Forgive my regression into collegial jibber-jabber. I hate it just as much as you do.

Once, there was a time when I imagined myself quite the anthropologist. In those bygone days, I was very fond of the concept of the liminal. Anytime before a person transitions from one part of his/her life into another is what academics call a liminal period. Essentially, it is anytime when you might have found yourself looking into an unknown future anxiously.

The following are a list of examples:

All and any coming of age

activities including but not restricted to hunting/killing a wild

beastie and

snip-snips PubertyPolitical conventionsHigh schoolPurgatoryFor some of us, the last two

should be in one category

Be careful, once someone has bothered to call you a wo/man, developed, the lesser of two evils, a graduate, or saved/damned you have left the liminal space. You are what you are at that point.

These days, I find myself questioning who I will be-who thought that would come up again.COSI am in my last few months of service, ending projects, completing trainings, and saying my goodbyes. At the same time, I am resuming the life I left behind in the States, thinking about graduate school, finding a job, and wondering what processed food I will choose to shock my system with first. All of this can be a very cerebral experience, causing either extreme euphoria or panic. It is a very delicate period, possessing immense potential either to launch me into the next phase of life or trip me up and face plant.

It can be very comfortable, sitting very still, neither leaning forward nor backward, and just considering the crossroads. Fear of any number of possibilities makes doing nothing immensely tempting, especially when doing means paperwork. Why leave the liminal at all?

This is when we get armchair.

My sitemates, a guest star by the name of SuperJam and I recently put together a Body Image Workshop.MənlikThere is very little that gives me as much joy as pointing to a young woman's strength and watching her run with it. I don't envy the uncertainty I see in their eyes, fighting to know themselves and make themselves known, but I can feel the tension build.

It's the same tension I feel in our resource room, something that will become Xuraman's responsibility soon enough.İnamEvery week I amend my expectations, hoping that the following week will have the finished paint job, the connected electric wires, a new door and a printer that works. Xuraman smiles at me and reminds me to be patient, to remember how far we've come. With each conversation of how many more resources will be available to her and the other teachers, how often we'll meet for trainings, I see her grow nervous. When I'm gone, she'll have to protect that room.

I feel that is the danger that many people here fear, once they 'know more'/'have more' they await a struggle. It is despite this fear that the members of the Beyləqan Youth Enlightenment and Development Public Union have started an HIV/AIDS information campaign, alongside a woman's rights education project for female IDPs.MaarifçilikThey are empowering educators and women with the knowledge to protect and empower others. Knowing more brings more questions and having more means giving, and still, they passionately answer and offer. It is in the momentum of those young men that I find inspiration.

I fear my own stagnation, preventing myself from moving on, afraid of a misstep. I fear that what I leave behind won't be enough to support those who will struggle on, alone. At the same time, I am jealous of the rising tide, passing over and past me. I won't deny that some part of me wants to belay the next phase and be a part of what's changing here.

But, therein lies an anthropologist's love for the liminal: without change, there is only static.

Your Peace Corps Lingo for the day:

COS – Close of Service, referring to all the paperwork that gets you out of all the paperwork that got you in

Your Antropologie Sprache for the day:

Armchair – a reference to the anthropologists of old, who only theorized from their armchairs without involving themselves in any of the cultures they wrote about

Your General Knowledge for the day:

IDPs – Internally Displaced PersonsYour Azerbaijani for the day:

Mənlik – confidence

İnam – belief

Maarifçilik – enlightenment

A long, long time a go, I had a history teacher. He had the foresight to realize that high schoolers, more often than not, pay absolutely no attention in class. For those of us with the attention span of a fish, often caught off guard by a question, he offered a universal answer/reason/response: economics.

Yeah, you're thinking about it....BAM. It's genius.

This same teacher had a set of buzz words that were repeated solely to elicit a feeling of mild disgust: liberal, democrat, communist. Later, I would find the other side repeated different words, trying to elicit the exact same disgust: conservative, republican, capitalist.

It was jarring, at first, noticing how sadly similar the enemy camp was. I mean, if you avoided discussing specific issues and stuck to blanket statements, the rhetoric was pretty superficial. So, having infiltrated both camps, I had an enlightened image of myself: shrewd, perceptive, independent.

Nonetheless, I had one bone to pick with my conservative-buzzzzzz-upbringing and became fond of saying lumpenproletariat and mocking the capitalist system. In that sense, coming to a post-Soviet country had that extra thrill of liberal-buzzzzzzz-camaraderie. It provided an extra layer of smug while I replied to questions about corruption and freedom from either side of the aisle.

McCarthy had a word for that: sympathizer.

Still, this afternoon, I was reminded just how much of a capitalist I truly am.

I've been renting a place in my village since last summer and I have been it's only inhabitant in the past 6-7 years. It's true, there's no real ownership that I have over this place, no contracts, just money that passes hands every month. To me, that still means for however long I'm here, the place is mine.

To a post-soviet ev yiyəsi who has moved on up to the high life in the capital, it's not mine but hers. Hers to the point where she can come by, unannounced and take the mattress out from under me, rearrange the house to its factory setting and sigh in satisfaction.

I, capitalist, ignored and unimportant, stand by in passive aggressive fury. Not by choice mind you, I've tried outrage and people have no idea what I'm talking about. Heç nə olmaz, they said, shoulders shrugged.She opens all the windows, I close them. She invites the neighborhood over, I skulk in the corner with a book. She ignores my existence, I make alliances with her daughter in law. I take a nap and her granddaughter tries on all (count em, 3) my shoes. My fragile concept of private property maintains its righteous disgust as my landlord sees nothing but higher ground.

Sorry enlightened one, the jig is up. All that's left now is attrition-that's mostly economy.Your Buzz for the Day:

lumpenproletariat – super low class, coined by Marx

ev yiyəsi – landlord

heç nə olmaz – economics! No, but I taught you that before, 'stuff happens'

attrition- the Cold War, duh

If you can read the English language, you probably know that the 6th day was the most important day of Biblical creation. Still, in the interest of keeping everyone on the same page, let me remind you why: that's when the big M-A-N was created.

ATTENTION:Don't fret male readers, you're safe today. This is not a feminist trap:ACHTUNGSupposedly, mankind is the crown jewel of the world, the frontal lobe, the bipedal movement...and the man part of kind always seems to come first in the ancient visions of creation. Nevertheless, we've been auto-correcting that for awhile. In fact, you probably internally flinched when I wrote M-A-N (re: humanity) or mankind (re: humankind). Don't worry, your programming is functioning just fine.

To keep the balance up there in that lovely logic center you probably remembered that women are subjected to terrible pressures and restrictions in the world. Maybe you're even compiling a list comparing the ratio of male to female leaders. And, unfortunately, you might be recalling some horror stories of women abroad and the men they encounter, foreign and local alike.

Now that all those generalities are clear and present in your imagination, I want you to ignore them. Irrelevant.

When I came to my little village, nestled in the crux of a cease-fire and an international border, I steeled myself to face gender discrimination. Oh yeah, I gave myself pep talks everyday, preparing myself for the fight to get the male leaders in my community on my side. Still, nothing could prepare me for host father poking a sharp rib in my side at every turn.

The questions were ceaseless. Often they were riddles and traps to prove he knew more or questions without any answer...

Ptolemi niyə Pompeyin başı Caesara verdi?

Almanlar niyə Yehudilar xoşlamırlar? more often they were attempts to expose just how badly I spoke Azeri... Bizim dilimiz yaxşı örənməyi lazımdır sənə. ...or my failure to prove my worth as a woman.Na vaxt bizə yemək bişirəcəksən? He got me every time and I hated him for it.

This is the same man now helping me renovate a classroom. In the fall, my director asked me to write a grant for an İngilis Kabinet. A few months later we were awarded the grant and decided to start working on the project during the summer. Sadly, my director suffered a heart attack a few weeks ago, suddenly halting our plans. One day, deciding to actually truthfully answer my host father's question, Vəziyyət necədir?, I told him my stubborn decision to continue, albeit completely lost. His response was to help, immediately. It may seem like a sudden transition from nemesis to ally, because it is. Granted, he became my greatest supporter 6 months ago but I still don't know when he switched sides. Suddenly he was introducing me around town, showing me restaurants that women never go to. We were talking politics and his questions were questions, not traps. He started calling me böyük qızım and buying me juice boxes in çayxanas. Now, he's saving our project, mobilizing parents, and spreading the word faster than I ever could.

I can't say if he's an exception to the rule or the rule to an exception; but, I expected him to distrust me, he did. I suppose he expected that I would distrust him, I did.

I do know that humanity isn't the crown jewel, I rather think the world would eject us into space if it could. In the wake of destruction, we're masters at finding a scapegoat in a nation, a gender, or a tribe. Circular reason your way around and around from patriarchal societies to violence to violent women in a patriarchal society and you end up at M-A-N (re: humanity).

Maybe that's how my host father and I got here.

Your German for the day:

Achtung – Attention, duh. Don't you feel stupid for checking.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

Ptolemi niyə Pompeyin başı Caesara verdi? - Why did Ptolemy give Pompey's head to Caeser?

Almanlar niyə Yehudilar xoşlamırlar?- Why do the Germans not like the Jews?

Bizim dilimiz yaxşı örənməyi lazımdır sənə.- You need to learn our language well.

Na vaxt bizə yemək bişirəcəksən?- When will you cook for us?

İngilis Kabinet – English room

Vəziyyət necədir?- How's life?

böyük qızım – my oldest daughter

çayxana – tea house, a SERIOUSLY man place...in Beyləqan anyway

I've been saying for a long time now that hate is a very strong word and, in fact, a very difficult emotion to maintain.

Think about it, you have to watch this loathsome person carefully.

Constantly interpret their actions as suspicious.

Every unexplained disaster in your life has to be logically tied to a secret and devious plan.

Any recognition of said person's humanity must be ignored, twisted and argued against.

I could go on but as I am essentially very lazy, I have told many people that I simply don't care enough to hate anyone.

Then I met qaz.

I mean, there was always this story my mother used to tell me. I was tiny but just as interested in poking my nose where it didn't belong. So, around a serene park I was chased by a goose I supposedly provoked with curiosity. This goose was in turn being chased by my nonna. And so we chased each other—or they chased me—around a park for longer than necessary.

It was fated.

But I guess I always keep a little naivete in me. An animal is just an animal after all. The wandering dogs bark at you because they are protecting themselves from all the people who have attacked them with rocks and sticks. That sheep didn't know you wanted to wear your laundry after you dried it. The cows thought your flowers were for everyone's dining enjoyment. The chickens were hiding from the rain, that's why they pooped all over your steps.

That goose screams that unholy sound at 5 am because...

That goose hisses at you from across the road because...

That goose is known to attack people because...

I had no reasons to excuse this seemingly nonsensical behavior. I never bothered a goose (that story above is here-say, aight), never saw anyone throwing rocks or abusing one. All I ever saw was gangs of geese picking fights.

When it came to the point where I put myself to sleep imagining all the ways I could kill the goose screaming outside my window, I knew the time had come. Mənə qaz zehlem qaçır.

All I have to do is walk somewhere that a goose happens to be standing, minding my own business and BAM. At least if it was a gorilla I could be, like, hey it's just posturing. No, this is a bird, being belligerent because. It already hates me for being in it's space, why can't two play at that game?

I now both join and pick fights with geese, mumbling under my breath like a crotchety old man. I'd like to write a more flattering description of myself, but I'd be lying.

Dəllik duşub. There isn't going to be a summit of Humans and Geese for Peace, a dialogue, nothing. I don't speak goose...or crazy for that matter.

At least I learned being constantly and senselessly defensive only leads to hate.

