World's largest archive of Peace Corps stories. http://peacecorpsjournals.com Fri, 10 Feb 2012 06:01:46 PeaceCorpsJournals.com http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/pearly-whites/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11410">all of the bells</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-09 20:13:33 </div> <div> I read this article today at www.theatlantic.com: What Do We Know About Fluoride? Basically, some U.S. communities have decided to stop putting fluoride in their water supply. Interesting. Now, anecdotes are not data. But I am going to share one with &#8230; <a href="http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/pearly-whites/">Continue reading <span>&#8594;</span></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=allofthebells.wordpress.com&amp;blog=19580611&amp;post=606&amp;subd=allofthebells&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://tomspeacecorps.blogspot.com/2012/02/first-post-of-new-year.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7510">The Lyon Tales</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-09 18:43:00 </div> <div> <br /><div>It’s been a long time since I’ve updated my blog. Funny tothink the last time I updated was last year. I have been meaning to write ablog post for a long time, and I’ve had the time to do it, but I just haven’tfelt the need to update. Nonetheless, I do understand my blog isn’t the mostentertaining thing to read, but I think I should let people know what I’mdoing. I owe everyone, especially considering all the help I’ve received frompeople for my fitness club.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>I should let everyone know that I got all $1800 fundedthrough Wide Awake. So, THANK YOU! In fact, I had only planned on $1000, andthe extra $800 was a real surprise and will help us achieve our goals. The townis fixing the room right now, and they stripped away all the paint and put innew electrical sockets in three new places (I was only hoping for one, but theysurprised me). Now they are patching the holes and getting ready to prime andpaint. I went to the sports store in Tbilisi and found almost everything wewanted to buy. I decided to trade out some pieces of equipment in order to gethigher quality. For example, I don’t see many people using a bench press, and Iam worried about kids being in there, therefore I probably going to try and gettwo treadmills, or something along those lines. Nonetheless, I’m certain thatwithin one month we’ll have our equipment in the room. At that point it’s allabout getting everything translated on the machines and then making my healthylifestyle/fitness lessons. I’m hoping for PCV assistance and presentations inthat phase. Still, I’m very excited.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve also been going to school here a lot more sinceuniversity is on break. It actually got me thinking about how much I miss teachingkids instead of adults. I love being in the classroom, and although I don’tnormally enjoy teaching English (I prefer History), I really like planninglessons that let me students hit the “Ohhhhh” moment. That “Ohhhh” moment israrely reached in History class (it’s not that kind of learning), and it’s niceto be there. Unfortunately, my first day back a student asks my counterpart“With Tom here again, are we going to play games again?” I don’t think thatcomment made me counterpart very happy, and it doesn’t make me happy either. Idon’t want students or teachers thinking that’s what I’m about, because I’mnot.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the winter is upon us. This winter is definitelyworse than last year. There is more snow and it’s considerably colder. I mean,not as cold as it is in Ukraine or Czech Republic, but still cold. Last week Iwas at a conference in a town near Tbilisi. I was asked to lead a session onteaching multi-level classrooms to G-11s and their counterparts. I was therefor a few days, but on the way back our bus kept getting stuck and we got intoTbilisi much later than we were supposed to. Back to the conference, I washappy with my session, and many counterparts and Volunteers came to tell methat they enjoyed it. Better yet several counterparts told me they were goingto use some of my ideas in class. That’s something every instructor likes tohear.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>I am somewhat surprised that my last post seemed to makepeople think I wasn’t returning to Georgia. A bunch of people who read my postfrom when I was in the USA thought I wasn’t coming back. I’m sorry that itcreated any frustration, but I hadn’t seen my home in 18 months and I was justhappy to be home. So kill me. Firstly, I’m doing some great things here, and I’mactually hitting my groove as a Volunteer, and I’d be stupid to leave. I wouldbe especially stupid if I decided to leave, especially with only 5-6 monthsleft in my service. It’ll be an exciting, fun, and busy rest of winter and spring.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>I’m also aware that a large number of G12s have received theirinvitations to serve in Georgia. I’m hoping that while they look through postsfrom me and other Volunteers that they understand there are good and bad timesto be had in Georgia—just as in the USA. Also know that when you receive yourinvitations we are in the middle of winter, and few of us can always bepositive. It’s not that Georgia is a bad post; of course there are good things andbad. I generally keep my frustrations to a minimum on my blog and focus themmore in my personal journal. One of my friends suggested I write entries when I’mupset, but only post them after I leave Peace Corps. That way I would be ableto write something and post everything when I’m no longer a Volunteer. Thenpeople can read the positive and negative posts together and get a moreaccurate view of my experience in Georgia. I think instead I’ll write a fewposts at the end of service and describe my negative and positive experiencestogether. I guess we’ll see when the time comes.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>I’m looking over everything I’ve written now (not editing,because even with grammar mistakes, I want to keep my writing honest andwithout rethinking anything) and I think this is prime time to end my entry. I’vealso heard some funny comments that I end my posts abruptly Therefore, here itgoes.<o:p></o:p></div><div><br /></div><div>THE END!&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4932534857004369527-5337410910616430422?l=tomspeacecorps.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/fellowship-of-russophiles.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-09 12:42:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> </div><div><span>I sat down before the panel. Therewere eight people seated in chairs around me. I felt as though Iwere on trial for something I had done and this were the council ofpeople judging me. As it was, these were the council of peoplejudging me, only I hadn't done anything wrong. I had come here bytheir invitation, flying from Kiev to New York City by a shortnotice. The people I had met the night before, at the dinner wherewe mingled with each other, were no less interesting than me. Therewere other returned Peace Corps volunteers, a guy who had worked atembassies across the world, another guy who had been withinternational charities and companies. I was among equals my age,and in some terms, among my betters. When asked what they were doingfor now, they all had stories of getting doctorates or helpingcharities seize millions of dollars in aid. I had only stories ofbackpacking across Europe, playing accordion in bars in Germany andUkraine and dreams of writing books. That was my life for the pasthalf year and I had loved living it, but, in my opinion, it didn'tmake for that marketable of a recent past. <br /><br />I was thinkingabout this as I swirled the glass of water around in front of me andthen took a gulp, wetting my parched throat. I was also thinking ofwhat I was wearing. As I've explained, I wasn't wearing a suit,since I didn't have one where I was in Ukraine and I wasn't about tobuy one unless I knew I'd get the job. That left me with wearing adress shirt, a vest and slacks. I was conscious of this, seeing howeveryone else, man and woman alike, were wearing suits at theinformal interview the night before. But certianly, I thought,they'd look at my substance and not just my dress. They knew mystory, they knew I had been on the road for many a month. <br /><br />Theyasked me questions about my future. I related honestly, which meantthat I didn't cater my answers to the Fellowship's mission as Ishould have. “What do you want to do in the future?” one personasked me. <br /><br />“I want to be a writer and I want to work with acompany that does work between the United States and Russia,” Itold them. <br /><br />“Which do you want to do?” another personasked, from another direction.<br /><br />“That's what I want to do,both,” I replied. “I've always loved Russian culture and I'vealways felt a connection to it and want to keep that connectionalive. I even plan on writing books on the Russian perspective ofWorld War II, stories from Leningrad and Georgia.”<br /><br />“Areyou really an MBA? I mean, I know you are on paper.” <br /><br />“Whatattracted me to studying business, and focusing on economics, was theinterrelation of people,” I said, looking from interviewer tointerviewer. “What drives a people, what drives history. It's yetvery connected with my historical studies, in that history was whatwas moving people and leads into what is today, while studyingbusiness and economics explains to an extent, what they are doingnow. It's that story, and those explanations and motives lyingunderneath, that interest me. If you mean, by asking if I'm an MBA,my sole desire is to make a lot of money or to buy and sellbusinesses, maybe I'm not such a cookie cutter design, but I do haveinterests in business.”<br /><br />“What do you think you bring tothe table of the Fellowship program?” a man asked on my right. Headjusted his glasses as he looked at me. “What would you add to itif you were selected?”<br /><br />I was caught on a question. I had tothink about this one and I knew I had to “I'm a writer and amusician, so there's that. And I'm always willing to help outwhere's needed. You know, I like helping out an all.” <br /><br />“Well,we've never had a musician,” a guy on my left said. He was arepresentative from the actual bank itself. “It is good. Do youhave any other aspirations for Russia than being able to readDostoevsky?” I had mentioned my dream of reading Dostoevsky in theoriginal Russian before. <br /><br />“Yes, of course. I've got areally close friend who lives in Moscow,” I answered, at oncerealizing that wasn't what he meant. “And a love for Russianculture. I've always wanted to work in a company relating betweenRussia and Georgia.” I felt as though I was becoming redundant,though I couldn't tell if it was just that the questions wereredundant or I was. And if the questions were redundant, it meantthey were giving me another chance to make a different statement,which I was failing in doing. I decided to do the only thing Icould, I took another sip of my water and let the onslaught continue. I went into Space Invaders mode and just managed to blast each ofthe speeding aliens as they back and forth-ed on down to planetFacetious. <br /><br />Finally, Gary, the guy with the job I wanted ofworking as a consultant to some third world country and handledthings like throwing parties and paying for them with millions ofdollars in cash, asked a question on Georgia. “Do you think thethaw in Georgian and Russian relations are legitimate and is felt bythe people there?” followed by another, “Do you think Georgiawill play in US and Western interests in the future?” <br /><br />“Theanswer to that is complicated,” I said, answering the firstquestion. After that, when he asked the second question, I went on alengthy explanation. This had been my focus of study for two years –that is to say, outside of figuring out how to teach English andmanage a computer lab. <br /><br />When the interview was about over,Gary interrupted the questioning. “I just want to say this,whether you get the Fellowship or not, you have an intimateunderstanding of Georgia and a clear gift for analysis, especially inregards to Georgian, Russian and American relations. Whatever you doin the future, remember that, especially if you're right in Georgiaplaying a continued role in US and European interests. You have agift for understanding these complex relationships and you can usethat doing something in the future.” The statement was a mixedblessing, hearing it. On the one hand, it meant that perhaps Garywas going to support my bid for the Fellowship, but on the otherhand, perhaps he thought me better suited to be back working in theCaucasus. I couldn't tell from his statement to me.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HltX0Oivc94/TzO927l8pFI/AAAAAAAAJDk/CKOJV_i2Dog/s1600/P1020227.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HltX0Oivc94/TzO927l8pFI/AAAAAAAAJDk/CKOJV_i2Dog/s400/P1020227.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Somewhere near the hotel</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><span>When Ileft the interview hall, I went walking through New York City for abit, to let my mind wander. I have a habit of that, going on longwalks and just releasing my mind into wherever it may go, like a formof meditation. Then when I wake up, head cleared, I'm often insomewhere completely different and have to take a moment to figureout just where I had wandered to. It can be somewhat problematicwhen I'm in areas of high traffic, but usually I'm able to snap outof my trance when it matters the most. No longer holding a hugeconcern for whether I got the Fellowship or not, I let go of thedesire, became at ease again and went back to the hotel. I sat downin the lounge room so I could take the exam for the language. ThereI sat down, took a short written test and talked with the languagetester. She mostly just asked general questions in Russian about mylife in Kiev, which I answered with relative ease. Then I was off tothe airport, finding a shuttle from Grand Central Station to Laguardia for 12 dollars, it was time to head to Denver to see my family andfriends. <br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oz6ZkYdY4W4/TzO-kbwJS2I/AAAAAAAAJDs/10DvhQPf5hQ/s1600/P1020216.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oz6ZkYdY4W4/TzO-kbwJS2I/AAAAAAAAJDs/10DvhQPf5hQ/s400/P1020216.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>The lower end of Upper Eastside Manhattan</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-2350685250959944356?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/fellowship-of-russophiles.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-09 12:42:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> </div><div><span>I sat down before the panel. Therewere eight people seated in chairs around me. I felt as though Iwere on trial for something I had done and this were the council ofpeople judging me. As it was, these were the council of peoplejudging me, only I hadn't done anything wrong. I had come here bytheir invitation, flying from Kiev to New York City by a shortnotice. The people I had met the night before, at the dinner wherewe mingled with each other, were no less interesting than me. Therewere other returned Peace Corps volunteers, a guy who had worked atembassies across the world, another guy who had been withinternational charities and companies. I was among equals my age,and in some terms, among my betters. When asked what they were doingfor now, they all had stories of getting doctorates or helpingcharities seize millions of dollars in aid. I had only stories ofbackpacking across Europe, playing accordion in bars in Germany andUkraine and dreams of writing books. That was my life for the pasthalf year and I had loved living it, but, in my opinion, it didn'tmake for that marketable of a recent past. <br /><br />I was thinkingabout this as I swirled the glass of water around in front of me andthen took a gulp, wetting my parched throat. I was also thinking ofwhat I was wearing. As I've explained, I wasn't wearing a suit,since I didn't have one where I was in Ukraine and I wasn't about tobuy one unless I knew I'd get the job. That left me with wearing adress shirt, a vest and slacks. I was conscious of this, seeing howeveryone else, man and woman alike, were wearing suits at theinformal interview the night before. But certianly, I thought,they'd look at my substance and not just my dress. They knew mystory, they knew I had been on the road for many a month. <br /><br />Theyasked me questions about my future. I related honestly, which meantthat I didn't cater my answers to the Fellowship's mission as Ishould have. “What do you want to do in the future?” one personasked me. <br /><br />“I want to be a writer and I want to work with acompany that does work between the United States and Russia,” Itold them. <br /><br />“Which do you want to do?” another personasked, from another direction.