is reflected in what's called the "Ethiopian Courtyard," where extraordinary columns, carvings and hieroglypics tell the story of this interesting connection.

Noted for its "stylistic complexity," one guide said the Karnak Temple could serve as a base to study the evolution of architecture and art from the XVIII Dynasty to the end of the Ramses era. Part of this temple was also a Christian church at one time, much later of course.

For Aladdin, a sacred site at Karnak was the base and sculpture of a gigantic granite scarab, a symbol of eternal life, dedicated to the god Knepr by Amon-Ofis. Aladdin positioned me in front of the scarab and took a photo. "It is special to have this photo," he told me. Yes, and actually it was special to spend time with Aladdin among this sprawling Temple to the gods and goddesses of the great Egyptian past.

I thought I had seen the ultimate in the 5000-year history of Egypt at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, but that was before I toured The Luxor Temple. I have seldom in my life been so entranced and fascinated by a museum, really an outdoor archaeological site still being excavated and reconstructed, still evolving and rebirthing, stone by stone, hieroglyphic by hieroglyphic, column by column, statue by statue, bas relief by bas relief, piece by piece. It is magnificent, this temple built to honor Amon-Ra, king of the gods of ancient Eqypt. It is among the most amazing sites I have ever seen. I went twice, once during the day, and again in the evening, when the temple is lit up and looks golden and magical (photos above). Day or night, it is a majestic monument.

Pharoah Amon-Ofis II started the temple in the 14th century BC. King Tut added to it, and Ramses II finished it. A long processional avenue flanked by sphinxes with rams' heads since replaced with human heads connects the Luxor Temple and that of Karnak, about 3 miles away. This avenue of the gods is also under reconstruction, like much of the Temple itself. So is the temple at Karnak, another amazing site. It's extraordinary.

Luxor is the ancient city of Thebes, celebrated in Homer's Iliad (8th century BC) and by scholars thereafter up to the present. Thebes evolved into Luxor overtime, way before the Christian era, as ancient dynasties and kingdoms competed for power and riches. Today the temple is all that remains of the legendary Thebes.

The entrance features an elegant obelisk, which at one time had a twin but it is now in the city of Paris (on the Place de Concorde), and colossal statues of Ramses. Of the four statues of Queen Nefertari and her daughter that were created, in pink marble, only one remains, and it's in bad shape. No matter. The ideas and spirit remain. Multi-columned courtyards, rows upon rows of closed and open papyrus-crowned columns, like forests, statues of Osiris, and of kings, queens and warriors, and a constant stream of carved images and hieroglyphics on every wall, ceiling and column, tell the stories of those times, of the pharoahs, the priests and the gods, of creation and the journey to the afterlife (so rich in symbolism and so significant to the pharoahs), of wars and triumphs.

The colors have faded, but every once in a while you catch a glimpse of blue, red and gold, and can imagine what the Amon-Ra Temple must have looked like in full resplendent color. As it is, the splendor of the Temple awes and delights. I think of all the incredible monuments built to the gods by the pharaohs, the Luxor Temple is my favorite!

January 1, 2011, Luxor, Egypt, in the desert (Jud, moonscapes, a sunset, the fire with our waterpipes). The sky brilliant with stars (Wikipedia photo, but it was this beautiful).

Kolysena winta-tayeeb (a rough transliteration of the Arabic for Happy New Year)!

I greeted the first day of the New Year with a memorable dinner and stargazing evening in the Egyptian desert. It was incredible, fantastic. A Belgium couple now living in Luxor organizes these special tours, and they are beyond belief. After driving away from the city and into the open desert, the lights of humanity fading behind us, we arrived at our site, a barren-looking stony brown landscape of hills in every direction, the only patch of green a thin line along the horizon closer to the Nile River.

We began our new year’s adventure with a hike up the rocky desert moonscape that used to be a body of water, up to the tops of hills, to watch a stunning sunset. Stunning! We took our time, small groups of people, wandering apart, then together, then apart, dancing in different configurations, looking like Martians exploring a new planet against the setting sun. I couldn’t capture the essence of it in words, or in photos. How do you capture a mirage?

After the sun descended slowly into the desert, leaving behind an orange-red glow, we meandered back to tables beautifully set and glowing in candelight to share an authentic Egyptian dinner that was a gastronomical feast. It was an astronomical feast, too. We ate in the open air, the heavens for our roof, with a group of interesting people from around the world as the stars popped out one by one by one. I sat with a couple from England, Jane and Edward, who travel the world with their three sons, now ages 14, 10 and 8. I talked a bit with two beautifully dressed young women from South Africa. A thoughtful Frenchman, his lovely 9-year-old daughter Moon in hand, waxed philosophical about the meaning of life, the universality of humankind, the limits of religious beliefs. The night sky was brilliant, colorful, sparkling, clear. No moon. Ingrid, our leader and astronomer, green lazer beam in hand, led us through the mysteries and vastness and endless variations of the heavens, billions of stars, millions of light years away, the constellations, the planets.