Your Italian for the Day:

nonna – grandma

Your Azebaijani for the Day:

qaz - goose

Mənə qaz zehlem qaçır – I hate geese.

Dəllik duşub - It's insane.

21. Flattery

There are innumerable dark nights of the soul in work like this. Sometimes sleepless nights accompanied only by the acidic comments of our minds are all too familiar. Combine that with a domino movement of united protest in North Africa and one's life can seem pretty unimportant in comparison.

As with any challenge we face in life, we always wonder, “Am I insertyouradjectiveofchoice enough?” This question can stop us in our tracks or cause us to dive in head first to avoid answering it. I have definitely tried using the latter method more often the former.

I'm the analytical sort, and not in any useful sense.

More than halfway through my service as I am now, I look back on how many times that question had me frozen and wide-eyed. Oftentimes I don't feel a sense of accomplishment, just urgency at how much is still left to do and how much time I have left. It's always a little funny to me when friends of mine ask me how many months I have left. I twitch a little each time since it only manages to remind me of all the work I need to get done. They, one the other hand, find it hilarious that I'm not counting down the hours.

And that, esteemed ladies and gentlemen, is what sent me into a crazed fit of endless work in January 2011. No sleep, mysterious ailments, electricity blackouts, angry shouting matches gave me quite the comical appearance. At the end of a long list of unfortunate events, I offered this simple response to my students:Bəşəriyyət dunya nəzarət edə bilmir. They laughed, mostly because the American was trying to sound wise in their language. I just smirked, simply happy to, once again, still have my sanity after another bout with chaos.

The month before, two of my students who attended G.L.O.W. asked if we could put on a talent show/New Year's party. I'm embarrassed to admit that my response was mild annoyance at having more work. I asked them a series of questions, trying to make them see that it was more work than they thought it was...and try to discourage them.

I'm still embarrassed because it almost worked. Almost.

They came back, with answers. Loving stubbornness as I do, I gave in and dealt out their responsibilities. Over the next couple of weeks, I witnessed the effect of stress and responsibility on two 16 year old girls. It looked familiar. I mean, after all, I've been stressed out A LOT, I know what it looks like. I made sure they knew I was there to help out. I even tried to fill in some gaps I thought they had in their plans.

I should have known, that they would have it all covered. Because, you know what? They did.

There I stood, only responsible for taking pictures and full of pride. I saw that crazed look of stressed madness in their eyes more than a couple of times. They didn't know yet that everything was going to be alright, but I did. So, I just smiled with a knowing look in my own eyes, hoping they would see it too.

Honestly, I thought they were doing a far better job than I ever have. They made me feel a little competitive actually. Imagine my surprise to hear when it was all over Necə nə əsəbiləşmişsən başa duşmurəm. And here I was thinking I was a ranting, raving lunatic with no time and no accomplishments.

Wait, there's more.

Even BEFORE that, I was spending time with my mateys Stephanie and Jenna, talking shop and such. They were asking some of the same questions that used to and sometimes still do come to my mind. I was using my training as an anthropologist, bs-ing on the spot with feigned authority. My answers were pretty decent, peppered with plenty of funny anecdotes too ridiculous to be made up. Somewhere in all that off the cuff advice, I wondered when I actually started to know what I was doing down here in South Central.

Ironically enough, it was during this silent musing that they decided that Cap'n would be a suitable nickname for me. I think military rank indicates that I am insertyouradjectiveofchoice enough.

So are Tunisia and Egypt.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

Bəşəriyyət dunya nəzarət edə bilmir. - Humanity cannot control the universe. I say this a lot.

Necə nə əsəbiləşmişsən başa duşmurəm. - I don't know how you are so patient.

Your Cap'n Speak for the Day:

mateys – Commonly referred to as a 'sitemate' in Peace Corps terminology, a person with whom a volunteer shares a 'site'. Since I don't have sitemates because they each live in different communities in Beyləgan, I refer to them simply as 'mateys'. It does wonders for the nautical theme.

Say you're at some social event with the family. Maybe you don't want to be there. Chances are there was a yelling match about going to this party in the first place. You're making the rounds, whether you're self motivated or your mom used her powers of guilt and command. You get tired of small talk and will stab a toothpick in your eye if you have to answer the question, “What's next?” one more time. So, like a good little spawn, you sidle alongside ma or pa and let them do the talking while you fulfill your role with as little effort as possible.

Ma/Pa is chatting up the denizens like a pro and your boredom and discomfort start to subside. They're chuckling about some clever anecdote someone made. You weren't actually listening the whole time, but you caught the last part. Like the clever monkey you are, you cackle along with them and decide to throw in a zinger of your own:

“Ha. Kind of like all those Muscles and Motorcycles magazines you keep in the bathroom, right? La de ha ha.”

It takes you a few minutes to open your eyes. It was a good one liner and you're pretty pleased with yourself. But, you finally risk a glance at ma/pa for the positive reinforcement your ego is itching for.

What you get instead is the look. You know which one I'm talking about. The 'you've-betrayed-la-familia' look.

It doesn't matter if your family isn't associated with an actual crime syndicate. When you're born, you've unwittingly signed the contract to keep what's family business in the family.

It's a basic tenant of any social group: there are things that are only shared among initiated members. Coming to a foreign country and entering a community requires exactly the same commitment. As PCVs, we know that we have to be trusted to really be able to do our jobs. If we don't reach that trust, if we're not accepted into ailəsi, we end up unable to do the work that we came here to do.

Oh yes, and the perks. Back-scratching.

(It's a pun, give it a second)

The first year is all hoop jumping:

Bu nədir? Hə, amma BU nədir?

Nə bişirməyi bacarırsan?

Neçə nəfər ölkəndə yaşayır?

Niyə bura gəlmissən? Tənbəl uşaqlar xoşlayırsan?

You learn the ropes: you meet the people who help you, you learn people's hopes and dreams. You finally attain the ability to go on a rant in Azeri. You finally kill, clean and cook a live animal to attain praise from all the ladies in the village. Your students start suggesting techniques to their other teachers. The teachers you work with become confident enough to test out their own creativity and defend it to naysayers. Community members ask for your help with their projects.

You walk home and an old man you've never met before asks you:

Kimin qızısan?

You're not even foreign anymore, especially when you tell your students that new trainees are coming to visit. They're hoping for a fresh American, you're too kəndli.

You've earned your lumps.

And that's when you're allowed to see things as they are. When you decide to accept them or convince the others that things can change from within. It was the classic 'you'll-see-when-you're-older' routine and as fresh blood, everyone expects some naïve idealism from you. Do you risk 'the look', or do you stay loyal?

The real test begins.

La de ha ha.



Your Italian for the Day:

la familia – the family, duh. You didn't know that Enzo? Go and watch the Godfather, punk.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

ailəsi – the family

Bu nədir? Hə, amma BU nədir? - What's this? Yeah, but what's THIS?

Nə bişirməyi bacarırsan? - Can you cook?

Neçə nəfər ölkəndə yaşayır? - How many people live in your country?

Niyə bura gəlmissən? Tənbəl uşaqlar xoşlayırsan? - Why have you come here? Do you like lazy children?

Kimin qızısan? - Who's daughter are you?

kəndli - village-y

The other day, I woke up at 7 am with chills, full body aches and a massive headache. I made a valiant effort to go to school, but all I did was collapse onto my bed in defeat.

I couldn't help but realize the irony. A year ago, around this time, I was bragging about the wonders of my Iron Stomach-undefeated. A few days in Azerbaijan and I was ill like I'd never been before. Happy anniversary to me.

Still, I can't imagine a better way of remembering the beginning. Well, technically, my body remembered and decided to slap my brain into remembering.

The parallels are uncanny, really. September of 2009 was full of temporary goodbyes, lots of good food, plenty of good friends and a very happy birthday. Mostly, my main accomplishment was packing way below Peace Corps requirements.

What? Good packing is an art. .

This September has been pretty much the same, sans goodbyes. I gave myself a great present, a weekend in Tblisi. Probably one of the best trips of my life, even if Georgia swallowed my ATM card via an ATM machine. This was followed by the most eventful birthday I've ever had: four cakes, three separate meals, one picnic, dancing in a field, more games than I'm used to and even a rock through my window.

Ok, that last part wasn't awesome, but it gives the whole birthday a sort of rounded feel.

(That was sarcasm)

The best gift was watching my students run our second picnic all on their own, emphasized by yelling at me to sit down when I asked if they needed any help. I can't take credit for it but they wanted to do it for me. That is a compliment that I will continue to work hard to deserve.

Right after that was a wedding that brought the old Ceyranbatan cluster back together again, to see our teacher off. A toy is always more fun with other Americans, mostly because the attention is evenly distributed. And, if one of you dances like an idiot, it's more likely that the other ones do too.

Naturally, we're all fantastic dancers. Of course.

The next group of volunteers have been here for a week or so now and the group before us will start leaving soon. Welcomes and goodbyes are coming soon. I wish them all a similar sense of completion, now or in the future. I hope that another year from now, mine will be a little less painful.

Realizing your limits is humbling and necessary, even if ironic. I always used to say that irony is god's sense of humor. Still right.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

toy – wedding

Since I've been spending more time in town, I've started to remember what it's like to have a commute. Yes, there's only a 15-30 minute distance between my village and town, but it's the hardest commute I've ever had...since it all depends on the whims of others.

There are no direct buses and there are no guarantees. Honestly, I am in a better position than I used to be, not knowing how I could leave the village at all and depending completely on my host father's connections. Now that I have my own, it's me who curses angrily walking on the road because my plan has fallen through,

Take last Thursday for example: as usual, I called my reliable taxi driver buddy a day ahead and arranged for him to pick me up early the following morning. I have meetings and classes starting at 9:30 in town and I like having some time before to settle in and maybe grab something for breakfast. My neighbor is the village postman and spends the first half of his weekdays in town, and he has his own car. At first, I used to bum a ride from him, but he always leaves later.

So, there I was, smug in my careful planning, believing that the car would be there in 5 minutes. Ok, maybe 10. 20?

Concerned, I called him, only to have him scream in my ear, “UZAQ!”

The silent fuming began. I know what you're thinking, why didn't he tell me he couldn't take me into town? Trust me, no one ever does.

So, I glanced at my neighbor's yard, leisurely having his breakfast. That just made me twitch. So, I stomped my way to the road with a matching curse for every step. I always used to say that traffic produced the most creative cursing from me.

No longer true.

I wondered why people couldn't understand commitments, or even the commitment I had made to them. What, did they just think that I could magically appear in all the places they wanted me to without any help? Yes, people think I'm crazy for doing this job, including my community, but at least don't make it harder.

The more drivers that told me they weren't going into town, the more alone and abandoned I felt. The pinnacle of those feelings came as I finally reached the road, having no clue if a driver I knew or even just a taxi would pass by.

And then I heard:

“Sabahın xeyir müəllim! Hara gedirsən?”

I turned to find the village's poet, a man who always manages to be there when I need a ride...when I have groceries, when it's raining, and now, when I have no way of getting to work.

I immediately regretted every negative thing I was thinking 5 minutes before. Well, not everything, just the generalizations that neglect the types of people I have met and have yet to meet that have been unfailingly generous.

There's something I like to say when I want to seem clever: It's important to be disappointed, to fail. It does wonders for your patience and your ability to persevere. I guess I have to remember that myself as well.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

UZAQ – FAR!...meaning he had said he was far away and wasn't able to drive me to town and when I began to ask why he didn't tell me before, he decided to reiterate the most important part of his statement for explanation.

Sabahın xeyir müəllim! Hara gedirsən? - Good morning teacher! Where are you going?

Well, it has been some time hasn't it? Suffice it to say, July 2010 was perhaps the most...interesting month of my time here thus far. There were great highs: seeing my students get a picnic going all on their own, participating in an art camp led and taught by young Azerbaijanis, leading three students to their first summer camp away from home, and seeing my family all together for the first time in 19 years.