<br /><br />“That's what I want to do,both,” I replied. “I've always loved Russian culture and I'vealways felt a connection to it and want to keep that connectionalive. I even plan on writing books on the Russian perspective ofWorld War II, stories from Leningrad and Georgia.”<br /><br />“Areyou really an MBA? I mean, I know you are on paper.” <br /><br />“Whatattracted me to studying business, and focusing on economics, was theinterrelation of people,” I said, looking from interviewer tointerviewer. “What drives a people, what drives history. It's yetvery connected with my historical studies, in that history was whatwas moving people and leads into what is today, while studyingbusiness and economics explains to an extent, what they are doingnow. It's that story, and those explanations and motives lyingunderneath, that interest me. If you mean, by asking if I'm an MBA,my sole desire is to make a lot of money or to buy and sellbusinesses, maybe I'm not such a cookie cutter design, but I do haveinterests in business.”<br /><br />“What do you think you bring tothe table of the Fellowship program?” a man asked on my right. Headjusted his glasses as he looked at me. “What would you add to itif you were selected?”<br /><br />I was caught on a question. I had tothink about this one and I knew I had to “I'm a writer and amusician, so there's that. And I'm always willing to help outwhere's needed. You know, I like helping out an all.” <br /><br />“Well,we've never had a musician,” a guy on my left said. He was arepresentative from the actual bank itself. “It is good. Do youhave any other aspirations for Russia than being able to readDostoevsky?” I had mentioned my dream of reading Dostoevsky in theoriginal Russian before. <br /><br />“Yes, of course. I've got areally close friend who lives in Moscow,” I answered, at oncerealizing that wasn't what he meant. “And a love for Russianculture. I've always wanted to work in a company relating betweenRussia and Georgia.” I felt as though I was becoming redundant,though I couldn't tell if it was just that the questions wereredundant or I was. And if the questions were redundant, it meantthey were giving me another chance to make a different statement,which I was failing in doing. I decided to do the only thing Icould, I took another sip of my water and let the onslaught continue. I went into Space Invaders mode and just managed to blast each ofthe speeding aliens as they back and forth-ed on down to planetFacetious. <br /><br />Finally, Gary, the guy with the job I wanted ofworking as a consultant to some third world country and handledthings like throwing parties and paying for them with millions ofdollars in cash, asked a question on Georgia. “Do you think thethaw in Georgian and Russian relations are legitimate and is felt bythe people there?” followed by another, “Do you think Georgiawill play in US and Western interests in the future?” <br /><br />“Theanswer to that is complicated,” I said, answering the firstquestion. After that, when he asked the second question, I went on alengthy explanation. This had been my focus of study for two years –that is to say, outside of figuring out how to teach English andmanage a computer lab. <br /><br />When the interview was about over,Gary interrupted the questioning. “I just want to say this,whether you get the Fellowship or not, you have an intimateunderstanding of Georgia and a clear gift for analysis, especially inregards to Georgian, Russian and American relations. Whatever you doin the future, remember that, especially if you're right in Georgiaplaying a continued role in US and European interests. You have agift for understanding these complex relationships and you can usethat doing something in the future.” The statement was a mixedblessing, hearing it. On the one hand, it meant that perhaps Garywas going to support my bid for the Fellowship, but on the otherhand, perhaps he thought me better suited to be back working in theCaucasus. I couldn't tell from his statement to me.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HltX0Oivc94/TzO927l8pFI/AAAAAAAAJDk/CKOJV_i2Dog/s1600/P1020227.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HltX0Oivc94/TzO927l8pFI/AAAAAAAAJDk/CKOJV_i2Dog/s400/P1020227.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Somewhere near the hotel</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><span>When Ileft the interview hall, I went walking through New York City for abit, to let my mind wander. I have a habit of that, going on longwalks and just releasing my mind into wherever it may go, like a formof meditation. Then when I wake up, head cleared, I'm often insomewhere completely different and have to take a moment to figureout just where I had wandered to. It can be somewhat problematicwhen I'm in areas of high traffic, but usually I'm able to snap outof my trance when it matters the most. No longer holding a hugeconcern for whether I got the Fellowship or not, I let go of thedesire, became at ease again and went back to the hotel. I sat downin the lounge room so I could take the exam for the language. ThereI sat down, took a short written test and talked with the languagetester. She mostly just asked general questions in Russian about mylife in Kiev, which I answered with relative ease. Then I was off tothe airport, finding a shuttle from Grand Central Station to Laguardia for 12 dollars, it was time to head to Denver to see my family andfriends. <br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oz6ZkYdY4W4/TzO-kbwJS2I/AAAAAAAAJDs/10DvhQPf5hQ/s1600/P1020216.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oz6ZkYdY4W4/TzO-kbwJS2I/AAAAAAAAJDs/10DvhQPf5hQ/s400/P1020216.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>The lower end of Upper Eastside Manhattan</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-2350685250959944356?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/09/training-trainers/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-09 08:35:22 </div> <div> Outside of writing what felt like writing a ba-jillion grants in January (actual count: four), I spent a lot of &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/09/training-trainers/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3213&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/08/in-our-own-backyard-part-one/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-08 17:19:40 </div> <div> Last weekend we decided to go on vacation&#8230; to be sight-seers&#8230; in Tbilisi. We&#8217;ve been to Tbilisi many times in &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/08/in-our-own-backyard-part-one/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3196&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/02/what-is-weather-like-in-arizona.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7543">The Road is Life</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-08 17:18:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">*it has continued to snow since my last post. Massively.&nbsp; it has been hard to even get in and out of my village because the roads are so bad, and school has been cancelled for the rest of this week.&nbsp; The temperature has also been way below normal for here, and when you don't have indoor heating except for a wood stove at nights, it gets cold!&nbsp; At least I know I'll be one of those people who claim to have had to walk to school in the snow uphill both ways, you know, the one whose story always seems to trump other people's cold stories and turns them into an epic bad-ass?&nbsp; At least that's what I tell myself as I slip along the icy road to school: <i>Alright, Kelsey, you may be from Arizona, you may have been teased a lot by your family for wearing a jacket in Minnesota in November, but you don't have heating and your outdoor shower and toilet are currently covered by two feet of snow.&nbsp; Everyone else is a wimp.&nbsp; </i>Though really it's more of a chant like this: <i>When will it be warm when will it be warm when will it be warm?</i><br /><br /> *To rub it in, people around here have been asking me what the weather is like in Arizona.&nbsp; (Well actually what the weather is like in America...) Warm and sunny I grumble.&nbsp; They ask more questions and then tell me how great it is, but really I feel like it's just a cruel conversation that I have on a daily basis.<br /><br />*Last weekend, we barbecued some pork Mtsvadi out in the yard and then set up a table and sat in the snow eating and drinking wine.&nbsp; A nice lunch! I wish I had taken more pictures, and I seem to be saying that a lot more lately because my time here is almost done.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MEeGmtF13sA/TzKr4wsi6dI/AAAAAAAACTI/4WWChGUAkNw/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MEeGmtF13sA/TzKr4wsi6dI/AAAAAAAACTI/4WWChGUAkNw/s400/DSC_0025.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>view from my balcony</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B2z92UhtDBQ/TzKsFd7ktoI/AAAAAAAACTw/7PBJAAH8L7I/s1600/DSC_0047.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B2z92UhtDBQ/TzKsFd7ktoI/AAAAAAAACTw/7PBJAAH8L7I/s400/DSC_0047.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>our back garden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--qcvn1GO3EY/TzKsLeBm9CI/AAAAAAAACUA/W9RQoyUo-Yc/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--qcvn1GO3EY/TzKsLeBm9CI/AAAAAAAACUA/W9RQoyUo-Yc/s400/DSC_0051.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0w_DsDml2dQ/TzKsPMGWgBI/AAAAAAAACUQ/GlKNc19ZTck/s1600/DSC_0061.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0w_DsDml2dQ/TzKsPMGWgBI/AAAAAAAACUQ/GlKNc19ZTck/s400/DSC_0061.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>they're too chicken to walk in the snow.&nbsp; ha, get it?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RBQGtenikLk/TzKr8bItofI/AAAAAAAACTY/f3mUUbHs5Io/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RBQGtenikLk/TzKr8bItofI/AAAAAAAACTY/f3mUUbHs5Io/s400/DSC_0032.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />*I was in Tbilisi one weekend to help out with the same IDP center where some other PCVs and I organized a camp at last summer.&nbsp; We were asked to come back and conduct a training on the history of Peace Corps, volunteerism, and how to design some volunteer projects.&nbsp; Besides GLOW this has been one of my favorite projects/organizations to work with.&nbsp; This center has everything so well put together, and when most of life here is frustrating beyond belief, having something be organized, easy, and productive is a welcome opportunity for us.<br /><br />*Here are some pictures from the English cabinet we renovated last semester.&nbsp; The problem with how Georgian schols are set up is that each group of kids stays in the same group and same room all day, while teachers rotate in and out to see them.&nbsp; This means that resources are never used because teachers have no where to store them or have to carry the around all day.&nbsp; My counterparts and I thought creating an English cabinet (room) where we had all the English books and a nice environment with a new laptop would make teaching easier, and then the classes could come to us.&nbsp; It didn't work out that way though, since the school apparently didn't have enough rooms to go around, so the 5th grade was put there permanently.&nbsp; This meant that everytime we wanted to have a class in there, we'd have to kick 5th grade out.&nbsp; 5th grade has also been dubbed by the teachers as the heathens, which didn't mean good things for the room.&nbsp; The door was broken immediately and there was trash everywhere, as well as sunflower seeds (I really really really hate sunflower seeds).&nbsp; We finally lobbied our director put 11th grade in there, and they take really good care of the room, but we still rarely use the room itself because shuffling of students just takes too much effort.&nbsp; Luckily we bought a laptop that is portable, though throughout all of last semester it was broken and I was constantly going back and forth to Tbilisi to get it fixed, and now it seems to be becoming the personal computer of the director.&nbsp; I'm trying to break that trend at the moment though.&nbsp; Anyways, pictures!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j-yzYcKKclE/TzKsgI6Yp7I/AAAAAAAACUs/FnGQX2wG9u8/s1600/IMG_0293.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j-yzYcKKclE/TzKsgI6Yp7I/AAAAAAAACUs/FnGQX2wG9u8/s320/IMG_0293.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>my awesome counterparts and I carried all the tables and chairs in.&nbsp; then they were replaced with real desks.&nbsp; boo.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_r_7cRdX-Gs/TzKsevARAWI/AAAAAAAACUk/T9AvBT0wY_M/s1600/IMG_0292.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_r_7cRdX-Gs/TzKsevARAWI/AAAAAAAACUk/T9AvBT0wY_M/s320/IMG_0292.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1H31m1gDB0/TzKsh5GxzaI/AAAAAAAACU0/ruUqKfFvr1o/s1600/IMG_0295.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1H31m1gDB0/TzKsh5GxzaI/AAAAAAAACU0/ruUqKfFvr1o/s320/IMG_0295.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cny0fdF5AG4/TzKsjDREpzI/AAAAAAAACU8/ttkn4HtN2E4/s1600/IMG_0296.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cny0fdF5AG4/TzKsjDREpzI/AAAAAAAACU8/ttkn4HtN2E4/s320/IMG_0296.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />*I'm in super hibernating mode since its so cold.&nbsp; There's really no where warm during the day except in my sleeping bag, and that limits my activities to watching TV on my computer with my head poking out, or sleeping.&nbsp; Really, trading our hard drives with each other to get new shows or movies is a bit of a social event for volunteers.&nbsp; I've managed to watch so much TV the past two years though I <i>almost </i>feel proud of myself.&nbsp; 6 seasons of House, 6.5 seasons of How I Met Your Mother, 6 seasons of Sex and The City (twice!) 5 seasons of Big Love, 4 seasons of Mad Men, and a lot of movies.&nbsp; Now I'm finally starting on The Wire.&nbsp; Almost proud of myself except that I had absolutely no interest in ever watching these shows in the first place.&nbsp; I've also gone through almost every interesting book in the volunteer lounge at the office here (there are a lot of non interesting books) and I think the same goes for books as it does for TV and movies here....people will read anything just to not be totally bored.&nbsp; Maybe that's why the office has 5 versions of Beowulf.&nbsp; <br /><br />*My counterpart and I were teaching 5th grade the other day.&nbsp; I really don't like 5th grade (they are the heathens after all) and they especially like to set off fireworks during class.&nbsp; I thought this was going to be a really bad day, but it turned out alright.&nbsp; My counterpart did nothing to take the fireworks away, but she soon had gathered up all their sunflower seeds and thrown them into the petchi.&nbsp; Then in retaliation one of the boys proceeded to make fun of my Peace Corps issued phone (it is pretty lame I have to admit) but he had to stop once I noticed he had a pink tinkerbell backpack and took the opportunity to point it out to the class.&nbsp; Please don't judge me for making fun of a ten year old.<br /><br />*And the final story of this post.&nbsp; Georgians have a thing against being out in the cold, without slippers in the house, or with wet hair because they say that is how you catch colds.&nbsp; When I got home today after traipsing though nearly a foot in snow, I asked my host grandmother if Georgians make snow angels.&nbsp; She said yes but that I shouldn't do it because I'll catch a cold.&nbsp; Taking that as a semi-dare, I went outside and started on my snow angel.