She and her husband, with the help of experienced Arab helpers, set up two huge telescopes and we all took turns viewing various wonders: Andromeda, the pleidies, the North star and nearby star clusters, Jupiter, a favorite planet after Venus (Saturn won’t be visible for about 6 months, Ingrid said), and betelgeuse in the constellation Orion, my favorite star this night because it looked like an effervescent ruby through the powerful telescope. It was utterly thrilling. Loren would have loved every minute of it. It was his night. I wanted to believe I felt his presence, soaring among the stars and the planets, his every curiosity and hope fulfilled.

We then went back to the tables for dessert, more tea, and the hookahs, the waterpipes (these with apple-flavored water) that you breath into, blow bubbles, and relax. The ever-attentive Egyptian helpers met our every need. These Renaissance men prepared a fantastic dinner, the best we’ve had in Egypt. They brought water and tea. They showered us with Egyptian hospitality. And as the night grew chilly in the desert air, they built a wonderful fire for us. We all gathered round in gratitude, enjoying the richness and beauty of the moment, the joys and wonders of Egypt.

What a fantastic way to begin a new year! The heavens and the earth conjoined. One of the best New Year’s days I can remember. The memories and images will take me to the ends of the earth on my journey through time, to the great beyond. Kolysena winta-tyeeb.

The exterior of the Egyptian Museum is beautiful. We couldn't take any photos inside, so here are a few flikr photos, including King Tut's elegant gold mask, from the Egyptian Museum.

The Egyptian Museum is a journey back through 5000 years of history, a vast warehouse of artifacts from ancient times.The building itself is beautiful, rosy, elegant, and finely detailed. We could see it from the windows of our hostel. Large high-ceilinged rooms hold tons upon tons of items excavated from the sands of time by fascinated scientists and archaeologists going back at least to Grecian times and up to the present. Egypt is, obviously, an archaeologist’s dream.

I've never seen so many mummies’ coffins or sarcophaguses in one place anywhere, room after room after room. The designs and colors and decorative paintings are as varied as any artist’s palette and inspiration, and they fascinate. Hiereoglypics, symbols, and images of ancient Egypt. Some look as bright as the day they were painted over 3000 years ago; some are faded into antique pastels, a muted but persistent glory.

The jewelry is beautiful, too, gold, precious stones, and bead work in amazing detail, supreme craftsmanship, and abundant. Bejeweled Egyptian queens must have dazzled their pharoahs.

There was no end to the splendors. I spent two hours in the galleries featuring items from King Tut's tomb, and I didn’t come close to seeing it all. I've never seen so many little carved animals, statuettes, art work, finely crafted furniture, gilded gold chairs with ornate carvings fit for the young king who occupied them. How could a tomb hold so many things? It must have been like the Grand Bazaar of Egypt in a mausoleum: so extravagant a setting for a dead king that could never enjoy his grand furnishings as much as we do today!

The Museum sometimes seemed more like a storage area than a museum. I would have liked more information, more explanation of what I was seeing. Perhaps some information sheets or brochures at the entrances to the various exhibits. I think there's been some improvement in how the items are displayed and the Museum continues to refine its exhibits.

One thing the Museum has mastered: it has a fantastic gift shop. It was nice to come upon it at the end of the visit, along with a nice café and a good cup of coffee. I bought lots of little gifts for family and friends, delighted that every item in the shop had a price tag. That alone warranted a grand shopping spree.

When we started out in the morning Jud and I thought we'd make it to the Coptic museum this day, too, but after several hours we hadn't even begun to cover the Egyptian Museum. Jud stayed to sketch, and I went back to the hostel to reflect and write.

An overwhelming melange of images came to my mind as I stopped to think about how to describe the experience. Sometimes words fail me. Then again, Jud and I both went through the same museum and saw most of the same things, and yet when we talked about it at dinner (at a great Egyptian restaurant) his experience and mine were very different.

Travel adventures are, in this sense, subjective and personal. They are memories made by what you see, and how what you saw made you feel. Memories mixed with emotions, reality with imagination, experience with dreams. The Egyptian Museum encompasses all of these, a magic carpet ride back in time to the kingdoms of the great pharoahs of Egypt.