And yet, there were also great lows: seeing my sitemate return to America, an impromptu visit from my landlords at 5 am, a door that wouldn't lock and wouldn't be fixed, and a bag that refused to leave Turkey.

Looking at those events in sentences, I realize it's hard for you to imagine the epic struggle I've had with chaos.

There was a time my sophomore year in college where I was merely a zombie, grazing by with my head phones eternally playing Modest Mouse. It was not a great time in my life, by far. I must have played one song over a million times, desperately trying to remind myself that there were important things in the world that needed my attention. I still believed then that my situation was under my control.

I left the following year for a term abroad, where I learned to either let go or lose myself.

July brought me back in time, to a place where I still tried to flip switches and turn cranks to manipulate the universe. Luckily for me, my vacation time with the family that had not been on the same continent in 19 years was in the same country that taught me to accept my ability to change with the chaos. Relearning lessons is arguably harder than learning them the first time.

In some ways, what I do is easy. I hang out in my village hut for 2 years, start one or two-hopefully-useful things, and go on my merry way. I basically point the way and leave the journey-the work-to others. Not a crowd, not a group, if I'm lucky, a few brave enough to step into the unknown.

As I sat in a taxi with 3 teenage girls who had never been out of their village on their own, I was a little sad, knowing that they too would have to face chaos, many times more, alone. As I left them, I became immensely proud to know them.

So, let's just pretend that the lessons, like ripples, cancel each other out. All that's left is a month where I sat back, watching the future take form. Qocaq qızlarım, sizi üçün darıxacam. - I will miss you all, my brave girls.

Since I've moved, I find that I have a curious condition. Usually, daydreaming isn't strange for me. Travel, the future-all of that is pretty common. Lately, I've found myself dreaming of kitchen appliances.

You think you're surprised?

I love my house and it's old time charm, but I'm a child of the 21st Century, the time of microwave dinners and stoves with adjustable temperature settings. Being without all these things has made me realize not only that they are not as common as I was raised to believe they were, but also that life without them is much more interesting. Time is a luxury that the 8 hour work day eliminated. Here, it's a given with the added bonus of fresh, local produce that is cheaper.

Because I've always had a kitchen that runs on electricity and technology, I never considered that I was capable of functioning in one with only a stove top and a gas balloon. If I may say so myself, I'm doing quite well. Time, experimentation and adventure are my allies. So far, I haven't delved too much into the culinary arts of Azerbaijan besides those foods that are universal. In fact, what I cook for myself is an actual gossip topic.

Recently, I was in Ağcabədi helping with a summer sports camp. My favorite hosts, Shira and Jeff, bought fava beans a few weeks before and promised me a fuol night. There's no way I can do my excitement and nostalgia justice. But, between the excitement and fulfillment were two days of day-long cooking and the painstaking process of shucking beans.

For most of you in the Land of Processed Food, this may make no sense. Basically, you take one bean at a time and remove the skin. For us, there was the added task of removing bugs.

Oh come on, it's not that bad. Calm down.

Trust me, the more time you spend cleaning, boiling, molding and preparing your food, the better it tastes. Tomato sauce from scratch, homemade bouillon, fresh greens from your yard, garlic itself and not garlic salt are the conveniences of living in a village and, unfortunately, not conveniences of the US of A.

Oh ironies.

I can have fresh pomidor and xıyar with freshly picked reyhan, and you can't. Whine or come visit, your choice.

(Spoilers: the second choice will be more fun).

At the same time, required effort can also be an enemy. It's hot and air conditioners are a rarity which encourages most people to devote most of their time to moving as little as possible. As a volunteer whose primary objective is development, this is my toughest obstacle. It's easy to imagine all the projects and possibilities in your mind, but even easier to let them remain untried possibilities.

I just returned from a project development and management workshop in the capital, designed mostly for Azerbaijanis. I was able to bring a good friend of mine with whom I've had the most discussions about change. She has told me many times that she is jealous of me. It was her first time away from home alone since she married, something she used to do all the time. Listening to her remember and be excited but also nervous about starting again, I was jealous of her courage. For me to talk about change requires little effort. For my friends here to talk about change is something they often do alone and against the grain. That is something that will always have my support and inspiration.

Ideas are starting to simmer. I always forget that the waiting is much longer than moments of inspiration. Then, from inspiration to realization is another wait. It's a process with the strangest points of inspiration: a taxi with loud music, an Irish pub watching a World Cup game, crossing the street, over ice cream dessert. Starting from scratch, I know the ends will be so much better.

Saying this, I still dream. What I'd give for a blender.

Your Organic Word for the Day:

cheaper – The food you buy from a mass producer is cheaper than the food from local farmers. That food is much more likely to be healthier and investment in local growers is investment in your own community. Work on that y'all while I'm over here.

Your Arabic for the Day:

fuol – The Egyptian everyman's food of fava beans with any ingredient you so desire. Beans have protein too.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

Ağcabədi – The rayon to the north of me, best known for waaay more factories than us and one of the many farming regions of Azerbaijan.

pomidor – tomato

xıyar – cucumber

reyhan – BASIL!

Two weeks ago, a date was finally decided for one of the most contested topics of my time here in the village: moving out on my own. I'm not saying my housing decisions was on everyone's mind all the time, but every day at school was a cycle through similar questions...

Hələ köçmib...hələ köçməmissən?

Gorxmursan?

Bişirməyi bacarırsan?

Don't be misled. They all realized pretty early there was no persuading me out of it and that I really wasn't scared at all. It was and still is plain curiosity for something a girl hasn't done here before. They wanted to see if I could do it,

and so did I.

Thus, a village of people moved me across a village. I had heard from other people in other parts of the country that there was no way I could live alone in a village and the discouraged me from doing so. Not here my friend. Yes, they quizzed me every day on situations and solutions, assured me I was welcome at any time, that they'd cook wash or whatever for me...but they supported my decision.

In the end, I think we all want to see me live an awesome life in my country house.

But, like my life has been since I began my work here as a volunteer, moving wasn't without it's series of random chaotic events. While I was taking my 'last' shower in my favorite hamam in all of Azerbaijan the day before the move, a monsoon came. No, not your lower weight class rain showers of America...a monsoon. So, I took two showers, and it was flooding.

The phrase 'of course' entered my mind several times.

But, an hour later of us trying to save the carpets from soaking, it passed. Not only did it pass, we had full on sunny weather. Over tea, we discussed alternative modes of travel if the road was too muddy for a car. My host father suggested a horse, I preferred a donkey, but we needed something to carry the bags...and apparently there was only one available donkey.

Ok, the roads weren't that muddy and I didn't have to ride a horse.

Of course.

This was a common theme when I was discussing my future home with my family, on the crazy wild side of the village. Warnings of thieves, wild dogs, shepherds after my super boots, the dangers of leaving out laundry at night, no gates were the cautionary tales my host father and mother offered. As far as they were concerned, I was moving into the Jungle.

So, when we came to my house and found that my door wouldn't open, that the electrician hadn't turned on my power, that my stove top was going to kill me-spoilers: it hasn't and works perfectly fine-the family was a little hesitant to leave me. They each pulled me aside with that 'are you nuts' look on their faces while I simply grinned and assured them was going to be fine.

M'm, 'course.

I was a little disappointed that I couldn't cook for myself or have any lights for the first few days, but I gave me a good chance to spend quality time with my new qonşular. For me, the concept of being neighborly was something I'd only seen in movies from the 1950's. Here, it's a part of everyday life. I haven't been able to make my own lunch once, mostly because one neighbor decides to bring it to me. I've cooked a few dinners, since I've been invited over to eat with them. Each new welcome visit by a neighbor is followed by a gift of tasty wonderfulness: təzə yumurta, qreçka, qatıq, pendir, balıq and so on. I really enjoy participating in the exchange, when I have some extra or some kəks to hand out to the neighborhood kids that yell salam müəllim! every time they see me.

Once, I had to convince a part of three visiting neighbors that not only did they not have to cook for me in my own kitchen, but that I was and could cook myself dinner. They weren't trying to cast doubt on my abilities, but only extend the same communal living they had amongst themselves to me. I'm enjoying it and my country house with a garden full of trees and wandering qaz, toyuq, hınduşka, and qoyun...and their miniatures.

Before I left, my host father asked me how I was going to keep myself warm in winter. Kölgəm repeated a conversation I had with her and her mother the day before, that I was going to warm my home by a wood stove. He started to chuckle. I grew defensive and asked him if he thought I couldn't do it. He said no, that's not why he was laughing:

Yavaş-yavaş kəndli qız olursan.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

Hələ köçmib...hələ köçməmissən? - Has she moved yet...have you moved yet?

Gorxmursan? - You're not scared?

Bişirməyi bacarırsan? - Can you cook?

hamam - shower

qonşular - neighbors

təzə - fresh

yumurta - egg

qreçka - buckwheat

qatıq – the fermented cream off the top of fresh milk...makes everything even tastier

pendir - cheese

balıq – fish

kəks – tiny cupcakes without frosting

salam müəllim! - hello teacher!

qaz - goose

toyuq - chicken

hınduşka - turkey

qoyun - sheep

Yavaş-yavaş kəndli qız olursan. - Step by step you're becoming a village girl.

I have respect for scientists, their work, their classifications, their types, their categories. It's simply a fact, there is too much laid before human eyes and ears, too much to be observed and understood, all at once. I respect the search for understanding of the natural world, the inner-workings of the mind—I even paid all the proper reverence to the Latin of the classification system as a 7th grader.

Kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species.

There was a time when the world believed that the origin of the pure, untainted species of humanity came from the Caucasus Mountains, the Caucasians. Ironically enough, I am in the Qafqaz dağları now, and there is nothing but variety, mixture and beauty. Some may call that 'tainted', as if there exists some magic plain with unicorns a people that never had babies with an exotic looking stranger. In fact, at one point, the Caucasus became the North Caucasus and the South Caucasus.

A lot of historical references to strife and warfare should be popping into your minds now. North and South stopped being merely geographical references a long time ago. Any classification has an inherent intention to divide and separate.

I've written before about the differences from North to South even in such a small country as Azerbaijan. Histories, cultures, influences, music, transportation—I've often felt that I was passing international borders when traveling North. In the past two weeks, I've found that I can't even apply the word South to the Bey any longer. I've now been nearly to the southernmost tip of Azerbaijan in Lənkaran, and I've found that what struck me about far North also struck me about far South: rolling hills, rows of trees and forest.

If I follow the the teachings of my scientific predecessors, I guess I have to make a third category: Central. I can even get 'arm-chair-theory' and say from the middle I can better observe the drastic differences above and below.

Spoilers: I don't follow the teachings of my scientific predecessors.

While I was in that same southern part. my host Leslie was introducing me to her neighbors as a visiting volunteer.

“Qafqaz qız dəyil?”

Here we are, making geographical distinctions in a country the size of Maine and a man just throws the Atlantic Ocean out the window.

I followed suit a week later, heading north to Qax for Lori's birthday. Yaz had recently been usurped by a typhoon over the whole country that turned my village into a swamp and wreaked havoc with canals. I started to forget what the sun looked like. I was told to pack warm for real cold. Makes sense, I live in the traditionally warmer part of the country and I was freezing and I was heading into mountain country. The day I left, the storm had finally passed and the weather was gorgeous. With the full power of the sun and the artistic shading of a few rain clouds, I realized that the whole of Azerbaijan is truly a beautiful green country. Yeah, Qax has mountain green, waterfalls, and a field by a fifth-sixth century Albanian church where I was inspired to skip, but the designation of 'better' has never served humankind well.