&nbsp; She and my host sister followed (who was brimming with glee that someone besides her was being rebellious) and I stood up defiantly, but one minute later as my back was turned a horse cart with wood went through the yard, perfectly decapitating my snow angel.&nbsp; She told me that's what I get for not listening to her.&nbsp; <i>(and before any parental units ask, there was never any danger of any Kelseys being harmed during the snow angel adventure.&nbsp; I do know not to lay down in front of horse carts)</i><br /> <br /> <br />*also.....have you seen my post to the right of the page about donating to GLOW?&nbsp; We have over half of what we requested!<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4092943856710090372-1733239262258190330?l=kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/informal-affair.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-08 14:30:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>My first human contact with theFellowship group was with the main administrative coordinator,Jennifer. She was an Americanized Russian girl who had came to theStates long enough ago to speak both fluent Russian and English, bothwithout accents. She greeted me in the lounge that the Fellowshiphad set aside. “How are you?” she asked.<br /><br />“I'm good,”I said shaking her hand. “And yourself?”<br /><br />“Good. Thisis the lounge area,” she said, pointing into the room, “wheretomorrow you'll wait for the interview and the language test. Andover here is the dining room, where you'll meet the people who willinterview tomorrow. We'll have dinner at 6:30.”<br /><br />“Excellent,”I said back. “Then I can catch up on a little sleep. What shouldwe wear dressing-wise? Is this okay?” I pointed to my ownclothes: a brown button-up shirt tucked into blue jeans and hikingboots. A bit like a President Bush at Camp David. <br /><br />“Somethingmore formal,” she said. “You should wear your suit.”<br /><br />“Ah,”I said. A suit. I didn't have a suit. I had been in Peace Corps inGeorgia, where I didn't wear a suit for my entire two years - except twice to meet Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton - and thenI had been traveling for five months, when it would be a bitimpractical to carry around a suit. I could have bought a suit inUkraine, but of course, without knowing if I would have received theFellowship or not, it would have been a bit wasteful to have bought asuit. So I made due with what I had. “How about slacks and adress shirt?”<br /><br />“Okay,” she said, her eyes lowering a bit. <br /><br />This might be a problem, I thought to myself. When I wentup to my room, I unpacked my clothes. It was time to get to ironing. I ironed out the dress shirt that I had brought and then lookedaround for my tie. I apparently had left my only tie back inUkraine. This might be a real problem, I thought to myself again. Ididn't even bring a tie. I did bring a vest, so hopefully that mightdo. The vest and shirt looked nice enough together. I'd go to thedinner with only the dress shirt and go to the interview in the vest. Maybe they wouldn't notice I didn't come in a suit and tie. Anyways, how shallow could they be? They knew I was flying in fromKiev, they knew that I was in the Peace Corps and they knew that Iwas on the road. It would be ridiculous to judge me from my dress. Anyways, I hadn't yet seen how everyone else was dressed.<br /><br />Igot down to the dinner – a supposedly “informal” affair ofmeeting the interviewers – I saw that everyone was dressed forsuccess. All the other men were in suits and ties – if not suits,at least sport coats. Some of the interviewers had sports coatswithout ties. I'd always been used to taking off my jacket fordinner, but everyone remained wearing their jackets. I wasn't inTexas or Colorado anymore; those were the last two places I had a jobwhere I needed to wear suits on a somewhat regular basis. I did mybest to schmooze, despite my current disposition. <br /><br />On myright, was a giant of a man, who seemed to be the type that didn'tcare about suits. He himself was only dressed in a sports coat, witha blue button-up undone to reveal a white shirt. “The name'sGary,” he said, introducing himself. Gary was of the talkativesort, and easily reminded me of any number of Texan businessmen. “Iwork with the consulting and lobbying with the Kurds these days,”he told me. He advised the Kurdish government on different practiceson logistics and legalities. It was the kind of job I dreamed aboutdoing. “One time,” he told me, sipping on his Coca-cola while Isipped on a glass of dry red wine, “we got this payment from the USgovernment. 2.8 billion dollars. Do you know how much money that isin cash? In one hundred dollar bills, that fills up just about thisentire room. Anyways, first, we had to figure out how to transportthis cash to the Kurdish government. And then they had to figure outhow to use it. They paid for everything in cash. There aren't anybanks around there to store it either. So we kept it in thiswarehouse, covered with security. I wanted them to take it out ofthere and invest it somewhere. Think how much interest you could getfrom 2.8 billion dollars! But then there was the pure logisticalproblem of getting a helicopter full of cash out of there. Can youimagine?” <br /><br />He had other stories to tell as well, which hetold when our steak dinners were brought out and placed before us onthe table. “Once, there was this party that we were holding. Justthe problem was, they guy wanted me to throw this party even withouthaving anything of his own. No chairs, tables, nothing. So wequickly called some Turkish companies – we couldn't go through Iranor Syria – and had them come in with big truck loads of party gear. The Turks have a surprisingly good relationship with the Kurds inIraq. It's just the Kurds in Turkey that they have a problem with.”<br /><br />The evening past further with Gary's stories, as well as thestories from the girl to my left, who had other stories that weren'tso wild of a nature. “Gary loves to tell his stories,” she said,almost as if she was a little jealous about them. <br /><br />After thedinner, I went out to meet up with Jose. He was at an Orient mixer,a mixer for the Asian people in New York and for those people who areinterested in Asian people and their culture. As most of Jose'sgirlfriends in the recent past have been Asian, it was clear why hewas there. He was clearly a fan. Also on schedule to come wasJoseph, the lawyer who was backing Jose in the book affair. <br /><br />“IsJoseph here yet?” I asked Victor as we sipped on our wines. Idecided to stick to wine after I saw the lineup of beers offered atthe posh New York bar: Budweiser, Coors and, for the truly beer snobin all of us, Heineken, all at a minimum price tag of 8 dollars. “Red wine,” I told the blonde-haired waitress who was taking myorder. Just before she left I asked, “Where are you from? You'vean accent and a look about you.”<br /><br />“I'm from Poland,” shesaid. <br /><br />“I almost guessed Ukrainian. I live in Ukraine,right now, actually,” I told her. “I haven't been to Poland yet,though I'd like to.” <br /><br />“Really? What are you doing inUkraine?”<br /><br />“I don't really know. I was in the Peace Corpsin Georgia and then I took to traveling around Europe. I likeUkraine for now, it seems a good place to practice my Russian withouthaving to go through a crazy visa regime.” Lots of Americans werein Ukraine because they wanted to study Russian culture but theRussian government wasn't too fond of having American visitors. Itmeant they'd come to Ukraine. It was good for Ukraine, as all theseAmericans would come away from Ukraine loving their country all themore, and soon Ukrainians would be able to travel abroad and hear a“Jak spravoe?” instead of a “Kak dela?” when people found outthey were from Ukraine. As Russia closed itself off to the world andacted all mighty, they became more insignificant, and would maketheir former “colonies” all the greater and more independent –undoubtedly the opposite effect they had intended. It is an examplethat the United States should keep in mind. All these countries areopen to America now, but how much longer can they remain open as theUS treats their citizens like criminals and terrorists? <br /></span></div><div><span>Joseph was never able to make it thatevening. He had been busy with work the night before and had justgotten home that night, as we were at the bar. He wanted some timealone with his wife and his newborn, a perfectly understandableposition. But that meant, he wasn't there to hear our pitch, to haveme as the new writer on board the project. The pitch would have towait. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6108736330816208908?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/informal-affair.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-08 14:30:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>My first human contact with theFellowship group was with the main administrative coordinator,Jennifer. She was an Americanized Russian girl who had came to theStates long enough ago to speak both fluent Russian and English, bothwithout accents. She greeted me in the lounge that the Fellowshiphad set aside. “How are you?” she asked.<br /><br />“I'm good,”I said shaking her hand. “And yourself?”<br /><br />“Good. Thisis the lounge area,” she said, pointing into the room, “wheretomorrow you'll wait for the interview and the language test. Andover here is the dining room, where you'll meet the people who willinterview tomorrow. We'll have dinner at 6:30.”<br /><br />“Excellent,”I said back. “Then I can catch up on a little sleep. What shouldwe wear dressing-wise? Is this okay?” I pointed to my ownclothes: a brown button-up shirt tucked into blue jeans and hikingboots. A bit like a President Bush at Camp David. <br /><br />“Somethingmore formal,” she said. “You should wear your suit.”<br /><br />“Ah,”I said. A suit. I didn't have a suit. I had been in Peace Corps inGeorgia, where I didn't wear a suit for my entire two years - except twice to meet Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton - and thenI had been traveling for five months, when it would be a bitimpractical to carry around a suit. I could have bought a suit inUkraine, but of course, without knowing if I would have received theFellowship or not, it would have been a bit wasteful to have bought asuit. So I made due with what I had. “How about slacks and adress shirt?”<br /><br />“Okay,” she said, her eyes lowering a bit. <br /><br />This might be a problem, I thought to myself. When I wentup to my room, I unpacked my clothes. It was time to get to ironing. I ironed out the dress shirt that I had brought and then lookedaround for my tie. I apparently had left my only tie back inUkraine. This might be a real problem, I thought to myself again. Ididn't even bring a tie. I did bring a vest, so hopefully that mightdo. The vest and shirt looked nice enough together. I'd go to thedinner with only the dress shirt and go to the interview in the vest. Maybe they wouldn't notice I didn't come in a suit and tie. Anyways, how shallow could they be? They knew I was flying in fromKiev, they knew that I was in the Peace Corps and they knew that Iwas on the road. It would be ridiculous to judge me from my dress. Anyways, I hadn't yet seen how everyone else was dressed.<br /><br />Igot down to the dinner – a supposedly “informal” affair ofmeeting the interviewers – I saw that everyone was dressed forsuccess. All the other men were in suits and ties – if not suits,at least sport coats. Some of the interviewers had sports coatswithout ties. I'd always been used to taking off my jacket fordinner, but everyone remained wearing their jackets. I wasn't inTexas or Colorado anymore; those were the last two places I had a jobwhere I needed to wear suits on a somewhat regular basis. I did mybest to schmooze, despite my current disposition. <br /><br />On myright, was a giant of a man, who seemed to be the type that didn'tcare about suits. He himself was only dressed in a sports coat, witha blue button-up undone to reveal a white shirt. “The name'sGary,” he said, introducing himself. Gary was of the talkativesort, and easily reminded me of any number of Texan businessmen. “Iwork with the consulting and lobbying with the Kurds these days,”he told me. He advised the Kurdish government on different practiceson logistics and legalities. It was the kind of job I dreamed aboutdoing. “One time,” he told me, sipping on his Coca-cola while Isipped on a glass of dry red wine, “we got this payment from the USgovernment. 2.8 billion dollars. Do you know how much money that isin cash? In one hundred dollar bills, that fills up just about thisentire room. Anyways, first, we had to figure out how to transportthis cash to the Kurdish government. And then they had to figure outhow to use it. They paid for everything in cash. There aren't anybanks around there to store it either. So we kept it in thiswarehouse, covered with security. I wanted them to take it out ofthere and invest it somewhere. Think how much interest you could getfrom 2.8 billion dollars! But then there was the pure logisticalproblem of getting a helicopter full of cash out of there. Can youimagine?” <br /><br />He had other stories to tell as well, which hetold when our steak dinners were brought out and placed before us onthe table. “Once, there was this party that we were holding. Justthe problem was, they guy wanted me to throw this party even withouthaving anything of his own. No chairs, tables, nothing. So wequickly called some Turkish companies – we couldn't go through Iranor Syria – and had them come in with big truck loads of party gear. The Turks have a surprisingly good relationship with the Kurds inIraq. It's just the Kurds in Turkey that they have a problem with.”<br /><br />The evening past further with Gary's stories, as well as thestories from the girl to my left, who had other stories that weren'tso wild of a nature. “Gary loves to tell his stories,” she said,almost as if she was a little jealous about them. <br /><br />After thedinner, I went out to meet up with Jose. He was at an Orient mixer,a mixer for the Asian people in New York and for those people who areinterested in Asian people and their culture. As most of Jose'sgirlfriends in the recent past have been Asian, it was clear why hewas there. He was clearly a fan. Also on schedule to come wasJoseph, the lawyer who was backing Jose in the book affair. <br /><br />“IsJoseph here yet?” I asked Victor as we sipped on our wines. Idecided to stick to wine after I saw the lineup of beers offered atthe posh New York bar: Budweiser, Coors and, for the truly beer snobin all of us, Heineken, all at a minimum price tag of 8 dollars. “Red wine,” I told the blonde-haired waitress who was taking myorder. Just before she left I asked, “Where are you from? You'vean accent and a look about you.”<br /><br />“I'm from Poland,” shesaid. <br /><br />“I almost guessed Ukrainian. I live in Ukraine,right now, actually,” I told her. “I haven't been to Poland yet,though I'd like to.” <br /><br />“Really? What are you doing inUkraine?”<br /><br />“I don't really know. I was in the Peace Corpsin Georgia and then I took to traveling around Europe. I likeUkraine for now, it seems a good place to practice my Russian withouthaving to go through a crazy visa regime.” Lots of Americans werein Ukraine because they wanted to study Russian culture but theRussian government wasn't too fond of having American visitors. Itmeant they'd come to Ukraine. It was good for Ukraine, as all theseAmericans would come away from Ukraine loving their country all themore, and soon Ukrainians would be able to travel abroad and hear a“Jak spravoe?” instead of a “Kak dela?” when people found outthey were from Ukraine. As Russia closed itself off to the world andacted all mighty, they became more insignificant, and would maketheir former “colonies” all the greater and more independent –undoubtedly the opposite effect they had intended. It is an examplethat the United States should keep in mind. All these countries areopen to America now, but how much longer can they remain open as theUS treats their citizens like criminals and terrorists? <br /></span></div><div><span>Joseph was never able to make it thatevening. He had been busy with work the night before and had justgotten home that night, as we were at the bar. He wanted some timealone with his wife and his newborn, a perfectly understandableposition. But that meant, he wasn't there to hear our pitch, to haveme as the new writer on board the project. The pitch would have towait. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6108736330816208908?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://gokartli.blogspot.com/2012/02/winter.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7623">Go Kartli</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-08 12:25:00 </div> <div> <div>It's been quite a while since our last post. January has come and gone, along with another New Year's celebration. As usual, tables and stomachs groaned under the weight of the dolma, blinchiki, cakes, cookies, fruits, and roast piglet.</div><div><br /></div><div><span><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G874xhd_wJA/TzJ4C_dSmcI/AAAAAAAAAPM/l4Xob-VM_jY/s320/DSC01830.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706755670621198786" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtvwijnG7QM/TzJ4ED7R7JI/AAAAAAAAAPg/g_a6vQfOB6I/s1600/DSC01822.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtvwijnG7QM/TzJ4ED7R7JI/AAAAAAAAAPg/g_a6vQfOB6I/s320/DSC01822.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706755689000594578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pVbhmWXX1nU/TzJ6Enh91aI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/83C_RzYYSug/s320/DSC01834.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706757897581352354" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div>Shaen got to play Santa Claus this year, throwing his little cousin and sister into paroxysms of joy. Lilit quickly learned the true meaning of New Year and promptly put all of her presents into a bag which she carried and around and wouldn't let anyone touch.</div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ptsl5T5_tFs/TzJ6CsxWoWI/AAAAAAAAAQc/-b8nwthE0iU/s320/DSC01808.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706757864628330850" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span><br /></span></div><span></span><div><br /></div><div><div>After the fireworks, the toasts, the visits, and the tripe soup to wrap up the season, we still had a little time to recover before the start of our last semester as teachers in Georgia. We took a trip to Tbilisi to run some errands -- I had volunteered to look over applications for Georgian students looking to study abroad in America, and Melissa was beginning to assemble materials for her library project -- but otherwise we took advantage of a little quiet before the storm.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><span><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fNmp5XLbd4k/TzJ4D8u1TPI/AAAAAAAAAPU/a0ZFJlHxgKc/s320/DSC01864.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706755687069338866" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div>Tbilisi Decorations</div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Then it was back to school, with lots of hopes for the spring. Melissa's library project is off to a great start -- thanks to everyone who has donated books, CDs, or DVDs! Melissa has The two of us are agreed that whatever Georgia's charms, it's going to be nice to be back in the land of Office Depot and Staples the next time we need to buy supplies in bulk. But the Language Resource Room Melissa is working with the library to develop is off to a good start, and staff trainings begin Saturday!</div><div><br /></div><div>Almost immediately after starting school, on a snowy Wednesday morning, Melissa headed to Bazaleti to help conduct the Healthy Lifestyles "Training of Trainers" conference, which brings volunteers and their counterparts to discuss ways to implement projects and share information on health and well-being with people in their communities. The conference was a big success, and even more impressive because, with staff, guests, and translators stranded in the snow for the first morning, Melissa and the Healthy Lifestyles Committee managed to run the whole show by themselves. </div><div><br /></div><div>Afterward, we met in Kortaneti for the first weekend in February, and, as usual, it was a really nice, really relaxing time. </div><div><span><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYl-0w7BO5k/TzJ8Ln0KPEI/AAAAAAAAARU/1AbO4aPhj8Y/s320/DSC01884.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706760216940002370" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span> </span><span>Kortaneti</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We came back this week and headed to school, only to have a pleasant surprise waiting for us today: thanks to the snow and the cold, schools across Georgia have been cancelled through Monday! And here I thought we just didn't get snow days.</div><div><br /></div><div><span><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zIgxD-0QqM4/TzJ6CaeoI-I/AAAAAAAAAQM/xOQ5vNuU8vM/s320/DSC01870.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706757859717948386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fcf95GTM1Ko/TzJ8Lc7pIHI/AAAAAAAAARI/X5LDJYT5LXo/s320/DSC01869.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706760214018596978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fwf4zDqPuRQ/TzJ4Cp1awnI/AAAAAAAAAO8/qA7OOXYWXUY/s320/DSC01881.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706755664816816754" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>So it'll be a lot of hot tea and good books for the next couple days, and, come Monday, we'll be just about halfway through February! Hard to believe, but we'll be finishing up before too long. Stay warm, everyone!</div></div><div><br /></div><div><span><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cpAxo33tYEE/TzJ6D0mfTgI/AAAAAAAAAQk/1lFw2QrK2vA/s320/DSC01883.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706757883910114818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7957205699048756989-3129341104885067462?l=gokartli.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/occupy-thing.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-07 07:57:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>While in New York, I decided to checkout the Occupy Wall Street protest, since Jose was off of work, hejoined me. While in Europe, I saw that all the Republicancommentators were enraged by it – and were still enraged by it. Iwanted to see if gatherings in Zuccoti Park could actually blockpeople from going to work and to see if the OWS was the real deal. When we went down to Wall Street, we found that Zuccoti Park was noteven on Wall Street. We walked a couple blocks North from there, onBroadway, and finally found Zuccoti Park. What we found wasmonstrous, it was devastating, it was revealing just how onerous andpowerful Soros and his elite cabal of America haters were – youknow, the guys Glenn Beck swears are backing it. We saw a whole lineof metal boxes along the side of the road. Clearly some sort ofbunkers or shades used to hunt poor, hungry brokers. We lookedcloser, in much disbelief. The bunkers were cleverly disguised ashot dog vendors, complete even with an Armenian or Mexican (orsomething similarly hairy) trying to sell us some “100% beef” hotdogs. This was clearly a conspiracy. The rest of the park wasempty, save for one guy in a dirty hoodie, wearing sunglasses,despite the morose weather. He stood next to a box and a lot ofpamphlets about Occupy Wall Street.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xjxMlqW468/TzDYBIBTjbI/AAAAAAAAJDc/I7Fa8uV1z5A/s1600/P1020222.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xjxMlqW468/TzDYBIBTjbI/AAAAAAAAJDc/I7Fa8uV1z5A/s400/P1020222.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Zuccoti Park and the Occupy crowd</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>“So this is OccupyWall Street, is it?” I asked. To be honest, I was a littledisappointed. I was expecting more than hot dog vendors and one bumlooking guy.<br /><br />“It is. Well, most people took the day off orare gathered at the atrium,” he said. When he spoke I could seehis missing teeth and smelled something like dead rat on his breath. <br /><br />“The atrium?” Jose asked. Now it sounded like we were onto something. <br /><br />“There's a building just down the street weuse for the General Assembly to meet.”<br /><br />“The General Assembly?”I asked. <br /><br />“They make decisions on things.” <br /><br />“Onthings?” <br /><br />“Like points of objection. Our agenda. Actions.”<br /><br />“Actions?”<br /><br />“Like if we're going to doa bicycle ride protest or make t-shirts.”<br /><br />I was gettingbored. These weren't the Communist revolutionaries I was expecting. It was clearly a bunch of uneducated hippies and homeless people thatcollected enough money to continue doing things they thought wereproductive – which means, doing things unproductive, since we aretalking about hippies and homeless people. “So what exactly is thepoint of Occupy?” Jose asked. <br /><br />“We're raising awareness,man.” <br /><br />Were we going to have to batter this guy with acrowbar before he gave us some sensible information? I was about tobreak down and yell at the guy, thinking that it might be the onlyway he'd make me aware of what exactly he was raising awarenessabout. “About what? Raising awareness about what?”<br /><br />“Abouthow the government and Wall Street are married. How their workingtogether to steal money and jobs from the middle and lower classes. About how they have to stop working so closely together and have tobe separate entities.” <br /><br />“Hmmm, that doesn't sound veryFascist or Communist. You sure you're working for George Soros?”<br /><br />“We're not working for George Soros. We take collectionsfrom all sorts of people, but no one but the General Assemblydictates what we do. And the General Assembly is open to anyonewho wants to join.” Okay, maybe it did sound like a bunch ofcommies, just stealing buildings and occupying them. “We pay forthe building by donations. Would you guys donate?” <br /><br />Igrunted and was growing bored.&nbsp; How all these pundits had obsessed so long over the "occupiers" was beyond me, but I think their obsession had given more credence to the movement than it was worth. Jose threw some dollars into his box. We left the the plazaand went on to a New York sandwich shop, having a sandwich more localthan a Subway – which was an altogether better way of spending timethan talking to bums on the street. I ordered a Reuben, one of my favorite sandwiches, which I hadn't eaten in some three years.&nbsp; It's a bit surprising, since I've been traveling through places renowned for sauerkraut - and other cabbage dishes - and meat.&nbsp; We talked more about thisbusiness of writing books and about the interview that I had thatnight with the Fellowship. <br /><br />The interview was held at someposh hotel on Madison Ave. It wasn't an overly fancy place, but Iimagined that anywhere on Manhattan island had to cost a fortune. Not only that, but the Fellowship had paid for my flight fromUkraine, too. They must have meant for some serious business. Afterleaving Jose, I went on to my hotel room and settled in. No goodchannels or free internet, but the room was more than comfortable. Ididn't need the heating, since New York was having some weird, hotand rainy weather going on in the middle of February. I had to stripoff my jacket and sweater as soon as I had landed. It was time toget ready for some schmoozing.</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7283523823805387623?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/occupy-thing.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-07 07:57:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>While in New York, I decided to checkout the Occupy Wall Street protest, since Jose was off of work, hejoined me. While in Europe, I saw that all the Republicancommentators were enraged by it – and were still enraged by it. Iwanted to see if gatherings in Zuccoti Park could actually blockpeople from going to work and to see if the OWS was the real deal. When we went down to Wall Street, we found that Zuccoti Park was noteven on Wall Street. We walked a couple blocks North from there, onBroadway, and finally found Zuccoti Park. What we found wasmonstrous, it was devastating, it was revealing just how onerous andpowerful Soros and his elite cabal of America haters were – youknow, the guys Glenn Beck swears are backing it. We saw a whole lineof metal boxes along the side of the road. Clearly some sort ofbunkers or shades used to hunt poor, hungry brokers. We lookedcloser, in much disbelief. The bunkers were cleverly disguised ashot dog vendors, complete even with an Armenian or Mexican (orsomething similarly hairy) trying to sell us some “100% beef” hotdogs. This was clearly a conspiracy. The rest of the park wasempty, save for one guy in a dirty hoodie, wearing sunglasses,despite the morose weather. He stood next to a box and a lot ofpamphlets about Occupy Wall Street.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xjxMlqW468/TzDYBIBTjbI/AAAAAAAAJDc/I7Fa8uV1z5A/s1600/P1020222.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xjxMlqW468/TzDYBIBTjbI/AAAAAAAAJDc/I7Fa8uV1z5A/s400/P1020222.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Zuccoti Park and the Occupy crowd</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>“So this is OccupyWall Street, is it?” I asked. To be honest, I was a littledisappointed. I was expecting more than hot dog vendors and one bumlooking guy.<br /><br />“It is. Well, most people took the day off orare gathered at the atrium,” he said. When he spoke I could seehis missing teeth and smelled something like dead rat on his breath. <br /><br />“The atrium?” Jose asked. Now it sounded like we were onto something. <br /><br />“There's a building just down the street weuse for the General Assembly to meet.”<br /><br />“The General Assembly?”I asked. <br /><br />“They make decisions on things.” <br /><br />“Onthings?” <br /><br />“Like points of objection. Our agenda. Actions.”<br /><br />“Actions?”<br /><br />“Like if we're going to doa bicycle ride protest or make t-shirts.”<br /><br />I was gettingbored. These weren't the Communist revolutionaries I was expecting. It was clearly a bunch of uneducated hippies and homeless people thatcollected enough money to continue doing things they thought wereproductive – which means, doing things unproductive, since we aretalking about hippies and homeless people. “So what exactly is thepoint of Occupy?” Jose asked. <br /><br />“We're raising awareness,man.” <br /><br />Were we going to have to batter this guy with acrowbar before he gave us some sensible information? I was about tobreak down and yell at the guy, thinking that it might be the onlyway he'd make me aware of what exactly he was raising awarenessabout. “About what? Raising awareness about what?”<br /><br />“Abouthow the government and Wall Street are married. How their workingtogether to steal money and jobs from the middle and lower classes. About how they have to stop working so closely together and have tobe separate entities.” <br /><br />“Hmmm, that doesn't sound veryFascist or Communist. You sure you're working for George Soros?”<br /><br />“We're not working for George Soros. We take collectionsfrom all sorts of people, but no one but the General Assemblydictates what we do. And the General Assembly is open to anyonewho wants to join.” Okay, maybe it did sound like a bunch ofcommies, just stealing buildings and occupying them. “We pay forthe building by donations. Would you guys donate?” <br /><br />Igrunted and was growing bored.&nbsp; How all these pundits had obsessed so long over the "occupiers" was beyond me, but I think their obsession had given more credence to the movement than it was worth. Jose threw some dollars into his box. We left the the plazaand went on to a New York sandwich shop, having a sandwich more localthan a Subway – which was an altogether better way of spending timethan talking to bums on the street. I ordered a Reuben, one of my favorite sandwiches, which I hadn't eaten in some three years.&nbsp; It's a bit surprising, since I've been traveling through places renowned for sauerkraut - and other cabbage dishes - and meat.