That, and it's a lie for lots of dangerous -isms. Nationalism being one.

As often as I find myself saying, hər rayon özü ferdi var when we get into rayon competition time, it's the categories of people that sting more. Since I handed out the applications for G.L.O.W., Kölgəm has become fond of saying that no one from our village will be accepted. Why? Because she believes no one has anything interesting to say.

It's frightening how well the things we tell each other stick in young minds. Being told that you're zibil can convince a curious mind that questions are foolish. An unequivocal statement of oxuya bilmirsən can make one child cower under a table when you ask them to read, or convince them that coming to your English course is pointless. It's convinced my little sister that she has no creative faculties of her own.

She believes there are only a few böyük adamlar in her village, a status that I know she fights to have one day. She still feels that is may be unattainable, complacent that it's only meant for certain people. That breaks my heart.

Before that sense of righteous anger at the 'Other' rises in your gut, I remind you that our country isn't necessary the land of confidence building.

One morning over breakfast, she had said the same thing again and I told her that I had to learn how to give my own opinion, my own schooling little different from hers. Sometimes, despite whatever the original intention to create a divide or draw a border was, it only served to draw attention to what remains the same.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

Qafqaz dağları – Caucasus Mountains

Lənkaran – a region in the far south-east of Azerbaijan on the coast, famous for tea leaves

“Qafqaz qız dəyil?” - She's not a Caucasian girl?

Yaz - spring

“Hər rayon özü ferdi var.” - Every region has its own character.

zibil – trash

oxuya bilmirsən – you can't read

böyük adamlar – literally 'big people' but this phrase is used for great poets, thinkers, or anyone with a great accomplishment in life

I hate to say it, but even on such a job as I am—a seemingly selfless job, one in the name of service—it's still all about the self-esteem.

Mm, don't worry, I cringed myself.

I'm not making value judgments about the self or it's required selflessness, or the value of confidence when you are your own boss far far away. No matter how far I travel from my sense of self, I return just as often to the realization that education, change, progress, and all those other fancy words are centered in the self and all the other selves I am surrounded by.

Sarah and I entertained our first visitors to Beyləqan two weeks ago. While the two of us were leading them to a taxi for touring, I turned to Sarah and told her that I was proud of us. She had just moved into her own place and I had just brought someone else from the village on my own.

Well, mostly. Usually my host father walks with me and waves down a taxi for me if I don't leave in the morning. That day, he just waved us off. I remembered a time not too long ago where I used to fight him every time he wanted yola salmaq. So, I stood on the side of the road with Mariel and while I was trying to decide which car to wave down per my host father's training, a qohum of ours swung by and offered to see us off.

This was only one of a series of incidents in a couple of days which Mariel calls 'intense hospitality'. Keep up, I'm about to list em. All are true stories, really: We were offered tea by our school's math teacher, who literally brought out the table into the yard and chatted politics with us in the garden next to a calf—while he saw us walking by. In town Sarah's guest, who came to help her move, ran into a problem since her place wasn't ready and there alarm bells go off when a man, no less a foreign man, needs a place to stay. The minute my host father heard about this, he demanded I invite them over. Word spread like wildfire and the entire house was mobilized and already bragging about having four Americans in the house.

If you don't understand how amazing this is, let me explain it further: we live in a village, no less, a village which is termed kopud by everyone in the Bey. Furthermore, the stereotype for villages worldwide is 'conservative'—whatever that means. There was my host father, looking at me like it was a no brainer decision to have a strange dude in the house who he didn't know and congratulate my host brother on the prospect on having another man to discuss 'man things' with.

Wait, there's more. While at the shrine, we met up with the uncle of a friend of ours who not only invited us to a tea party where we were given gifts of scarves and chocolate, but also drove us back into town.

Still, what I will remember best about those few days, was sitting together and having a wing-(wo)man foreigner to converse with, not in English, but in Azerbaijani. When you're not the only non-native speaker in the room, conversations can go for much longer and turn down many more paths than they could before. I heard new stories, made plans to have village girl training in the summer, and bonded with my family all that much more. Connecting further with all these people that I already know settled doubts and worries I have had for a long time.

Recently we had what is affectionately called EST (Early Service Training). The 'Early' part was easier to forget than I thought. After all, the fact that a group of people who didn't leave America all that long ago were giddy beyond reason at the prospect of showering every day and having an actual toilet would make some believe we have been here much longer than we have.

Still, sitting together and picking each others' brains about struggles, triumphs and projects, it hit me that we have only begun. Now, this could be a daunting prospect, I realize that. For me, it was immensely comforting. It's easy to look at my daily life and feel unaccomplished. It's easy for any of us to feel that way.

Knowing those struggles and hearing successes only further motivated my triumphant return to my school after a week of absence. As I handed over 3 new donated books for our library, the process to bring more new things began. There are at least 20 girls running all over the village right now, trying to convince their parents to let them apply for the annual G.L.O.W. (Girls Leading Our World) camp. The bigger things are coming.

When selves align, you can't help but be pulled along.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

yola salmaq – to see off, used when someone is helping someone or saying goodbye to them before a journey

qohum – relative

kopud – rude

No matter how much I try, I never manage to convince anyone that I'm eating too much. I can't even convince them that I'm eating, period. In fact, I'm eating way more than I have, well, ever. I've been with relatives and I know the 'Why aren't you eating' game...but my entire village is full of relatives. It's a siege, but not the kind where they try to starve you.

Let me give you an even clearer picture of my situation: while sitting around after dinner, my family asked me if I had a camera in my computer. I got excited, because any computer conversation brings Kölgəm one step closer to her computer. Instead, this was about whether or not my parents could see me when I spoke to them online. I told them that our dial-up connection is too slow for us to use my camera. They were disappointed, because they wanted to hear my parents say:

“Qızım deyilsən!”

Why? They wanted see if my parents' would recognize me in the toppuş state they plan to make me. After all the home-made paxlava, two plov bayram, and a barışıq in my bibi's front yard, it's probably going to happen. Y'all know me, if I become fat it's not going to be my problem. I don't see myself most of the time.

BUT, I loathe shopping more and I plan to be able to fit in all the clothes I brought with me in that canvas duffel bag. So, really, I'm really just cheap, not scared of being fat.

Actually, I think body image in my community—and most of Azerbaijan—is wonderful. It's not the tall, lanky, and starved that are called gözəl, it's the women that have a bit more substance. Literally. I wish most of the world hadn't abandoned that 'old world' appreciation for women of all sizes...okay, more the ones that could afford all the food they could eat. Still, it wasn't too long ago when there were more countries that found larger women desirable than countries that found thinner women desirable.

Also, I think they believe it's the last piece that will make me Azərbaycanlı. My host father's side of the family likes to say that I look like him and from the beginning, people have called Kölgəm and me iki bacı. The other day, I decided to try and mail something from town instead of the village. I also wanted to meet the two women that worked in the poçt that Sarah, my sitemate, had been raving about since we arrived here. They didn't disappoint. When they read my address off the envelope, they were sure to show me how excited they were to finally meet the Myriam of Eyvazallar. In fact, they didn't think I was the other xarici until they read my name.

It's true, once again, my classic mug can pass for anything. Someone though I was Japanese the other day. This comment was also followed by pleasant surprise that I could speak Azerbaijani well.

It's like a guessing game. In Egypt, I walked down the same street for months, and I was never consistently perceived as either a foreigner or a native. The same, to a lesser extent, happens to me here.

A week ago, I was in Ağdaş for Beca's birthday. Getting there was cake. Getting out was the greatest April Fool's prank that didn't happen on April Fool's. Before I set off, on the day that Azerbaijan sets clocks forward, I was worried I would be too early for my bus back to the Bey. The first bus passed me by. All the taxi drivers decided to tell me they don't drive to Yevlax, where I usually catch a bus that passes by my village. Though they found my language skills refreshing and an older man was focused on helping me out while calling me bala, I was herded onto a bus going to Mingeçəvir. This was fine in my mind, since I knew there was another bus hub on the way from which I could catch a ride to Yevlax. This wasn't what the bus driver had in mind. I didn't discover this until he was kindly waving down a bystander to make sure I got onto a bus—to Balakən.

Beyləqan—Balakən, same thing you say. Except, they're on opposite sides of the country. Wait, there's more irony. This same driver, well-meaning and helpful as he would turn out to be, said I couldn't communicate. (re: he wasn't listening)

He then convinced me to get back onto the bus and promised to make sure I got to Yevlax. I grumbled and did so, knowing that I could've gotten there on my own. We drove more out of my way to the bus station, as a Yevlax bus was leaving it. I gestured and pointed, too shocked at the madness of the day to say anything. Luckily, everyone read my mind and the bus driver opened the door and yelled:

“Yevlax maşrut saxla!”

It was more of a command really.

So, I ran to that one, still dazed. After driving at approximately 25 miles an hour and me repeatedly checking my watch, imagine my surprise when we got a flat—just outside the city of Yevlax.

Tire changed, and still driving at 25 miles an hour on a leisurely tour of every place except the bus station, I finally made it to my bus stop. I was sure the bus had already passed. I asked an older woman and her son. She swore on her years of experience taking this bus that it hadn't passed yet.

It hadn't. It came 3 minutes later.

No, really. Turns out I wasn't too early for my bus at all.

As I walked to the very end of a very large, very full bus, aided and instructed where to sit to be the most comfortable, I could barely believe it was only 11:45 in the morning. As I look back on it now, I can't help but wonder if all those people were so willing to help me because they recognized a foreigner or a countrywo/man.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

Qızım deyilsən! - You're not my daughter!

toppuş - pleasantly plump

plov bayram – plov is a tasty rice dish with meat and fruit, and bayram is 'holiday'...so it's a day where you eat plov pretty much all day. I had two in a row.

barışıq – literally 'reconciliation', but in this case, it's a chance for a married couple to meet all their new relatives—while eating lots of food

bibi – paternal aunt

iki bacı – two sisters

gözəl – pretty, beautiful

Azərbaycanlı - Azerbaijani

poçt – post office

xarici - foreigner

bala - child

Ağdaş – a rayon pretty much smack dab in the middle of Azerbaijan, north of me; awesome parks

Yevlax – another rayon north of me and one of the major transportation hubs

Yevlax maşrut saxla! - Stop the Yevlax minibus!

There are days where I find myself trying to convince myself that this is the life I'm living. That's a loaded statement, I'm aware. But, I'm sure you've felt that too. Prepare yourself, I'm about to read your mind:

You'll be walking on a street—the same street you've been passing for days or months or years—and all of a sudden, you remember a time when that smudge of graffiti or slightly crooked sidewalk was an eyesore, an interruption of your world view. You remember this with confusion because you didn't realize when it became a part of your life. Foreground to background, seamlessly.

For the entire month of March, Azerbaijan has been preparing for the coming of spring with my new favorite holiday, Novruz. Now, I don't just mean making lists of ingredients and buying spring colors, I mean jumping over fire four weeks in a row to leave the past and prepare to welcome the future.

You should now have holiday envy. I know I do.

Here, that also means test time, another not so subtle metaphor for the future and possibility. Students in the 11th forms, the final grade, must pass this test to be eligible to take the university exam. We all preferred tutlanmağı over fire to drilling test questions, which is much more like standing in front of the fire, poised to jump while the flames rise, knowing that there's only one jump you can make. It's tough out there for the impatient—and the ambitious.

So, after all this build-up, I found myself holding a flimsy test copy while hopeful eyes, 17 years old, waited for me to say duz or sahf. A few days later, Kölgəm and I would be taking turns trying to catch the fire-leaping picture. Despite arguments over who takes better pictures and who jumps higher/can fly...she caught me mid-flight over a dying fire. I didn't know it at the time, looking over test answers that I would feel exactly like that image when I could say mübarəkdi to those same 17 year-old eyes.

Something similar happened when I tripped over a gate, running from a neighbor's house. Oh yeah, that too is background. And no, I wasn't robbing anyone. On the last çərşənbə, a village full of boys, one teenage girl and one foreign teacher left their hats at front doors and hid. Cowering around the corner and laughing silently, we all hoped that our hats would be more full of paxlava, qoz or fındıq than everyone else's because 1. our neighbor recognized whose hat they were filling and 2. they liked us better than everyone else. So, yeah, my pride took a blow along with my foot and knee as my 14 year old partner in crime laughed at me while I picked myself quickly off the floor to run back home...and maybe while we were running from some dogs. But, I got a kakos in my hat.

No, really. Pride restored.

All these things are my life and I find myself trying to remember a time when they were not. It's all background now because there wasn't much separating us in the first place.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:

Novruz – Spring holiday beginning at the Spring equinox

duz - right

sahf - wrong

tutlanmağı - jumping

mübarəkdi - congratulations

çərşənbə - pre-holiday

paxlava – bakhlava

qoz - walnut

fındıq - hazelnut

kakos - coconut

There was a time, long ago, when I thought there was a right answer to everything. Whether that was a product of how the world around me was or how I chose to see it, I can't say. Having lived that way once, I find it easier to relate to children who now believe the same thing; or, even the ones that refuse to say the right answer.

They happen to be my favorites nowadays. Well, those and the ones who rarely speak.

We all know why that is.

In the past two weeks, I have been surprised by the fact that in a world where there can only right, I have been trusted with fikirlər. I work and live in two worlds—well, I should say, I have been welcomed into two worlds: the world of children and parents. The surprise was that I spent so many days feeling slightly out of phase with everyone else, that I didn't realize how slightly and subtly I was entering my community.

Mind you, I'm not saying the process is finished. Only, that impatient people are usually blind to what's happening right in front of them.

I have finally been to an infamous toy in Azerbaijan, and they are worth every word of infamy. I was instructed to eat a little of everything and take a picture of myself dancing, or else I would not be allowed back in the house. I've never been so willing to comply with instructions in my life. You all will be happy to know that I became a very popular dancer to be exhibited—not by choice of course.

I was invited by a friend of mine who lives in town, and we spent much of the wedding discussing customs and religion, languages, and trying to convince people that I could understand them and could answer them. One of my favorite soft-diplomacy projects is spending time with people and having them be surprised by the end how little difference there is between them and a foreigner.

WIN.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been ending each conversation club with some sort of writing/discussion exercise. I decided to take a risk and ask my Friday qrupu to bring an opinion about anything to the next meeting. I could tell immediately how hard most of them had worked to make sure the sentences they wrote were completely grammatical, and factual. Though I was still proud of them, I still couldn't help but be a little disappointed that no-one had taken a risk.

Then, this was uttered:

“I like freedom because it makes nation happiness.”

Remember, before, when I said it was becoming difficult to hold back my excitement? I finally cracked. It's hard to remember now—I was a bit giddy with excitement—but I think jumping and a high five took place.

My host father and I have also been having a series of interesting discussions about life, and everything in between. Discussing how terrible city food is because you have no idea where it comes from, and enjoying the knowledge of who grows what you eat without ever using the word 'organic' is also one of my favorite things. Simply walking to the main road before making my epic trip to Balakən—where we usually have our deep thoughts, avoid flying rocks flung outward from the weight of trucks or subtly compete over who knows more about transportation in Azerbaijan—and suddenly be told what he hoped the village would have become if there had been no war. He wasn't blaming a side, a group of people, circumstances...he was blaming war.

On a gloomy morning, the rays of the sun barely reaching my eyes, and a tinge of melancholy in his words, all I could think was: trust. It was a rare moment, when I could actually be witness to a change, to something that is never heard by a woman and a foreigner.

I can't say that I haven't completely abandoned the idea of black and white, but I hope at least I can continue to enjoy the beauty of shades of grey...and maybe pass that on to others.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

fikirlər - opinions

toy - wedding

Friday qrupu – Friday group

Balakən – the rayon farthest north from Beyləqan, and the closest I've ever been to Russia ;)...oh, and gorgeous

I thought I would only find desert sand to be beautiful and dangerous all at once.

Wrong.

Mind you, I still prefer the desert, it's more natural to me somehow. Well, it's more that I've been around it all my life. However, one of the things I was looking forward to here in Azerbaijan was living in snow—real qar. The kind that falls for days, stays on the ground, sticks to everything, turns all the water around into ice and icicles...you know, the picturesque image of snow and all it's poetic wonders.

It has snowed, twice where I live in Beyləqan. In fact, I had been talking about how much I wanted snow with everyone for weeks. The day before it started, my host mom asked me what I wished for. Alright, she was talking about food, but it still counts that snow happened the next day.

Yeah, I think 'giddy' is the appropriate word here to describe my feelings at the time.

Not only did we get snow, we got the latter half of a snowstorm. Most of it was wreaking havoc in Baku, but snow hurts. Especially when you have to walk through it for long periods of time...or be outside for bathroom and pruning purposes.

At that point, giddyness was still in place.

The only time that day I felt a little disappointed was when the fam told me not to expect my students to come to club, since no-one went to school.

Kölgəm said they had been calling all day to ask if I was going to cancel. I had been in town with my host mom on errands and by the time I got back, the phones were out.

Giddyness started to fade.

Then, we realized the phone lines had returned, because one of my students called to ask:Əgar açarı aparacamsə, gelərsiz? YES. So, there I was, in staying snow, bundled and trudging to school, giddy again.

Last weekend, I had my second chance at snow, heading back to the rayon that gave me a vision of the volunteer future I wished for: Zaqatala. This time, I was going alone for Amy's birthday...and in the snow!

Giddyness was now full on triumphant.

...until I finally reached Zaqatala and was greeted with the exact poetic vision I had hoped for in my mind. Oh, and beef stew.

I may have regressed several years at the time, still not quite sure.

Add to that sword fights with Georgian bread, khajapuri. and a hike in the snow for a California girl, and you have magic. It wasn't even my birthday, but it felt like it. Even when we discovered the only way we were going to be able to get to our destination (spoilers: never got there), was to have me wade through several streams, stand on snow pants on one side, and toss my boots over to the rest of our troupe to cross one by one. Or, standing IN the river as the human bridge.

No, really. Even then it was about determination, beautiful scenery, and 3 manat bets if you could hit someone in the head. Those boots are the single most intelligent investment I may have made in my life.

...until my aim got progressively worse and I watched hopelessly as one boot fell into the river. Naturally, after 8 kilometers, we became tired and we each fell into said river in different ways becoming very very wet. Wet + snow = frozen.

Even my poor camera became a victim (spoilers: camera survived, thanks to Sierra, Josh, rice, and a few hours by the heater).

I have never been so cold in my life. Worth it? Of course. But, my nerves are shot when it comes to slippery things.

Coming back, I had a cold like everyone else and realized that snow hailed different emotions for my neighbors in Beyləqan. Talking about how beautiful it makes everything in a muddled voice from a stuffy nose while everyone else worries about the power and their animals, their livelihood...it made me wonder.

Dangerous things are still beautiful, as long as you're prepared for the sting.



Your Azerbaijani for the day:

Qar yağır – It is snowing

qar - snow

Əgar açarı aparacamsa, gelərsiz? - If I bring the key, will you come?

manat – Azerbaijani dinero

Your Georgian for the day:

khajapuri – tasty square pieces of filo-type bread with cheese on the inside

Whenever I spill something, fall on someone, have chalk all over my back, drop trash in someone's plate, have one end of the pull string on my favorite hoodie fall into my soup...the reaction is always heç nə olmaz.

It's a simple concept and I have only recently begun to fully to appreciate it.

I've been trying to expand my knowledge of transportation around Azerbaijan and make sure I know my way around. Two weeks ago I went to visit some other volunteers in Salyan, a process that baffled everyone in my village-mainly because I was doing it alone. Oh, and no-one really had an idea how I was supposed to do it.

Completely worth it. Not only did I get to eat chocolate cake and have cocoa, but I met some of the kindest people, willing to help a stranger along. As always, the magical word in Azerbaijan is qonaq. Taxi drivers are my favorite people these days, especially when I miss buses or when I stand on a street in a strange city trying to figure out how to get home or when they tell everyone on a bus to make sure I get off in Salyan.

On top of that, it was great to unwind with other PCVs, see what their doing somewhere else, and even benefit from the wisdom of volunteers who've been here longer. I enjoy the fact that most of my life-firsts have been in other countries. My first yoga class was a club run by my friend Beth and attended by impressive girls and women.

Little vacations do wonders for the soul.

Back in the Bey—my affectionate nickname for Beyləqan—work continues. Every day I am impressed and inspired by the girls in my village. On the home front, a computer will be purchased in the near future for my host sister and kölgəm and my host father and I had a very interesting discussion about the wonders of the internet. Like him, I think this is going to be a snowball situation. Girls talk, therefore there will be a number of computers in the village in the next year.

Score.

Some of my students have ceased being mystified by my ability to draw pictures and do it themselves. I can't tell you how exciting it is when, instead of translating directly, someone walks up to the board and shows you that there is more than one way to understand. Or, when you feel like a schmuck because your game failed and suddenly, spontaneously, when you ask your students if they have any questions for you, they ask them. Not about grammar or difficulties with pronunciation, but about YOU. In English. Or, the fact that there is a 13 year old keeping up with a group of 15 and 17 year olds. Or, when your host mom gets really excited when you show someone up by speaking in Azerbaijani. Or, when your host sister determinedly tries to learn how to ride a bicycle even with her brother and father telling her she's going to fall.

It's becoming harder and harder to stop myself from jumping up in the air and screaming for joy...or not show on my face that I'm doing it on the inside.

Nothing is impossible.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

heç nə olmaz – nothing is impossible

Salyan - a rayon in south-eastern Azerbaijan

qonaq - guest

kölgəm – my shadow

There's basically a try-out sheet glued on one of the classroom doors in my school.

Yeah, this is going to be one of those backwards narratives that are so popular.

Once the word was out that the mysterious danışmağı klubu was beginning, a simple list of 15 people became longer, and longer, and longer...until there wasn't a list anymore.

Come on, if a teenage girl or her little brother came up to you—probably after mustering up the courage for several days to talk to the foreign teacher—with hope in their eyes and a pleading tone to boot, would you say no?

I didn't.

So, I decided to plan a secret test, or have them take a test without knowing it so they wouldn't worry or be nervous.

They found out about it by the end of the day. It was frustrating at the time, but, looking back, I can't help but be impressed.

So, I confessed about the test, but said nothing about what it was on, when it would be or what it was for. Don't get me wrong, I hope this enthusiasm sticks. Still, it wouldn't do anyone any good if people who weren't interested or ready for this kind of course came with ones that were.

There had to be two tests...mostly because, amazingly enough, there were even more people who hadn't known about the club or had asked to come—and also because I really wanted some people to pass so they could know they could.

I can't help but notice the quiet ones. Only a quiet one would know.

And, because, well, I'm a coward, and couldn't pass the judgment keçmissən or keçməmissən to their faces, I wrote their names on a piece of paper. The glue? Well, I forgot tape.

The club is going great. It's nice to have one thing at that school that I'm solely in charge of and it's wonderful to demonstrate to group of students that what they thought was hard is completely possible.

In the past two weeks, I've discussed inkışafı, dostluq, qrammatika, Ərəbcə, metəfisik, din, xarici dililər and ölkəm—all in a whole new language. Don't worry, I can't be too argumentative yet, I still speak too slowly for that. Today, I translated one of my favorite phrases, and it sums up the point of this whole extravaganza quite well:

Ölkəm yoxdur çunki hər ölkə mənim ölkəmdir.