&nbsp; We talked more about thisbusiness of writing books and about the interview that I had thatnight with the Fellowship. <br /><br />The interview was held at someposh hotel on Madison Ave. It wasn't an overly fancy place, but Iimagined that anywhere on Manhattan island had to cost a fortune. Not only that, but the Fellowship had paid for my flight fromUkraine, too. They must have meant for some serious business. Afterleaving Jose, I went on to my hotel room and settled in. No goodchannels or free internet, but the room was more than comfortable. Ididn't need the heating, since New York was having some weird, hotand rainy weather going on in the middle of February. I had to stripoff my jacket and sweater as soon as I had landed. It was time toget ready for some schmoozing.</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7283523823805387623?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/02/06/repose/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11410">all of the bells</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-06 18:27:34 </div> <div> It&#8217;s been quite cold and snowy in Georgia. And I know that this is my first winter here, and thus have nothing to compare it to, but it does seem like it&#8217;s worse than usual for this area. Sure, some &#8230; <a href="http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/02/06/repose/">Continue reading <span>&#8594;</span></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=allofthebells.wordpress.com&amp;blog=19580611&amp;post=586&amp;subd=allofthebells&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://serenae.com/2012/02/06/chaplin-and-bee-tea-and-klimpt-oh-my/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7479">Serena Epstein</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-06 15:09:15 </div> <div> Another tardy blog post, eh? I kicked off 2012 in style. Whoops, did I say "in style"? I meant "in bed". Horrible illness notwithstanding, I managed to spend a little time with family and friends in London before hopping on a plane back to Tangier. Early January in Tangier was exciting, and not just because of the delightful weather. Not one, but two friends, Christopher and Erin, joined me in Morocco for the final week of my vacation. If I described our activities in detail, I would be sitting here on my couch, wasting beautiful Tangier sunshine for the rest of the day. Instead, here is a bulleted list. </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://pcvgeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/01/it-is-official-i-am-moving-to-georgia.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11769">Life is Uncharted Territory: A Peace Corps Volunteer in Georgia</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-31 17:12:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">For those who are unaware, I have been in the process of applying to the Peace Corps, an American organization. Below is my overall PC timeline.<br /><br /><b>February 28, 2010</b>:&nbsp;I first made my PC login account on. I applied before my three semesters of my undergraduate degree so that I had the time to complete the application process.<br /><b>June 22, 2010</b>: My application was submitted.<br /><b>July 16, 2010</b>: I had my first interaction with my recruiter. My recruiter in the New York regional office was more than pleasant to work with. She made me feel very comfortable to talk with. She stated she was just waiting for my last&nbsp;recommendation&nbsp;to arrive before scheduling my interview.<br /><b>July 17, 2010</b>: I received my toolkit password.<br /><b>July 18, 2010</b>: My last recommendation was submitted.<br /><b>July 19, 2010</b>: My recruiter asked me if I was able to interview on July 29th in NYC. I replied telling her I was able to meet then. My recruiter confirmed and sent me more information about possible interview questions.<br /><b>July 29, 2010</b>:&nbsp;I interviewed with my recruiter. My recruiter wrote me an email before I even arrived back in Connecticut, thanking me for coming in. She told me to had to put my account on hold as I still had to finish school. Therefore she told me to email her in March 2011 to take my account off hold. She said it would not negatively impact my application.<br /><b>July 31, 2010</b>:&nbsp;My toolkit was updated with stating they received my fingerprints, NAC form and etc.<br /><b>March 2011</b>: Reactivated my account.<br />----Some information is&nbsp;withheld&nbsp;as I just don't recall some of the dates.<br /><b>March 2011: </b>Nominated for sub-Saharan Africa departing May 2012 in the field of health extension.<br />....<br /><b>January 13, 2011</b>: Emailed by the national PC office asked to update my resume.<br />....<br /><br />More to add later.</div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6738899540454517818-3565324693733362803?l=pcvgeorgia.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://pcvgeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/01/georgian.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11769">Life is Uncharted Territory: A Peace Corps Volunteer in Georgia</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-01 02:50:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">So the Georgian language has proved to be a little more intense than I had imagined it would be. The alphabet is unlike anything I have ever seen before.<br /><br />Here is a video of a Georgian explaining the alphabet:<br /><br /><div></div><br /><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%90" title="wikt:ა">ა</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%91" title="wikt:ბ">ბ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%92" title="wikt:გ">გ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%93" title="wikt:დ">დ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%94" title="wikt:ე">ე</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%95" title="wikt:ვ">ვ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%96" title="wikt:ზ">ზ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B1" title="wikt:ჱ">ჱ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%97" title="wikt:თ">თ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%98" title="wikt:ი">ი</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%99" title="wikt:კ">კ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9A" title="wikt:ლ">ლ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9B" title="wikt:მ">მ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9C" title="wikt:ნ">ნ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B2" title="wikt:ჲ">ჲ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9D" title="wikt:ო">ო</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9E" title="wikt:პ">პ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%9F" title="wikt:ჟ">ჟ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A0" title="wikt:რ">რ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A1" title="wikt:ს">ს</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A2" title="wikt:ტ">ტ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B3" title="wikt:ჳ">ჳ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A3" title="wikt:უ">უ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A4" title="wikt:ფ">ფ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A5" title="wikt:ქ">ქ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A6" title="wikt:ღ">ღ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A7" title="wikt:ყ">ყ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A8" title="wikt:შ">შ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%A9" title="wikt:ჩ">ჩ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AA" title="wikt:ც">ც</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AB" title="wikt:ძ">ძ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AC" title="wikt:წ">წ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AD" title="wikt:ჭ">ჭ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AE" title="wikt:ხ">ხ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B4" title="wikt:ჴ">ჴ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%AF" title="wikt:ჯ">ჯ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B0" title="wikt:ჰ">ჰ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B5" title="wikt:ჵ">ჵ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B6" title="wikt:ჶ">ჶ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B7" title="wikt:ჷ">ჷ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%BA" title="wikt:ჺ">ჺ</a><span></span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B8" title="wikt:ჸ">ჸ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%B9" title="wikt:ჹ">ჹ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%BC" title="wikt:ჼ">ჼ</a><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%83%BB" title="wikt:჻">჻</a><br /><br />....And I thought Arabic was hard. Hahhaha. We shall see how it goes. Lucky for me I have time before I leave so I am going to learn the alphabet before I go. That should help a lot as the language seems to be quite phonetic. Also it seems that once I can get down the alphabet it will be easier to write faster.<br /><br />Another lucky part of this experience is that Peace Corps has already compiled and gave me a language package so I can study as well as listen to programs online.</div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6738899540454517818-299850865210963933?l=pcvgeorgia.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://emjoha.com/?p=297 <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7741">Emily in Georgia</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-03 16:12:04 </div> <div> After such a long hiatus from writing on my blog (and writing in general) it is difficult to know where to begin.&#160; I can clearly remember sitting down with my laptop this past October but I can’t remember how to &#8230; <a href="http://emjoha.com/?p=297">Continue reading <span>&#8594;</span></a> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/02/from-the-american-people/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-02 16:42:48 </div> <div> Today was a big day in Akhaltsikhe: The Americans came to town. More specifically, an entourage from the Tbilisi office &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/02/02/from-the-american-people/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3183&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/customer-service.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-02 07:24:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>Newark airport is a bit of a shock toanyone who's grown accustomed to Eastern European (lack of) customerservice. As soon as I got off the plane, I was almost immediatelyattacked by an army of red coated customer service professionals. “Can I help you, sir?” “Do you need help finding something,sir?” “Can I be of assistance, sir?” It is also striking thatthe majority of these customer service professionals are people ofcolor, which makes me wonder if that's all they hire or if that's allthat apply, since the ole American white folk seem ill accustomed tothe more traditional service roles. Or maybe there just aren't thatmany white folk in the Newark area. Was that a white guy over there? Nope, I was mistaken, he was a Hispanic guy with medieval lookingtattoo writing crawling up his neck, reading something in Spanishlike “Los Lobos reprazent!” Anyways, this blog isn't meant to be acritique of Newark's affirmative action program or a list of possiblyracist jokes. <br /><br />As I approached the door to the bathroom, Ifound another attendant. “Let me open that for you, sir,” hesaid. As I approached the urinal, I let out a sigh of relief. Notbecause I was pissing – which was relieving – but because nobodyasked me if I needed assistance. I left and found my way to thetram, and waited underneath the sign to the SkyTrain. “Where areyou going, sir?” a customer service representative asked. <br /><br />“TheSkyTrain,” I said. <br /><br />“Just wait here, the train will behere shortly,” she said. <br /><br />The electronic ticker next to thesign said two minutes. “Yeah, thanks,” I told her. When I gotto the SkyTrain terminal, I found that the army had occupied thatarea as well. I was unsure what to think of allthis, but I had a growing suspicion that maybe I was expected to tipeveryone. In which case they looked at me and whispered behind myback that I was another cheap Eastern European bastard. Ha! Littledid they know that this cheap bastard was one hundred percent, GradeA, Prime American cut. <br /><br />The SkyTrain came in and I took it toNew York. I got off at Penn Station, though at first I wasn't sureif it was the Penn Station in New York or the Penn Station in NewJersey. I looked around for some maps and all I could find were mapsof the New Jersey metro system. I was a bit confused. I lookedaround for some red jacketed gentlemen, but just as I needed them,they were no longer supplied. Only in a well marked airport are theyhired to offer directions. Granted, would someone really trust a redjacketed, “customer service” professional in the New York metro? Probably not. So I went to the customer service desk. “I just gotoff at Newark and am trying to get to Penn Station. Is that whereI'm at?”<br /><br />“Yes, it is,” the fat lady behind the countersaid. <br /><br />“Which one? New Jersey or New York?” <br /><br />“Whereare you going?”<br /><br />“To Penn Station.”<br /><br />“Which one?”<br /><br />“The one in New York.”<br /></span></div><div><span>“That's where you're at, sir,” shesaid, smiling. This wasn't the first time she had been confrontedwith some poor, lost, non-New Yorker trying to find the right PennStation. I followed signs to the metro, now comforted that I was onthe correct side of the Hudson and went to find where Jose lived. AsI approached his neighborhood, the Upper East End, I saw that I wasearly. I went about finding a cafe that had both wifi and coffee. When I passed a T-Mobile store, I decided to go ahead and get a newsim card. I purchased one for 10 dollars, with 15 dollars of creditfor 1000 minutes. It seemed pricey, but I knew that I was going tofeel new rippage in my anus around the wallet area after I leftUkraine anyway. <br /><br />“Do you know where any cafes are with freeinternet?” I asked the clerk.<br /><br />“There's no such thing asfree internet. You gotta pay everywhere. It's in the price of thecoffee or whatever. That's all that marketing and shit.” The guywas clearly an MBA fresh out of grad school. <br /><br />“Yeah, nokidding, that's just bullshit,” I replied, attempting to speak NewYorker. “So holmes, where's it at? I mean, where can I log in forfree? For the price of a joe, you know?” I decided I was soundingless like a New Yorker and more like Sarah Palin trying to score votes with the youth, so I quit that jive and switchedback to normal English. “I mean, is there anyplace I can login?”<br /><br />“I get you man,” he said. “No man, nowhere forfree. They used to be all over the place, but not no more. Listenman, you can go on down to Starbucks and log in.” <br /><br />Werethose funeral bells I heard in the quiet void leftover from hisutterance of the Enemy of All Private Coffee Shops? “Surely youjest!” I said. Well, no, I'm not that stiff and proper, and Ithink I had said something actually a bit more coarse and to thepoint. “Last I was in the States, you had to pay for internetaccess at Starbucks. They had a deal with – ah, T-Mobile. But I do rememberthey shut down all their stores for some strategic meeting, justbefore I left, and one of the results was that they needed to offerfree internet. Yes, I remember. So they did?” <br /><br />The proofwas in the pudding, as they say. I walked down the streets of UpperEast Manhattan, where last I had been three years ago, had at leasttwo or three private coffee shops every corner where you could log on for free, now there were diners you could drink coffee but not surf the net, and it was filled even morewith sushi shops, Apple stores, Starbucks and “Famous” pizza parlors ownedby different guys named Mike. Whoever says Capitalism bringsindividuality hasn't been to New York. I surrendered and went to thenext Starbucks, which was on the next corner. I felt as though I hadwalked into a zombie movie. Everywhere I looked, chairs were filledby people in business suits with Apple computers, typing away ontheir Facebook and Twitter updates and talking on ear-sets thatplugged into Apple iPhones. It was an Orwellian nightmare ofconsumerism.