And so, there's basically a try-out sheet glued on one of the classroom doors in my school.

P.S. I haven't showered in 5 days, and I smell great. No, really. Y'all should try it. California is in a drought you know...

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

danışmağı klubu – conversation club

keçmissən/ keçməmissən – you have passed/you have not passed

inkışafı - development

dostluq – friendship

qrammatika - grammar

Ərəbcə - Arabic

metəfisik - metaphysics

din - religion

xarici dililər – foreign languages

ölkəm – my country

Ölkəm yoxdur çunki hər ölkə mənim ölkəmdir. - I have no country because every country is my country.

Since it took forever for me to upload my last post...and a month has passed since I wrote it, I thought I could break my 'every two weeks' rule...just this once.

I spent Christmas in the north in a region called Şeki, a beautiful old city that I didn't take nearly enough pictures in. Mind you, I have plenty of pictures of the Christmas party and all the merry chaos that goes along with being far from home and in a place where you don't know it's Christmas until you see a garland or an evergreen tree covered in colored bulbs. A volunteer from our previous group housed us for two nights, and for that, Danielle will go down in history as the greatest hostess of my time here.

I'm open to others trying for the title though ; ).

What made the trip out worth it was not really the time spent bonding with the other volunteers or exchanging gifts or watching the Santa Claus in a theater...it was the fact that Sarah and I traveled to Şeki and back on our own two weeks in. It was complicated enough getting down here, and even then we had help. It is daunting to feel your independence disappear before you as you ask permission to leave, permission to go on your own, permission to travel alone...not because you are imprisoned, but because you are a stranger in a strange land.

Imagine, then, the supreme satisfaction of returning on a bus and instructing the bus driver to stop at your village, in a language not your own. Yeah, I was pretty happy with myself. I take the little triumphs. No, I can't get involved in all the debates yet, but 11 weeks ago I barely gurgled like a newborn. I proudly claim toddler status.

Yes, that means tantrums to boot. Growing teeth hurts.

I promised my host family I would spend New Year's with them, since 1) I wanted to, 2) that's an international holiday, 3) and no matter how much of a sawaha I am, I live and work here in Beyləqan. Besides, my host family is great. I spent much the 30th with my director and his family though and visited the local mosque where it is tradition to toss a scarf onto a chain and if the wind blows it across, your wish will come true. I couldn't toss the scarf right in the first place. The wind did blow it across though.

After getting a glimpse of my talented facial muscles from my pictures, my own family was were excited to try out their own expressions on my aparat. So, we stayed up on the 31st, made kebabs and exhibited them, posed, lit those fire stick thingys, watched people sing on TV, toasted, and tried to keep each other awake so we could toast the New Year in together. Success.

I then decided to go into the city to buy a modem from the only Alma Store in Azerbaijan and see who I could in Baku...since most of the volunteers had gone out there for New Years. It was nice reclaiming independence once again and going to a place where I knew what bus to take where I wanted to go. Met knew and old people, got lost in familiar and strange places, saw lots of Şaxta Babalar, rode the metro, had jasmine tea from a French press and paid way too much for it and had major flashbacks of life in Cairo. I missed that life terribly. Everywhere I went had a connection to something there: El Sawy, my old apartment, traffic crossings that don't exist, passing from shanty towns into modern skyscrapers within a block, even Pottery Cafe. There really is nothing like living abroad in a city on your own.

Wahashtni Qahira. وهشتني قاهره

Now, it's about returning to a different root, or challenging a different part of my ancient self. Or, even less poetically, living somewhere for someone else and allowing them to teach you too. Every morning, our turkeys and chickens run free in the garden and we all rustle about in much the same way, only with different noises. Soon after, my sister and I walk out to the road and hope for quru yol so our boots won't be too dirty...or so that we won't slip and become one with the mud. We pass the cows we drank milk from not minutes before and the two qatır that pose picturesquely on the side of the road every day, chewing their hay on our way to school. I find someplace, be it an empty hallway or a side mağaza change from my super boots into my müəllimə boots with a measure of dignity and clackity-clack to my classes.

My new world holds the old world smells of wood burnt in stoves, not air conditioners or heaters. Tractors and sheep pass me on the road more often then a car. My students all greet me with a measure of pride, curiosity and fear...since I am tall with the heels and all. Slowly I am finding my way in this world, finding my place in it, my community, my posse.

I recently came back from the other side of the village from lunch with Xuraman, one of the teachers I work with, an invitation I had been waiting for since I came here. Not that no-one invites me over anywhere, because everyone does. I was waiting for an invitation from a friend, who calls me her daughter, and now her teacher. A woman who essentially taught herself English and has been willing to help me even before I realize I need to ask for it...with whose help I have already organized the first meeting of a conversation club.

Barely starting my first year of two, on the unpaved road home with my sister and I skipping over slippery patches of mud...I know already how hard it will be for me to leave here as my place finally begins to form.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

aparat – camera

Alma Store – the Apple Store, literally

Şaxta Babalar – Frozen Grampas, Azerbaijan's Santa Claus

Wahashtni Qahira وهشتني قاهره – I miss you Cairo

quru yol – dry road

qatır – mule

mağaza – store

müəllimə – female teacher

In the span of a week, I took a last test, went through some final logistics, dressed up in an outfit I had managed not to wear, swore an oath on national Azerbaijani television, ran around the Baku avtovağzal trying to find people with my life in two suitcases and several random add-ons, and rode in a taxi with my rayon-mate Sarah, school director and some other guy to Beylaqan on a 7 hour ride that should have only been 4 hours.

Mind you, I've been waiting for all this to be done for two months. It's ironic how the waiting will stretch and stretch and once you get close, if you blink, you might get hit with a truck. I kept telling myself that once I got all my stuff down to my sight, everything would be wonderful, because stuff makes me nervous. No, not speaking another language. No, not living in a village. No, not finding my way to a place I've never been to with another American. No, not being the only one responsible for myself and the only one who's gonna get things moving for myself.

Nope, it was the STUFF. I really won't be happy until I can put all that I will ever need in a single backpack.

It's not that I think that stuff is particularly unimportant. I'm just more of an essentialist. What you need, you take. Still, stuff can be details as well. Like the finer points of seeing people you've managed to bond with from across the States off to different parts of the country. Or forms and paperwork. Or ideas about work and the future of which you can only guess. Or speaking for the sake of speaking, without a testing gauge. Or explaining that you don't know the finer details of your new life in Azerbaijan, because you don't know how to say finer details in Azerbaijani.

Stuff keeps me up at night, more because I wonder how seriously to take it more than taking it seriously.

It's fitting really, because there have been moments in my time here where I've asked myself-

Did that really happen? Or did I dream it?

These past two weeks have been one long lucid dream, and I stopped asking either question. It makes the legend ever greater. Plus, I can expound on the details more.

That's why Sarah and I decided it was better that we didn't have our cameras when we randomly found ourselves looking at camels and swans before having some tea on our way down to Beylaqan. Besides, we couldn't even manage to sleep because our taxi driver was so adept at avoiding pot holes that we were never driving completely straight for more than 2 minutes at a time. Plus, knowing that my requests have the magical power of making things appear magically at my house is enough to make my eyes do that shifty thing. Fruit comes from every corner and I never said I loved fruit...and I DO! Village life suits me, I rather like waiting for the sheep to cross the road, instead of cars.

Everyone is so hospitable and eager to get to know me, and the questions come so fast that I end up just looking confused all the time. I get invited down to have tea with all the teachers every day and they're already trying to set me up with a sevği. They even bring me stuff they baked for me at home, or buy sweets from the cafeteria or the shop across the road and make me sit down and eat, even if I have to get to class. Yet another set of people out to make me koppuş. In fact, they find it hilarious that I'm running around the school all the time to get to my next class, like I don't have any time...cuz I actually do have time.

Mind you, I've been running around in heels, because the only professional boots I have are heeled and they keep my legs warm—and all the teachers thought I was crazy for not wearing them. Yes, the unbelievable has come true, Myriam looks respectable...painfully, in a skirt and heels. I can even manage to walk in mud and not get them dirty.

I am confused/amazed at myself.

Darıxırıcısan? is even the most popular question, ironically.

The other day, I swear I saw a cylon dancing on TV...

P.S. Oh, and since I probably won't get a chance to post this before Big Bad Holiday Time, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone! I hope you didn't spend too much.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

avtovağzal – bus station

sevği - boyfriend/girlfriend

koppuş – pleasantly plump

Darıxırıcısan? - Are you bored?

Since learning where I'm going to be living for the next two years, I've heard a lot of different things.

Or, I've heard a lot of different adjectives:

İstidir!

Su yoxdur!

Çoxlu palçiq var!

Gözəl deyil!

Mind you, these are all from people who have never even been to Beylaqan...and I am the only one in my cluster not going north. Like Everyplace, the North always has something that the South does not.

But, just so you know, these were my responses to the above adjectives:

Mən isti hava sevirəm!

Mən su xoşlamıram!

Mən palçiq sevirəm!

Ümid edirəm!

See, and you were worried. Silly rabbit. I am excited more than anything else to actually see it for myself and meet the people that will be my students, neighbors and hopefully, my friends.

Yes, that was cheesy, but optimism is so much easier on the nerves. I have more than enough cynicism to go around anyway. It's the holiday season though, so I might get hit with a turkey leg or a Christmas wreath if I get too sarcastic these days.

Happy belated Thanksgiving by the way. I bet mine was tastier than yours, thanks to Mike and Jess. Good company and lots of laughing, maybe a Sacagawea hat or two...I even made a hand turkey.

Try not to be too shocked. I'm sure you'll be happy to know that I was yelled at for trying to shirk out of it.

This last week or so has been a whirlwind of madness, preparing for our last language test with late night tutoring sessions at night and language classes in the daytime. Add to that the preparations that go into finishing off PST, and you have a Myriam that looks much like a panicked, running, chicken. Of course, this panic was external.

Mostly.

Test was yesterday, last session for TEFL too, and now there isn't even a bit of panic. Today I have music and talent showcasing to look forward to. A few more days of logistics and as much bonding as we can cram in.

I do have to start packing again soon...here we go again.

Your Azerbaijani for the day:

İstidir! - It's hot

Su yoxdur! - There's no water!

Çoxlu palçiq var! - There is a lot of mud!

Gözəl deyil! - It's 'not' pretty!

Mən isti hava sevirəm! - I love hot weather!

Mən su xoşlamıram! - I don't like water!

Mən palçiq sevirəm! - I love mud!

Ümid edirəm! - I hope so!