* <br /><br />As I sat in the Starbucks, sipping mysteaming hot mocha, I realized that the interior of the shop wasdevoid of power outlets. I had used up my laptop juice in the airplane andwas unable to login to check my own Facebook and update Big Brother on my whereabouts. Unable to do this, I had to settle on watching all the people aroundme, looking for the minute differences that sometimes aboundin-between any two people. There were three black folk sitting onthe opposite side of the room, two of them males with Yankees baseball capsturned backwards, chatting with a girl who had an Erika Badu fro withtight pink sweats. One of the boys had an iPad out, sharing whateverlatest meme had come to his attention. Directly across from me wasan Asian girl, who was jotting down words in her notebook,occasionally glancing around the room, as though she were doing thesame thing I was doing but was actually physically taking notes. Next to me was another Asian girl, typing on her iBook. Some whitepeople were seated next to the window, each of them talking on theiriPhones, even though they had clearly come to the coffee shop tospend time together. In the corner was a large man with a kid in awheelchair who seemed to have Down syndrome, indicated from hisstunted growth and his weak neck that kept his head permanentlyturned. These people were all the same. <br /><br />It was interestingto me that many Eastern Europeans strove so much to be likeWesterners when they themselves were the last bastions of modernindividuality. Starbucks hadn't yet entered Kiev, exchanging all thelocally developed Kofe Hauz and Coffee Life stores, as well as thesmaller places like Lviv-style coffee houses that have become mainstays ofUkrainian life. But as much as Ukrainians lust for a place in thesupposed modern world, they'll find themselves lost soon enough inthe ubiquity of the Starbucks Galaxy – though, to be honest, nonewould notice the difference between Starbucks and Coffee Life, andMcDonald's had already become a mainstay on most busy corners inKiev. <br /><br />Back out to New York. Maybe I should have gone toBrooklyn. Isn't that where everything is cool? But in truth, I wasterrified of Brooklyn. I was terrified that I'd step out of themetro stop and find everyone had somehow transformed into dancingrobots and Jesuses, wearing shiny clothes with oversized, brightlycolored glasses, everyone shuffling and shuffling, like in the LMFAOvideos. I don't think I could have handled that culture shock.&nbsp; I needed baby steps. Butthen, there was always Little Odessa, where I could witness EasternEuropeans of the 90s sort, who were still listening to Malchishnik andNautika, sporting mullets and wearing track suits like they werestraight out of an Italian mafia movie.&nbsp; But then, I could have just gone back to Armenia for that. <br /><br />I had enough of myfive dollars mocha coffee at Starbucks. It was time to find Jose. <br /><br />*There are plenty of private shops in New York, I just don't know where they are.&nbsp; Ask your local couchsurfers!</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7983821755278219057?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/customer-service.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-02 07:24:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>Newark airport is a bit of a shock toanyone who's grown accustomed to Eastern European (lack of) customerservice. As soon as I got off the plane, I was almost immediatelyattacked by an army of red coated customer service professionals. “Can I help you, sir?” “Do you need help finding something,sir?” “Can I be of assistance, sir?” It is also striking thatthe majority of these customer service professionals are people ofcolor, which makes me wonder if that's all they hire or if that's allthat apply, since the ole American white folk seem ill accustomed tothe more traditional service roles. Or maybe there just aren't thatmany white folk in the Newark area. Was that a white guy over there? Nope, I was mistaken, he was a Hispanic guy with medieval lookingtattoo writing crawling up his neck, reading something in Spanishlike “Los Lobos reprazent!” Anyways, this blog isn't meant to be acritique of Newark's affirmative action program or a list of possiblyracist jokes. <br /><br />As I approached the door to the bathroom, Ifound another attendant. “Let me open that for you, sir,” hesaid. As I approached the urinal, I let out a sigh of relief. Notbecause I was pissing – which was relieving – but because nobodyasked me if I needed assistance. I left and found my way to thetram, and waited underneath the sign to the SkyTrain. “Where areyou going, sir?” a customer service representative asked. <br /><br />“TheSkyTrain,” I said. <br /><br />“Just wait here, the train will behere shortly,” she said. <br /><br />The electronic ticker next to thesign said two minutes. “Yeah, thanks,” I told her. When I gotto the SkyTrain terminal, I found that the army had occupied thatarea as well. I was unsure what to think of allthis, but I had a growing suspicion that maybe I was expected to tipeveryone. In which case they looked at me and whispered behind myback that I was another cheap Eastern European bastard. Ha! Littledid they know that this cheap bastard was one hundred percent, GradeA, Prime American cut. <br /><br />The SkyTrain came in and I took it toNew York. I got off at Penn Station, though at first I wasn't sureif it was the Penn Station in New York or the Penn Station in NewJersey. I looked around for some maps and all I could find were mapsof the New Jersey metro system. I was a bit confused. I lookedaround for some red jacketed gentlemen, but just as I needed them,they were no longer supplied. Only in a well marked airport are theyhired to offer directions. Granted, would someone really trust a redjacketed, “customer service” professional in the New York metro? Probably not. So I went to the customer service desk. “I just gotoff at Newark and am trying to get to Penn Station. Is that whereI'm at?”<br /><br />“Yes, it is,” the fat lady behind the countersaid. <br /><br />“Which one? New Jersey or New York?” <br /><br />“Whereare you going?”<br /><br />“To Penn Station.”<br /><br />“Which one?”<br /><br />“The one in New York.”<br /></span></div><div><span>“That's where you're at, sir,” shesaid, smiling. This wasn't the first time she had been confrontedwith some poor, lost, non-New Yorker trying to find the right PennStation. I followed signs to the metro, now comforted that I was onthe correct side of the Hudson and went to find where Jose lived. AsI approached his neighborhood, the Upper East End, I saw that I wasearly. I went about finding a cafe that had both wifi and coffee. When I passed a T-Mobile store, I decided to go ahead and get a newsim card. I purchased one for 10 dollars, with 15 dollars of creditfor 1000 minutes. It seemed pricey, but I knew that I was going tofeel new rippage in my anus around the wallet area after I leftUkraine anyway. <br /><br />“Do you know where any cafes are with freeinternet?” I asked the clerk.<br /><br />“There's no such thing asfree internet. You gotta pay everywhere. It's in the price of thecoffee or whatever. That's all that marketing and shit.” The guywas clearly an MBA fresh out of grad school. <br /><br />“Yeah, nokidding, that's just bullshit,” I replied, attempting to speak NewYorker. “So holmes, where's it at? I mean, where can I log in forfree? For the price of a joe, you know?” I decided I was soundingless like a New Yorker and more like Sarah Palin trying to score votes with the youth, so I quit that jive and switchedback to normal English. “I mean, is there anyplace I can login?”<br /><br />“I get you man,” he said. “No man, nowhere forfree. They used to be all over the place, but not no more. Listenman, you can go on down to Starbucks and log in.” <br /><br />Werethose funeral bells I heard in the quiet void leftover from hisutterance of the Enemy of All Private Coffee Shops? “Surely youjest!” I said. Well, no, I'm not that stiff and proper, and Ithink I had said something actually a bit more coarse and to thepoint. “Last I was in the States, you had to pay for internetaccess at Starbucks. They had a deal with – ah, T-Mobile. But I do rememberthey shut down all their stores for some strategic meeting, justbefore I left, and one of the results was that they needed to offerfree internet. Yes, I remember. So they did?” <br /><br />The proofwas in the pudding, as they say. I walked down the streets of UpperEast Manhattan, where last I had been three years ago, had at leasttwo or three private coffee shops every corner where you could log on for free, now there were diners you could drink coffee but not surf the net, and it was filled even morewith sushi shops, Apple stores, Starbucks and “Famous” pizza parlors ownedby different guys named Mike. Whoever says Capitalism bringsindividuality hasn't been to New York. I surrendered and went to thenext Starbucks, which was on the next corner. I felt as though I hadwalked into a zombie movie. Everywhere I looked, chairs were filledby people in business suits with Apple computers, typing away ontheir Facebook and Twitter updates and talking on ear-sets thatplugged into Apple iPhones. It was an Orwellian nightmare ofconsumerism.* <br /><br />As I sat in the Starbucks, sipping mysteaming hot mocha, I realized that the interior of the shop wasdevoid of power outlets. I had used up my laptop juice in the airplane andwas unable to login to check my own Facebook and update Big Brother on my whereabouts. Unable to do this, I had to settle on watching all the people aroundme, looking for the minute differences that sometimes aboundin-between any two people. There were three black folk sitting onthe opposite side of the room, two of them males with Yankees baseball capsturned backwards, chatting with a girl who had an Erika Badu fro withtight pink sweats. One of the boys had an iPad out, sharing whateverlatest meme had come to his attention. Directly across from me wasan Asian girl, who was jotting down words in her notebook,occasionally glancing around the room, as though she were doing thesame thing I was doing but was actually physically taking notes. Next to me was another Asian girl, typing on her iBook. Some whitepeople were seated next to the window, each of them talking on theiriPhones, even though they had clearly come to the coffee shop tospend time together. In the corner was a large man with a kid in awheelchair who seemed to have Down syndrome, indicated from hisstunted growth and his weak neck that kept his head permanentlyturned. These people were all the same. <br /><br />It was interestingto me that many Eastern Europeans strove so much to be likeWesterners when they themselves were the last bastions of modernindividuality. Starbucks hadn't yet entered Kiev, exchanging all thelocally developed Kofe Hauz and Coffee Life stores, as well as thesmaller places like Lviv-style coffee houses that have become mainstays ofUkrainian life. But as much as Ukrainians lust for a place in thesupposed modern world, they'll find themselves lost soon enough inthe ubiquity of the Starbucks Galaxy – though, to be honest, nonewould notice the difference between Starbucks and Coffee Life, andMcDonald's had already become a mainstay on most busy corners inKiev. <br /><br />Back out to New York. Maybe I should have gone toBrooklyn. Isn't that where everything is cool? But in truth, I wasterrified of Brooklyn. I was terrified that I'd step out of themetro stop and find everyone had somehow transformed into dancingrobots and Jesuses, wearing shiny clothes with oversized, brightlycolored glasses, everyone shuffling and shuffling, like in the LMFAOvideos. I don't think I could have handled that culture shock.&nbsp; I needed baby steps. Butthen, there was always Little Odessa, where I could witness EasternEuropeans of the 90s sort, who were still listening to Malchishnik andNautika, sporting mullets and wearing track suits like they werestraight out of an Italian mafia movie.&nbsp; But then, I could have just gone back to Armenia for that. <br /><br />I had enough of myfive dollars mocha coffee at Starbucks. It was time to find Jose. <br /><br />*There are plenty of private shops in New York, I just don't know where they are.&nbsp; Ask your local couchsurfers!</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7983821755278219057?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/names-uknown.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-01 14:06:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I had made a small score of new friendsat the concert that I played at Divan. Mostly, they took the shapeof a list of names in my phone, people who I only vaguely rememberedor forgot altogether. We sat down at the bar at Divan, about to meeta couple of the girls that we had met the night before. Thebartender said an enthusiastic hello, turning to Daria, calling her“the girl who paid.” “What's that about?” I asked. <br /><br />“Ikept paying for all my drinks. And I bought you a beer too, don'tyou remember?” <br /><br />“Oh,” I said, smiling. “Notreally.”<br /><br />As I sat at the bar with Daria, sipping on ourbeers, though still our heads were fogged over by our vastinebriations the night before, I scrolled through the phone. “Doyou know Ivan?”<br /><br />“No,” she said. <br /><br />“Sandra?”<br /><br />“Nope.”<br /><br />“Misha?”<br /><br />“No.” <br /><br />The list of names continued. Occasionally she might nod herhead yes or tell me that I was quite the player the other night. Notthat my playing amounted to anything, since most of the night Isimply sat on my chair, with my accordion on my lap, twirling aroundmy glass of whiskey while the people in the armchair next to me keptchanging. Only one person had occupied my attention then, which wasa dark haired girl sitting next to Oleg. I believe it was the layoutof her crooked nose and her dark inset eyes that had peaked myinterest in talking to her.<br /><br />“Do you remember that girl yougot the rejection from?” Daria asked. “The one sitting next toOleg while he played the guitar?”<br /><br />“I got rejected?” Iasked her. “Oh, yes.” She was getting up to go so I had quicklyintercepted her. But I had nothing really to say, except “Do youhave Facebook or vKontakte?” We hadn't said one word to each otherthe entire night and for some reason I had expected her to give meher contact information. Come to think of it, I don't even think Ihad asked her her name. <br /><br />She paused, looked at me andreplied, “Uh, no.” Then she squeezed in-between me and the tableand went along her way. <br /><br />We were at the bar that day becauseof something one of the girls had said to me. She had mentioned apossible teaching job in her village the night before at the party. She had told me that the university at her village was always lookingfor native speaking language teachers, since most foreigners weren'tinterested in going into some small village in Ukraine. But I hadsurvived the Georgian countryside for two years, why not one year orso in a Ukrainian countryside? When we were at the end of ourconversation, I told her, “Let's do it. Find out from your deanwhat's possible, then get back to me. Meanwhile, I've got to go backto America, come back and then meet up with an old Peace Corps buddyin L'vov. Sound good? Maybe I can stop by your town on myway.”<br /><br />The next day, before I had to leave back to the UnitedStates, Daria and I decided to hang out again. To appease my weird,historical and grotesque interests, we decided to go to the World WarII museum at Victory Park in Kiev. What drew me to the museum wasthat there was said to be a glove made from human skin there. Theglove was designed by Madame Koch, a cousin of the father of the Kochbrothers of current corporate fame. She was well known for designinga whole wardrobe from human skin – and I was well known for takinginterest in things like this. I did, after all, make it a point tosee the ossuary in Kutna Hoara in the Czech Republic, and foundmyself held in fascination standing below the bone chandelier.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtE-kaodDmg/TylF4r5WI5I/AAAAAAAAJDU/Z0kem4NLz-g/s1600/P1020182.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtE-kaodDmg/TylF4r5WI5I/AAAAAAAAJDU/Z0kem4NLz-g/s320/P1020182.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><span>Wemade our way across the snow covered plaza of Victory Park, which waslined with heroic Soviet soldiers, carved into positions as thoughthey were eternally soldiering across mine covered, artillery shelledfields, rising from their downtrodden past to reach great gloriesabove the Nazi defeat. Triumphant Soviet music blared out fromloudspeakers and as we cleared the weird, faux-rock outcroppings thatformed a bridge over us, we saw the Mat Rodini, the Mother of theMotherland, standing over us, holding up her hands in a great “V”,with one hand wielding a sword and the other holding a shield,emblazoned with the hammer and sickle. The plaza opened out, withthe Mat Rodini on the right hand side and two “peace tanks” onthe left hand side. The peace tanks were an old Soviet T-34 crossingbarrels with a Nazi Panzer. Both tanks were covered in bright,pastel paints with flowers stenciled across them.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wf19R0tBgTo/TwHKMyMEWNI/AAAAAAAAI_g/1bRU69O5Yuc/s1600/P1020049.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wf19R0tBgTo/TwHKMyMEWNI/AAAAAAAAI_g/1bRU69O5Yuc/s400/P1020049.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Victory Park before the snow</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span></span></div><div><span>The WorldWar II museum was at the base of the Mat Rodini. Inside it therewere four levels, each level with thematic collections of artifactsof from the World War II period. I assume the curators had a greatdeal more material to work from, but had chosen what they could findto stick with themes and effects. Ukraine was one of the countriesthat suffered as the true brunt of the European theater, war beingwaged across its countryside for almost the entire duration of thewar. Ukraine witnessed brutal Soviet oppression, Nazi-sponsored andfree rebellions against the Soviets, brutal Nazi occupation with massarrests and purges that grew worse than was known under the Sovietperiod, Soviet sponsored and free rebellions against the Nazis andfinally, a return to brutal Soviet oppression. World War II, as onecan easily see from my short, concise and authoritative recounting,was not a happy period for the Ukrainians. There was no happybeginning, middle or end.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><div></div><div><span>We raced through the musuem. Daria had an English class to teach. She had the advantageous setupof being a Ukrainian who grew up in the United States and who owned aflat in Kiev, passed on to her by her family. Now she taught Englishand art to sustain herself, while she figured out something to do toburgeon her art career. But until then, it was English classes. Werelated on that subject. We nearly ran across the first floor,looking at war passports and anti-tank defenses and mines, then on tothe Nazi uniforms and Mausers, on up to more classy looking Sovietgear that were clearly direct inspirations of the Hugo Boss designedNazi uniforms. <br /><br />When we finished the museum, Daria saw I wasdismayed. “We can ask them where the glove of human skin is?”she told me, trying to raise my spirits. <br /><br />“No, I think thatwould be an awkward question anyway. Maybe lots of Americans come inasking for it. 'Effing Americans!' they probably say behind them,'always coming for the Nazi-glove.' No, I'll just ask someone who'sseen it. My friend's coming in anyway, after I get back, he'll knowwhere it is. He's the one who told me about it anyway.'” <br /><br />“Yousure? I could just skip the class.” <br /><br />“No, you shouldn'tskip a class over a Nazi-glove,” I said, resigned. I would missout on the Nazi-glove that day, but it wouldn't keep me from myfuture adventures. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6581971221080119579?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/02/names-uknown.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-02-01 14:06:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I had made a small score of new friendsat the concert that I played at Divan. Mostly, they took the shapeof a list of names in my phone, people who I only vaguely rememberedor forgot altogether. We sat down at the bar at Divan, about to meeta couple of the girls that we had met the night before. Thebartender said an enthusiastic hello, turning to Daria, calling her“the girl who paid.” “What's that about?” I asked. <br /><br />“Ikept paying for all my drinks. And I bought you a beer too, don'tyou remember?” <br /><br />“Oh,” I said, smiling. “Notreally.”<br /><br />As I sat at the bar with Daria, sipping on ourbeers, though still our heads were fogged over by our vastinebriations the night before, I scrolled through the phone. “Doyou know Ivan?”<br /><br />“No,” she said. <br /><br />“Sandra?”<br /><br />“Nope.”<br /><br />“Misha?”<br /><br />“No.” <br /><br />The list of names continued. Occasionally she might nod herhead yes or tell me that I was quite the player the other night. Notthat my playing amounted to anything, since most of the night Isimply sat on my chair, with my accordion on my lap, twirling aroundmy glass of whiskey while the people in the armchair next to me keptchanging. Only one person had occupied my attention then, which wasa dark haired girl sitting next to Oleg. I believe it was the layoutof her crooked nose and her dark inset eyes that had peaked myinterest in talking to her.<br /><br />“Do you remember that girl yougot the rejection from?” Daria asked. “The one sitting next toOleg while he played the guitar?”<br /><br />“I got rejected?” Iasked her. “Oh, yes.” She was getting up to go so I had quicklyintercepted her. But I had nothing really to say, except “Do youhave Facebook or vKontakte?” We hadn't said one word to each otherthe entire night and for some reason I had expected her to give meher contact information. Come to think of it, I don't even think Ihad asked her her name. <br /><br />She paused, looked at me andreplied, “Uh, no.” Then she squeezed in-between me and the tableand went along her way. <br /><br />We were at the bar that day becauseof something one of the girls had said to me. She had mentioned apossible teaching job in her village the night before at the party. She had told me that the university at her village was always lookingfor native speaking language teachers, since most foreigners weren'tinterested in going into some small village in Ukraine. But I hadsurvived the Georgian countryside for two years, why not one year orso in a Ukrainian countryside? When we were at the end of ourconversation, I told her, “Let's do it. Find out from your deanwhat's possible, then get back to me. Meanwhile, I've got to go backto America, come back and then meet up with an old Peace Corps buddyin L'vov. Sound good? Maybe I can stop by your town on myway.”<br /><br />The next day, before I had to leave back to the UnitedStates, Daria and I decided to hang out again. To appease my weird,historical and grotesque interests, we decided to go to the World WarII museum at Victory Park in Kiev. What drew me to the museum wasthat there was said to be a glove made from human skin there. Theglove was designed by Madame Koch, a cousin of the father of the Kochbrothers of current corporate fame. She was well known for designinga whole wardrobe from human skin – and I was well known for takinginterest in things like this. I did, after all, make it a point tosee the ossuary in Kutna Hoara in the Czech Republic, and foundmyself held in fascination standing below the bone chandelier.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtE-kaodDmg/TylF4r5WI5I/AAAAAAAAJDU/Z0kem4NLz-g/s1600/P1020182.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtE-kaodDmg/TylF4r5WI5I/AAAAAAAAJDU/Z0kem4NLz-g/s320/P1020182.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><span>Wemade our way across the snow covered plaza of Victory Park, which waslined with heroic Soviet soldiers, carved into positions as thoughthey were eternally soldiering across mine covered, artillery shelledfields, rising from their downtrodden past to reach great gloriesabove the Nazi defeat. Triumphant Soviet music blared out fromloudspeakers and as we cleared the weird, faux-rock outcroppings thatformed a bridge over us, we saw the Mat Rodini, the Mother of theMotherland, standing over us, holding up her hands in a great “V”,with one hand wielding a sword and the other holding a shield,emblazoned with the hammer and sickle. The plaza opened out, withthe Mat Rodini on the right hand side and two “peace tanks” onthe left hand side. The peace tanks were an old Soviet T-34 crossingbarrels with a Nazi Panzer. Both tanks were covered in bright,pastel paints with flowers stenciled across them.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wf19R0tBgTo/TwHKMyMEWNI/AAAAAAAAI_g/1bRU69O5Yuc/s1600/P1020049.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wf19R0tBgTo/TwHKMyMEWNI/AAAAAAAAI_g/1bRU69O5Yuc/s400/P1020049.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Victory Park before the snow</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span></span></div><div><span>The WorldWar II museum was at the base of the Mat Rodini. Inside it therewere four levels, each level with thematic collections of artifactsof from the World War II period. I assume the curators had a greatdeal more material to work from, but had chosen what they could findto stick with themes and effects. Ukraine was one of the countriesthat suffered as the true brunt of the European theater, war beingwaged across its countryside for almost the entire duration of thewar. Ukraine witnessed brutal Soviet oppression, Nazi-sponsored andfree rebellions against the Soviets, brutal Nazi occupation with massarrests and purges that grew worse than was known under the Sovietperiod, Soviet sponsored and free rebellions against the Nazis andfinally, a return to brutal Soviet oppression. World War II, as onecan easily see from my short, concise and authoritative recounting,was not a happy period for the Ukrainians. There was no happybeginning, middle or end.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><div></div><div><span>We raced through the musuem. Daria had an English class to teach. She had the advantageous setupof being a Ukrainian who grew up in the United States and who owned aflat in Kiev, passed on to her by her family. Now she taught Englishand art to sustain herself, while she figured out something to do toburgeon her art career. But until then, it was English classes. Werelated on that subject. We nearly ran across the first floor,looking at war passports and anti-tank defenses and mines, then on tothe Nazi uniforms and Mausers, on up to more classy looking Sovietgear that were clearly direct inspirations of the Hugo Boss designedNazi uniforms. <br /><br />When we finished the museum, Daria saw I wasdismayed. “We can ask them where the glove of human skin is?”she told me, trying to raise my spirits. <br /><br />“No, I think thatwould be an awkward question anyway. Maybe lots of Americans come inasking for it. 'Effing Americans!' they probably say behind them,'always coming for the Nazi-glove.' No, I'll just ask someone who'sseen it. My friend's coming in anyway, after I get back, he'll knowwhere it is. He's the one who told me about it anyway.'” <br /><br />“Yousure? I could just skip the class.” <br /><br />“No, you shouldn'tskip a class over a Nazi-glove,” I said, resigned. I would missout on the Nazi-glove that day, but it wouldn't keep me from myfuture adventures. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6581971221080119579?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/31/in-print/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-31 16:40:30 </div> <div> I&#8217;m happy to report that a few of my projects from last fall have wrapped up &#8211; and I have &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/31/in-print/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3171&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/rise-of-saint.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-30 14:26:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>A few weeks before, when I was inKharkiv, I met some fellows from Orkester Che. They invited me toplay after the lead singer and the main writer did their performance. It was on a Friday night at the club, Divan on Kreshyatik. I'vealready described Divan at length, with it's two long rows of plushcouches, filled with Kiev's punk and hipster population alike. Onthe stage were two chairs, one for Andrei, the writer, and the otherfor Che's lead singer and guitarist, Oleg. There were a variety ofpillows laid out for the audience to sit on, up close to the stage. When I first arrived at Divan, for soundcheck, everything was a bitlate getting rolling. I was in the upstairs room with the Chefellows, who had also invited to random girls up to hang out with us. We drank tea and ate pancakes filled with poppy seeds. Oleg wasgoing over the lyrics to his songs, making sure that he had them wellenough memorized. It was all easy routine for him, though headmitted to the girls that he was nervous. I myself didn't know howto feel. I was used to playing on streets and in front of smallgroups of people, but playing on an actual stage at a club withregular live music was an altogether different experience. I playedmy set, to make sure I had everything committed to memory, then putup my accordion and relaxed as best as I could. <br /><br />Friends ofAndrei were slowly showing up to the scene to wish him a happybirthday. Each person brought a bottle of whiskey or cognac and madetheir greetings and paid their respects. They opened up the bottlesand the liquor began to flow. I kept thinking to myself, don't getdrunk yet, you've still got to play. But as it happens, one drinkturns into three or four or six, a magic trick that I had learned inGeorgia. I was still well though, and by the time that Oleg andAndrei were on the stage, I was convincing myself that I wasn't drunkand I was downing some bottled Borjomi mineral water. Then I was up. <br /><br />I sat down before the packed audience. I suddenly realizedthat, actually, I was a little bit drunk. Compounded with the suddenspout of nervousness, I found my right hand shaking. I needed thatone steady, come on now, don't shake! That's the hand that has toplay all the solos! I started with my usual, “Me and Bobby McGee,”but found myself playing the wrong notes. I stopped singingmid-verse, almost stopping altogether, but I decided to keep on. Ijust started singing again, pretending that nothing significant hadhappened. The audience clapped a bit, trying to be supportive,knowing that it was my first time on stage. <br /><br />I was a littlebit more at rest for “Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair,”though I still wasn't spot on, due to my shaking hand. <br /><br /><br /><br />I felt thatmaybe it was my position that was giving me a problem the most, so Ishifted a little to the side and then nailed the Russian folk song“Ochi Chiornie” and the Tom Waits song, “Hold On” spot on. “Pei Moya Devotchka” wasn't the best I had played, it wasn'trocking the Casbah or anything, but it was good enough. When Ifinally got to “If I Had Possession of Judgment Day,” I foundmyself playing fine and at ease, but still nervous and wanting to getoff stage. <br /><br /><br /><br />“Thank you, thank you. This was my first timeon stage,” I shared with the audience. “Thank you.” I got up,set my accordion down, and immediately retreated back upstairs, whereI downed another glass of whiskey to settle my stomach. I grewmorose and leaned back in my chair, thinking of all the mistakes Ihad made, replaying them in my head over and over again. How could Iplay so bad in front of so many people? I thought to myself. Dariaand Andrei were both there, telling me that I had played pretty welland I had nothing to worry about, but I didn't believe them,convinced they were being nice. <br /><br />“You took some videos with mycamera, right?” I asked Daria. I took the camera from her andlistened to what I had done. They weren't bad. That was good, atleast. I was a little relieved and feeling a little more sociable. Girls were in and out, I was making a collection of phone numbers inmy phone, half of which I would try to remember who they belonged toin the morning. Then I nearly got into a fight with one fellow,about the Ukrainian hero <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepan_Bandera">Bandera</a>. <br /><br />“I just don't know howyou can raise a statue to the man in Lvov,” I said. I forgot whatbrought up the subject. Maybe World War II had been brought up. Itwas a common subject in Eastern Europe, since Ukrainians and Russiansare usually quite bitter towards Americans who think they thatAmerica had the sole responsibility for causing the fall of NaziGermany. <br /><br />“He was a good man,” a Ukrainian guy said. <br /><br />“He killed thousands of Jews, Russians and Poles. The guycollaborated with the Nazis against the Jews and Russians, and thenagain against the Poles. I don't know how you can call him a goodguy.” <br /><br />The Ukrainian bent over the table and grabbed me bythe neck. “Don't make me hurt you! Bandera was a good man! Youare listening to the propaganda of Ukraine's enemies!” <br /><br />“Whatenemies? Poles? Jews? Russians?”