For the past week or so since we TEFL's were told that we were going to learn our site assignments a week after everyone else, I've been in a daze of imaginative possibilities-especially since one of our own had to return to the States before we all found out. The scope of the normal human imagination is pretty impressive after you throw in spontaneous farewells into the mix. Those who've spent at least 5 minutes with me on the phone know that I can cover a LOT of theoretical grey matter in a week. The advantage in that is this: once you've analyzed and pondered every outcome possible, all you have left is acceptance. After a week of comparing wants and replaying what I asked for over and over again, I managed to forget entirely what I had been waiting to hear about. Good ol' Myriam. Advantage to this: lack of nervous twitching. So, when they called my name and handed me a pin to put in Beylaqan, I did not accidentally stick myself. Mind you, my own geography may be slightly better than yours after staring at a map of the Caucasus for the past year or so, but I still needed the help of my Project Managers to find where I'd be for the next 2 years. It's a village and wasn't on the map, so I turned to everyone excitedly and said: “They can't find it!” Village = YES I admit, I had become attached to the idea of going north since I had visited there and met some amazing people, but I came to Azerbaijan originally wanting to be south. Even one of my PCT comrades told me about a prophetic dream in which I was placed far north and her far south, and we became sad because of the distance between us. The only prophetic part was the distance, but the more we learn about our sites the more excited we become. Besides, the more of us that are spread out, the more couches I can sleep on while vagabonding. The plans for which have already begun. Score. I can't imagine how harrowing the process for selecting sites for people that you've spent a month or so getting to know in training is. I don't envy the stress at all. I do find comfort in the fact that my Project Managers find strength enough in me to go to a rayon that has never had a volunteer before and begin the process for change...for me and my community both. In fact, my own Manager is sending me to someone in that community, because she believes that I would be 'good for her soul'. That was quite a compliment for me, and left me speechless. I came here to work, be in the reality of this region, extend the advantages that I am arbitrarily given as an 'American' to people without them...and that is exactly what my lovely bosses gave me. Now, the possibilities of Belaqan begin... I will have a buddy out there, don't fret worry warts. I'm excited because Sarah's in YD (Youth Development) and I really look forward to all the projects we can work on together. I'll also have plenty of friends in Southern Azerbaijan to visit and collaborate with, maybe even be inspired to write that musical or two for those up north who may appreciate it. (That one's for you Lori...maybe you Meese, maybe) One of the current volunteers who's going to be one of my rayon neighbors has a theater club and has a performance of the Wizard of Oz soon. Excitement. Possibly inspiration. Possibly, don't make that giddy face, you. For the next two days we are meeting with representatives from our schools. I've even become the cluster hair cut specialist for good impressions. If my co-worker and I decide to record our adventurous partnership in Beylaqan in song or a novella that will soon become a classic, don't say I didn't warn you. ...wish you were here Mary. Your Azerbaijani for the day:rayon - 'region'

I find it best when you have a lot to do for a while, purposely not knowing what's going to happen the next day forces you to just do it. Well, it has worked splendidly. I had a Language Assessment (re: TEST), I have been co-teaching English classes with the teachers from our local school, the first day of that extravaganza was accompanied by a drastic change for July weather to hurricane, my Project Manager interviewed me about where I wanted to spend the next two years of my life in Azerbaijan, I had a Halfway Through Training Interview with our Training Coordinator, I wore skirts 5 days a week that's right naysayers, I did it. AND, I looked good doing it. Besides, I don't think I will ever love jeans more than those first few minutes right after I change into them after I've been sauntering all day in a skirt, especially when it's been restricted me from running home in the rain. I get a pretty goofy expression of happiness. Soon (not soon enough), I'll know where they'll send me, and not too long after that, there'll be my swearing in-which is quite the event here, televised and everything-and I can start that life I've been trying imagine for almost a year now, complete with old timey məktub writing. I'll get to those soon, complete with postcards from Baku. But, feel free to show me you love me (cuz you know you do) by sending me bits and bobs from Ameriland. I am the one in the foreign country you know. Overall, the past two weeks have only reaffirmed that knowing your limits is different from knowing your potential. Granted, I have learned languages before, I have taught classes before and I've had to convince people of my competence more than once in my life. We all have our experience and our confidence, but it makes it all that more worthwhile when you've proven to yourself that you can do it again. Well, proving really. Gotta pay attention to my tenses nowadays. Learning a new language + being expected to be a model English speaker = Azerenglish. Well, really Deutspañafrançarabaijani. Think that looks like a party, try living in my brain. It's true though, every language you learn helps you with the next one. This one is going to help me with Russian, Turkish AND Persian. Don't worry, even my interviewer for my language test reminded me to get on Italian. Never know, after this I could be working on an organic farm in Milan...AND be in grad school at the same time. MAKTUB. Your Arabic/Azerbaijani cognate for the day:مكتوب (maktub) - 'It is written'məktub - 'letter'

This past weekend, I saw what I hoped the future could bring, approximately. I've given up on prognostication. I never got paid for it anyway. Five of us headed up north on a 12 hour sleeping-car train to the rayon of Zaqatala. To try and begin to explain to you all it's glory and wonder, you should know that when I told Azerbaicandakɪ anam, she was way more excited about it than me. By the way, I had spent DAYS trying to make sure that I could tell her in a properly grammatical sentence in the future tense (which we technically haven't learned yet) and had it written down and rehearsed. I was too slow so she took my paper and read it. She said it was good though (SCORE). Anticlimactic, but good. So, yes, sleeper train. I slept for most of the ride and discussed the finer points of being a real Volunteer with a real Volunteer. But, when we finally jumped off the train- yes, that cliché image you have in your mind from movies is exactly right. Jealous? -I realized why anam was so excited. Zaqatala is green pastures and trees and farm land and lush beauty. I was staring at it like a lovesick puppy all weekend. That's right, I can only make that expression for nature. Booya. Our real Volunteer leader led us with confidence and wit to meet up with the other two Volunteers we would be staying with, including mine. We were greeted with the smell of French toast made by a coalition of Volunteers and a Baku therapist. We were quite happy, because it was very tasty. Shortly after, we were off to hike into the mountains of another village nearby, stopping every now and again to taste berries and nuts...and learn their names. Past gorgeously simple mosques and river beds and pathways covered in fall leaves and up steep climbs and stepping in streams where I should have stepped on rocks and going up and up...I basically fell behind. I fully admit my hiking skills and stamina are lacking. Plus, there were so many things to stare lovingly at. Remember, NATURE, not people. We aimed for a 15th century cemetery, but got halfway, ate an awesome packed lunch complete with apples, pears, and orange-chocolate cookies on a plateau overlooking Zaqatala. That compromise wasn't hard at all. After climbing back down, I was off with my Volunteer to her site, a village. Oh yes, there was DEFINITELY more staring. Especially when we reached her home, complete with cow, chickens, persimmon trees and a balcony/kitchen to die for. Mind you, she's a cooking genius, so I was living the life for the weekend. So, we have beauty, lots of walking, and fooding covered. What really made this weekend memorable was being able to see the Volunteer at work. Essentially, being a Peace Corps Volunteer means you are always working, whether you're in a classroom, greeting a neighbor, spending time and eating with friends, or picking persimmons from your front yard. I will be mentioning that last part during my Site Interview. Me wants a persimmon tree. Being able to observe how this all comes together without guesswork or situation allowances did wonders for my motivation. I never lost any of it, but training is a tiring process. I am enjoying living here, greatly. After seeing what I have to look forward to and that what I want to do is entirely possible, I am ecstatic. I have a language test in about a week, and I'm not the least bit scared. This isn't about grades or levels, but being in the process. I want to discuss philosophy and the price of nar without a second thought, and I'll be in this process, continuing to learn all the time that I spend here. I made a joke to anam today at lunch after she asked me if I was going back to school: “Mən həmiʂə məktəbə gedirəm” It's true. Funny, but true. Your Azerbaijani for the day:rayon - regionAzerbaicandakɪ anam – my Azerbaijani mommanar - pomegranate“Mən həmiʂə məktəbə gedirəm” - I'm always going to school

(So...I wrote this AWHILE ago...excuse me for not caring about if you know if I'm alive or not) Every now and then, I'll be walking to school or back to my host family's home and I'll look up at some tree, some AraRussaijani graffiti, some familiar school children yelling or whispering 'hallo'...and I'll remember that I'm somewhere else. Granted, that means there is a point of origin from which I have left and anyone who knows me even a little knows that origins are a bit more relative. Not the biology of course. That's pretty clear cut. It's been almost two weeks that I've been here, living in the outskirts of Sumqayit, Azerbaijain. I have to make myself remember that sometimes. I've been trying to learn a foreign language, live in a foreign land, be adopted into aNOTHER family, and train for most likely the most difficult job I will ever have. Sounds exhausting, and some days it is, but I don't feel the pressure. Alright, maybe a little. In all honesty though, I left the States without one concern about living in a country that I had never been to before. When I got here, it only took one muezzin and reminders that I have a bird's stomach and I was in everyplace again. No matter where you go, you aren't far from humanity. By the way, pouring hot tea into a saucer to cool it is GENIUS. I'll show y'all when I get back. I think I was grinning like an idiot for at least 15 minutes when my host mom first showed me how to do it. My host family is wonderful and completely tolerant of my wandering ways. In fact, you should read that they expected me to be independent and find my own way around. Not that they don't help me out and feed me until they make me huge no, seriously, that is a goal and correct my Azerbaijani googoo and play bu nədir with me...because they do. They make me study better by example and they've helped my comprehension so much, mostly because there is never any English spoken here except when I look like an idiot and do something ridiculously American. I have 5 other trainees within walking distance and we do language training with our beloved teacher every morning at a local school. On top of sarcasm and sass (which we have in heaps and increases daily, exponentially), we are trying to take our training one step at a time. Except, of course, the competition...which I try to stay out of. Y'all know how me and competition get along (re: not well). This time around, I think I've got the language game beat. It'll come with time and even if sometimes I don't notice progress, it is inevitable. It helps not to feel like I have to learn because of some biological imperative. I have to say, there are SO many Arabic cognates...I have a little dance every time I discover a new one. Arabic is definitely more of a bestie these days. I'll take a Roman alphabet over a completely different script any day. By the way Rano, if you ever end up reading this, you'll be happy to know that karma has come back to me for every time I called you 7omar (even though that is your name). We were over at a trainee's house to spend some time with a current volunteer who came out to school us in the ways of the Volunteer, when I was unable to unzip one sandal. You see, here civilized people wear slippers indoors, not shoes and sandals, or even one sandal. These particular sandals, the only comfortable shoes I could wear to training every day at the time, required me to construct a do-hickey composed of a paper clip and a hair tie to pull up the zipper for one. Without this particular device, I stood outside for 15 minutes with one sandal trying to figure out how to get it off. People passed. I got looks. A nənə asked me if I knew how to take off my own shoes. Obviously not. Pencils were disassembled to use the spring. Nope. General pulling and grunting. Nope. Staring at it. Nope. Until, after looking at my sandal for 1 second-count em, 1 second-our hostess looks at the buckles ON THE SIDE and unbuckles my sandal. I am now being called qoyun. Let's hope I can bring you more such episodes after I get back from my site visit (visiting an actual volunteer at his/her actual site). I promise not to go hiking in the mountains. Not...cause I'm going north anyway ; ) Your Azerbaijani for the day:bu nədir – 'what is this called'nənə – 'grandma'qoyun – 'donkey' i.e. stupid, heh

You know what's the best thing to do to get a random group of Americans to bond? Layovers and sleep deprivation. A recipe for best friends like any other I've seen.

I use hyperbole, of course, since we're still in the beginning of this mad-dash-to-adapt-before-intensive-training-and-stationing-in-someplace-that-may-or-may-not-make-you-look-like-you're-an-humanitarian. So, besties is too early to call. And, we're not really in junior high anymore, so we'll avoid that terminology altogether.

I will make an exception for the sassy Mr. Jones who checked me in at JFK. I thought I was fantastic for having only one bag to check-in and two carry-ons. To this, Mr. Jones simply replied, and I quote

"No way." I could try to describe the smirk, but it was really beyond words. He may have been slightly disappointed that I was already expecting that, simply shrugging, "Okay." After all, I feel like he thought he totally busted me.

Afterwards, now having to take two bags over to be zapped with X-rays, I spent some wonderful waddling time falling over with my duffel (who is now affectionately termed "Camel" and beloved by most of my fellow trainees). Since this task was so, shall we say, engrossing, I forgot completely that I had left not only my tickets for the flights to get me to Baku, but also my fancy shmancy government issued passport.

Yeah, it's beautiful.

After giving up after awhile and dragging both bags over, I walked, carefree and jolly to the rest of my checked in comrades, knowing nothing about the neglected shiny passport and tickets sitting on an airport counter, the equivalent of a city street corner. So, enter Mr. Jones, for the second time. With a flourish, he compares my passport photo to the puffin on my pillow and exclaims, "That's not you, is it?"

Mind you, I had no idea he was next to me until he said that. The shame/shock was times two.

Yes, that man is my new best friend. Points for sass and style. And...for saving my butt.

As I was saying, bonding. Our first flight into Frankfurt was long, and arriving at 5 am Deutsch time and having to do security checks intelligently is pretty much asking for giggles. A line of 60 or so people with PLENTY of bags and little to no sleep convinced Melissa there was a difference between "human beings" and "Peace Corp Trainees". We didn't know how to take that at 5am.

We were in several states of bonding and sleeping awkwardly on slight seat cushions in our supposed terminal hours before boarding, before being kicked out of our makeshift home by Frankfurt airport staff. We listlessly wandered for a bit and sat on floors before returning to be loaded on buses to be loaded on another plane. Oh yeah, a sense of humor makes life wonderful.

On this last flight, most of us were blacking out, rather than taking short naps and were there in no time (4 hours). We were greeted to cheers every time the sliding doors opened to the city of Baku, complete with signs.

Another mass of luggage loading, another bus ride, bags complete with sandwichesapplewaterSNICKERSbar and we were in Sumqayit. Or we are, I should say. Mass of luggage unloading into the last set of fancy rooms and we ALL tried to send word home that we were alive, hence slow internet. But, internet nonetheless and I'm sure I'll be able to laugh about being impatient with it being slow rather than not existing in a few months time.

The real orientation begins in another 20 minutes or so, complete with shots (oh ya, love them needles).

Your Azerbaijani phrase for the day:

Sabahin(Iz) kheyir - Good morning

Those are pretty much the words I use to describe 'how-I-feel-about-leaving-the-country-AGAIN-with-my-life-in-two-bags-or-less-to-learn-ANOTHER-language-and-try-to-be-a-better-human-being-while-still-being-aware-that-I'm-an-oil-pawn'. I know I know, I always say not to trust in things you don't have doubts about

and I have doubts about EVERYTHING and I trust pretty much NOTHING.

But, there comes a point in every paranoid cynic's life where one either decides to whine ad nauseam or stuff it and do something. So, I'm doing something, with the primary intent to learn a great deal once again. I can't expect to do anything right or create any sort of dialogue if I do not intend to listen as well as speak.

Here's hoping that I get the packing right this time. Can't keep shaming my future bedouin brethren.

Oh, and to get us all in the spirit of things and distracted from the fact that I refer to my Frontal Lobe as a separate entity (oh you like it), we shall resume language lessons.

Your Azeri/Azerbaijani for the day:

Sag ol(un) - Bye/Thanks

And now, the long awaited sequel to Pirate Tales...

(insert very loud music here)



For the past year or so, I've gotten used to the busy signal or the outdated, static-y pop music associated with being on hold with my own Frontal Lobe.

Mostly, it's creepy that part of my brain likes that crappy music enough to choose it, or that I am that masochistic.

Anyway, suffice to say, FL's been hiding out since we last spoke. I was hoping FL was spending that time conjuring up an idea that would get us all out of limbo instead of simply ignoring me. People will tell you it's annoying when you're the one person in a room that no one wants to talk to.

Imagine pulling that on yourself.

I suspect this is what happened to Freud.

Back on topic: after a while, I decided to give FL the same treatment and go on with life as usual, squealing over books and everything. Now and then, I'd test a plan before quickly discarding it into the metaphorical corner where I keep all my crumpled ideas, following movie standards of an empty trash bin surrounded by paper. I use it mostly so I can go back and dig through them to laugh at the time I thought mermaids were cool, and yes, to be cool and shit. On one of my journeys through crumpled paper I found an idea I had thrown out years ago.

Something called the Peace Corps.

I stopped for a moment to try and remember when I used to consider this an option and remembered I had thrown it out for incompatibility with Le Grande Escape Plan.

"Do it."

I remember turning my head to look behind me, just in case it wasn't the mutineer.

"Dooooo it."

"You put me on hold then act like divine intervention after I do all the work by looking through the trash?" I ask this annoyed, as usual. FL likes these games. Or, I should say, taking credit for jumping in at the 'right moment'. Mind you there are a bazillion moments where the damn little bastard wasn't participating.

"Do it do it do it do it do-"

"Alright alright already! I'll do it you 5 year old." If FL had a face, it would've looked like that kid in kindergarten did after the teacher believed you hit him first.

Mind you, FL refused to comment for the next few months of mind numbing paperwork and never ending return visits to the doctor because someone refused to tell me I missed a signaure or a lab or a staple or a love note from my doctor. FL left me on hold, and with Hanson to accompany me.

That swarthy fiend.

Anyway, true to form, FL shows up this week following the arrival of an invitation. Or, I should say, the invitation.

"Told you so."

My fists clenched the invitation letter. "I hate that I can't hit you."

"I know. I live up here remember? I know eeeeeeverything." I stick by my earlier assessment. FL is that smug five year old from kindergarten, the one that will probably end up being the co-worker that never works, but never gets fired.

"Great, so I'll let you use eeeeeeverything to handle all the heavy lifting in Azerbaijan for two years."

FL's face would also be exceptionally good at pouting.

Personally, I think it's fairly obvious that science fiction is the only way humanity has to laugh at random chaos...

A.K.A. existence.

Admittedly, I'm a nerd so I'm a little biased. Frakkin' cylons, trepanation and detectives with DID aren't things that generally make people squeal with delight. Believe me, nerds understand this very well, which is why most of us are pretentious little monkeys pretending to hoard a lot of bananas.

But, in the interest of world peace (instead of Hallmark Palooza the 14th), I feel there is one very important banana that all monkeys and humans should know of. Allow me to introduce some and remind others of the overly used and beaten sci-fi plot bunny: parallel universes. When you've put your little universe of characters through every sort of maddening apocalypse that you and your army of ideas written while stoned can think of, you can always make them go through it all again, only in a slightly different universe, as even slightly different people. All this from one of 3,000 theories of time and space, that for every new direction an individuals' life takes, there is another plane of existence for every possible outcome...just slightly out of phase.

Naturally, it's always ridiculously hard to get to these out phase phases of reality. There's always some nearly impossible obstacle separating our young - and surprisingly good-looking - heroes from the other possible worlds.

Now we're getting to the best part of the banana: all that separates the world you see through your eyes and the world where you actually ate that jelly baby is some minute difference in frequency, in phase.

Now my fellow monkey-humans, I want you to remember all those times where you've seen the world move around you and felt outside of it, out of phase. Don't panic, I'm not a quantum physicist so I have no authority to even suggest that you've been entering and exiting parallel universes...but please do allow me the poetic license.

The New is Alien and Different by definition, which is why we may separate ourselves from them. New Alien Different could be harmful and that jelly baby may not have had proper FDA sanctions. So we ignore it, pass it by, yell at it, throw rocks at it, put economic sanctions on it, veto it, cut negotiations with it, freedom-fries it, ethnically cleanse it, persecute it, quarantine it, or even change the channel on it.

But remember, all that separates you from all possible worlds is a fraction of a wavelength.

Theoretically.

Full Disclaimer: This entry is written without the inspiration of fantastical wanderings in distant countries...in the physical realm anyway.

(I know, just blew your mind)

It's true, my wanderings are a bit more restricted these days...and there's always my eternal travel partner, the Frontal Lobe. And these days, that partner is trying to catch me up with the rest of my brain, my liason to rational thinking if you will.

So, when we're not scallywag-ing in Never Ever Land, I hear the following refrain:

"What the hell happened to you?"

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a complaint. It sounds kind-of excited and bubbly like. It creeps me out sometimes.

Anyway, FL continues:

"How is it that you suddenly decide to no longer want all the things you've dreamed of since you were conscious?"

It's funny how I can always manage to confuse MYSELF. I mean, FL was THERE when I changed my mind. In fact, I think FL is mostly to blame.

I'm starting to think FL is mocking me. Bastardo.

"I know," I reply, "weird, huh?"

FL chuckles in a suspiciously sardonic manner:

"Now if I can only manage to convince you to make the best of limbo."

I squint angrily, just to make FL uncomfortable in that tiny space above my forehead:

"Well, since you're the boss, why don't you convince the Illuminati up there to hatch a proper alchemy formula, buy a boat and scallywag for real!"

I've been on hold ever since. Damn bureaucracy.

How can we measure our lives?

Numbers?

Scars?

Shots?

Kills?

...what counts, is what is real seen and unreal unseen?

That's the trick, I measure by what I see, how you measure me.

There is no universal pain, they are ranked, weighted, just as you and I are.

How do you measure my life?

Is it my blood?

my sweat

my face

my mind

my body

...and whether or not you can see it

Or is it that I can afford to be bored and you cannot?

That I can hide behind a blue passport

That I can claim

something, anything that has

weight

How do we measure our lives?

(scroll to bottom for audience participation) …be in Dublin on Bloomsday, June 16 …carry your Ma up Macchu Piccu …go to Paris and do not kiss Oscar Wilde’s grave …see a solar eclipse …trip over tree roots in Angkor Wat …catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama’s bald head …have at least one diplomat friend that does not make you hate the world …have many lawyer friends for free legal council …replace ‘lawyer’ above with ‘doctor’ …make everyone call you ‘Dr.’ even if you never get a PhD …pretend you’re lying to Alexander the Great about his daddy in Siwa …publicly defame a famous scholar (who’s alive at the time, coward) in an article …marry yourself …publish some sort of tomfoolery …actually become fluent in Arabic and Italian …be reading while dying…or at least funny …pretend to be a ronin in Kyoto …have a dream where Charlie Parker is a prophet …work on a boat …really yell ‘Boris!’ in Moscow, Petersburg and where-ever else in Russia to determine the number of Borises …do something useful so as not to feel like a schmuck on your deathbed …die in a ridiculous way, and legally enforce cremation …bathe in the Ganges and sit under a Bodhi fig tree

…pretend to be a Skywalker in Tunisia …make Berbers ashamed of you with belly dancing in Morocco or Algeria …prove Harry wrong and have an army of guy friends …return to your roots on the African continent …test the value of the Cypress tree in Lebanon …contemplate life from a gourd in China …use a machete in the jungle …reconnect with your ‘twin’ Francesca in St. Eufemia …corrupt your cousins’ and brother’s female children with feminism, thereby become referred to in conversation as ‘My crazy aunt Mimi’ …interrogate and intimidate every male suitor of friends …follow through on death threats …get excommunicated from something, preferrably the United States …befriend some Masons, just in case …figure out why all the actors from Australia are so damn attractive …visit Draculia in Romania …wear clogs in the Netherlands…and maybe accidentaly get high from inhaling the fumes, which may or may not have caused you to wear the clogs in the first place …see if its possible to cash in on those Saudi royals that your parents presumably befriended …test the backwardness of the names Greenland and Iceland through visual evidence …use the word ‘swarthy’ in a stuffy academic setting …join a Bedouin tribe …if above doesn’t work—despite your charming personality--start your own …call yourself ‘Dagmar’ in one of those cold northern European countries …pay homage to Freddie in Zanzibar …pick a cluster of islands (Hawaii doesn’t count) and philander …yell profanities in a cockney accent in Oxford …make sure to make friends that have hospitality all across the globe …discuss your views on the female’s ability to love with Aristotle and Plato at the Parthenon …tell a Turk that you don’t hate them, despite being both Egyptian and Italian …strive to be graced with the nickname ‘Lucifer’, or ‘Lucy’ for short …brush up on your MacGuyverisms for future emergencies Suggestions? What are your Commandments?