<br /><br />“Ukraine's enemies areeverywhere! Bandera shall live on!” He let me go and stormed out. Later he came back and apologized, bringing me something to drink. “Sorry, I just get excited about Bandera. I didn't mean anythingby it.” <br /><br />“I'm not against Bandera necessarily. Just youguys need to own up to it. I dig Andrew Jackson, but I alsorecognize he killed lots of Indians. It's cool man, it's cool.” <br /></span> </div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6533704620009477409?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/rise-of-saint.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-30 14:26:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>A few weeks before, when I was inKharkiv, I met some fellows from Orkester Che. They invited me toplay after the lead singer and the main writer did their performance. It was on a Friday night at the club, Divan on Kreshyatik. I'vealready described Divan at length, with it's two long rows of plushcouches, filled with Kiev's punk and hipster population alike. Onthe stage were two chairs, one for Andrei, the writer, and the otherfor Che's lead singer and guitarist, Oleg. There were a variety ofpillows laid out for the audience to sit on, up close to the stage. When I first arrived at Divan, for soundcheck, everything was a bitlate getting rolling. I was in the upstairs room with the Chefellows, who had also invited to random girls up to hang out with us. We drank tea and ate pancakes filled with poppy seeds. Oleg wasgoing over the lyrics to his songs, making sure that he had them wellenough memorized. It was all easy routine for him, though headmitted to the girls that he was nervous. I myself didn't know howto feel. I was used to playing on streets and in front of smallgroups of people, but playing on an actual stage at a club withregular live music was an altogether different experience. I playedmy set, to make sure I had everything committed to memory, then putup my accordion and relaxed as best as I could. <br /><br />Friends ofAndrei were slowly showing up to the scene to wish him a happybirthday. Each person brought a bottle of whiskey or cognac and madetheir greetings and paid their respects. They opened up the bottlesand the liquor began to flow. I kept thinking to myself, don't getdrunk yet, you've still got to play. But as it happens, one drinkturns into three or four or six, a magic trick that I had learned inGeorgia. I was still well though, and by the time that Oleg andAndrei were on the stage, I was convincing myself that I wasn't drunkand I was downing some bottled Borjomi mineral water. Then I was up. <br /><br />I sat down before the packed audience. I suddenly realizedthat, actually, I was a little bit drunk. Compounded with the suddenspout of nervousness, I found my right hand shaking. I needed thatone steady, come on now, don't shake! That's the hand that has toplay all the solos! I started with my usual, “Me and Bobby McGee,”but found myself playing the wrong notes. I stopped singingmid-verse, almost stopping altogether, but I decided to keep on. Ijust started singing again, pretending that nothing significant hadhappened. The audience clapped a bit, trying to be supportive,knowing that it was my first time on stage. <br /><br />I was a littlebit more at rest for “Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair,”though I still wasn't spot on, due to my shaking hand. <br /><br /><br /><br />I felt thatmaybe it was my position that was giving me a problem the most, so Ishifted a little to the side and then nailed the Russian folk song“Ochi Chiornie” and the Tom Waits song, “Hold On” spot on. “Pei Moya Devotchka” wasn't the best I had played, it wasn'trocking the Casbah or anything, but it was good enough. When Ifinally got to “If I Had Possession of Judgment Day,” I foundmyself playing fine and at ease, but still nervous and wanting to getoff stage. <br /><br /><br /><br />“Thank you, thank you. This was my first timeon stage,” I shared with the audience. “Thank you.” I got up,set my accordion down, and immediately retreated back upstairs, whereI downed another glass of whiskey to settle my stomach. I grewmorose and leaned back in my chair, thinking of all the mistakes Ihad made, replaying them in my head over and over again. How could Iplay so bad in front of so many people? I thought to myself. Dariaand Andrei were both there, telling me that I had played pretty welland I had nothing to worry about, but I didn't believe them,convinced they were being nice. <br /><br />“You took some videos with mycamera, right?” I asked Daria. I took the camera from her andlistened to what I had done. They weren't bad. That was good, atleast. I was a little relieved and feeling a little more sociable. Girls were in and out, I was making a collection of phone numbers inmy phone, half of which I would try to remember who they belonged toin the morning. Then I nearly got into a fight with one fellow,about the Ukrainian hero <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepan_Bandera">Bandera</a>. <br /><br />“I just don't know howyou can raise a statue to the man in Lvov,” I said. I forgot whatbrought up the subject. Maybe World War II had been brought up. Itwas a common subject in Eastern Europe, since Ukrainians and Russiansare usually quite bitter towards Americans who think they thatAmerica had the sole responsibility for causing the fall of NaziGermany. <br /><br />“He was a good man,” a Ukrainian guy said. <br /><br />“He killed thousands of Jews, Russians and Poles. The guycollaborated with the Nazis against the Jews and Russians, and thenagain against the Poles. I don't know how you can call him a goodguy.” <br /><br />The Ukrainian bent over the table and grabbed me bythe neck. “Don't make me hurt you! Bandera was a good man! Youare listening to the propaganda of Ukraine's enemies!” <br /><br />“Whatenemies? Poles? Jews? Russians?”<br /><br />“Ukraine's enemies areeverywhere! Bandera shall live on!” He let me go and stormed out. Later he came back and apologized, bringing me something to drink. “Sorry, I just get excited about Bandera. I didn't mean anythingby it.” <br /><br />“I'm not against Bandera necessarily. Just youguys need to own up to it. I dig Andrew Jackson, but I alsorecognize he killed lots of Indians. It's cool man, it's cool.” <br /></span> </div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-6533704620009477409?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/01/29/reports-of-my-death-are-greatly-exaggerated/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11410">all of the bells</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-29 18:41:24 </div> <div> I&#8217;m sorry I didn&#8217;t written sooner. I know you&#8217;ve all been waiting for my update with baited breath. Have you been worried about me? It would make sense if you were. After all, you love me (shh, you don&#8217;t have &#8230; <a href="http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/01/29/reports-of-my-death-are-greatly-exaggerated/">Continue reading <span>&#8594;</span></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=allofthebells.wordpress.com&amp;blog=19580611&amp;post=571&amp;subd=allofthebells&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://georgiathecountrynotthestate.blogspot.com/2012/01/installment-two-1.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/8147">Georgia, the country, not the state....</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-29 14:21:00 </div> <div> <div>Installment two:</div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ti_WtZzICU/TyVYIaDucNI/AAAAAAAAAYE/CdwO61co1jA/s1600/IMG_4715%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ti_WtZzICU/TyVYIaDucNI/AAAAAAAAAYE/CdwO61co1jA/s320/IMG_4715%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061404591747282" /></a><div>1.12.12 Mari</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wa22gtMMdIs/TyVYICq0LKI/AAAAAAAAAX0/laIlrQ8cv2k/s1600/IMG_4739%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wa22gtMMdIs/TyVYICq0LKI/AAAAAAAAAX0/laIlrQ8cv2k/s320/IMG_4739%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061398313249954" /></a><div>1.13.12 Old New Year Supra</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MbQV2U0Y31Y/TyVX41Z7KeI/AAAAAAAAAXk/amxbDdJ-Jvc/s1600/IMG_4721%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MbQV2U0Y31Y/TyVX41Z7KeI/AAAAAAAAAXk/amxbDdJ-Jvc/s320/IMG_4721%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061137054706146" /></a><div>1.14.12 Cheers!</div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i0jzVIuihhM/TyVX3xbmwFI/AAAAAAAAAXc/NhrEc52FblM/s1600/IMG_4741%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i0jzVIuihhM/TyVX3xbmwFI/AAAAAAAAAXc/NhrEc52FblM/s320/IMG_4741%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061118808146002" /></a><div>1.15.12 Gossip girls</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2T7NUpP7G_c/TyVX25vTQ4I/AAAAAAAAAXM/w_rT9IJRdLU/s1600/IMG_4758%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2T7NUpP7G_c/TyVX25vTQ4I/AAAAAAAAAXM/w_rT9IJRdLU/s320/IMG_4758%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061103858369410" /></a><div>1.16.12 Tamiltsikhe</div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GFc_zYjI1Jk/TyVX2ujBD5I/AAAAAAAAAXA/xtRmrIGiwco/s1600/IMG_4783%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GFc_zYjI1Jk/TyVX2ujBD5I/AAAAAAAAAXA/xtRmrIGiwco/s320/IMG_4783%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061100854054802" /></a><div>1.17.12 Anastasia</div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xEeFemeZhU/TyVX2fLiCsI/AAAAAAAAAW0/YCr8eFgacmo/s1600/IMG_4789%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0xEeFemeZhU/TyVX2fLiCsI/AAAAAAAAAW0/YCr8eFgacmo/s320/IMG_4789%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703061096729021122" /></a><div>1.18.12</div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdP7_Jh6gfE/TyVXQ78qVAI/AAAAAAAAAWo/MqeOox9CP9U/s1600/IMG_4791%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TdP7_Jh6gfE/TyVXQ78qVAI/AAAAAAAAAWo/MqeOox9CP9U/s320/IMG_4791%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703060451616248834" /></a><div>1.19.12</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TT_cRHzTy-0/TyVXQWAtnnI/AAAAAAAAAWY/n7AbVjgVmI4/s1600/IMG_4816%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TT_cRHzTy-0/TyVXQWAtnnI/AAAAAAAAAWY/n7AbVjgVmI4/s320/IMG_4816%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703060441432694386" /></a><div>1.20.12 First day of school(coincidentally, first snow day) </div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OqFbobhVZC8/TyVXPxJo-QI/AAAAAAAAAWM/v3iL7aJkQMw/s1600/IMG_4824%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OqFbobhVZC8/TyVXPxJo-QI/AAAAAAAAAWM/v3iL7aJkQMw/s320/IMG_4824%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703060431538026754" /></a><div>1.21.12</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A03tghBfbNU/TyVXPfEhGlI/AAAAAAAAAWA/nxXBPAYEz90/s1600/IMG_4845%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A03tghBfbNU/TyVXPfEhGlI/AAAAAAAAAWA/nxXBPAYEz90/s320/IMG_4845%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703060426684701266" /></a><div>1.22.12</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lboY_RTO3U/TyVXPO2wSJI/AAAAAAAAAV0/t1M3fkyYWik/s1600/IMG_4850%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lboY_RTO3U/TyVXPO2wSJI/AAAAAAAAAV0/t1M3fkyYWik/s320/IMG_4850%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703060422332008594" /></a><div>1.23.12</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2gEvM9ylCyo/TyVWxQz_ivI/AAAAAAAAAVk/13RzKkjVe1g/s1600/IMG_4852%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2gEvM9ylCyo/TyVWxQz_ivI/AAAAAAAAAVk/13RzKkjVe1g/s320/IMG_4852%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703059907461221106" /></a><div>1.24.12</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X-aFtatFBn0/TyVWwo_wBUI/AAAAAAAAAVY/7estgGy1wAI/s1600/IMG_4858%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X-aFtatFBn0/TyVWwo_wBUI/AAAAAAAAAVY/7estgGy1wAI/s320/IMG_4858%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703059896773117250" /></a><div>1.25.12</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6mGGCYDaCSI/TyVWwfUDhZI/AAAAAAAAAVM/tO22Y7EafUE/s1600/IMG_4865%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6mGGCYDaCSI/TyVWwfUDhZI/AAAAAAAAAVM/tO22Y7EafUE/s320/IMG_4865%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703059894173926802" /></a><div>1.26.12</div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IoGjt-F_alg/TyVWuj8ZoiI/AAAAAAAAAVE/0LhqGzgVAM8/s1600/IMG_4866%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IoGjt-F_alg/TyVWuj8ZoiI/AAAAAAAAAVE/0LhqGzgVAM8/s320/IMG_4866%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703059861057151522" /></a><div>1.27.12</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Y9IVH8_LMY/TyVWuNxQLzI/AAAAAAAAAU0/LB1VdCux3JM/s1600/IMG_4870%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Y9IVH8_LMY/TyVWuNxQLzI/AAAAAAAAAU0/LB1VdCux3JM/s320/IMG_4870%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703059855104814898" /></a><div>1.28.12</div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5606794241203677201-785632042820711056?l=georgiathecountrynotthestate.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smqZ4s_t6-4&amp;feature=youtube_gdata <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/4110">YouTube Videos matching query: &quot;peace corps&quot; &quot;Georgia&quot;</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-28 16:44:46 </div> <div> <div> <table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" border="0"><tbody><tr><td width="140" valign="top" rowspan="2"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smqZ4s_t6-4&amp;feature=youtube_gdata"><img alt="" src="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/smqZ4s_t6-4/default.jpg" /></a></div></td> <td width="256" valign="top"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smqZ4s_t6-4&amp;feature=youtube_gdata">Peace Corps Glow Project: how to donate</a> <br></div> <div><span>GLOW summer schools have been successfully initiated by American Peace Corps Volunteers and governmental and NGO&#39;s partners in countries around the world for over 10 years. Our proposed GLOW summer school is a joint initiative between two local organizations and American Peace Corps Volunteers in Georgia. The project will bring at least 60 girls between the ages of 13-16 from economically depressed rural villages and IDP communities throughout Georgia together for a week-long residential summer school in a central location. The GLOW summer school will focus on topics such as self-esteem, leadership, career options, gender roles, and healthy lifestyles including sexual health and HIV/AIDS. The expectation is that the girls will return to their communities as leaders with new knowledge and skills. In addition, they will conduct peer education activities to enhance personal development and improve the lives of others in the community. The initial work for the GLOW summer school is to hold one-day information seminars in each of the regions. These seminars will aid in the recruitment of attendees.</span></div></td> <td width="146" valign="top"><div><span>From:</span> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=skate2388">skate2388</a></div> <div><span>Views:</span> 0</div> <div><img align="top" alt="" src="http://gdata.youtube.com/static/images/icn_star_empty_11x11.gif" /> <img align="top" alt="" src="http://gdata.youtube.com/static/images/icn_star_empty_11x11.gif" /> <img align="top" alt="" src="http://gdata.youtube.com/static/images/icn_star_empty_11x11.gif" /> <img align="top" alt="" src="http://gdata.youtube.com/static/images/icn_star_empty_11x11.gif" /> <img align="top" alt="" src="http://gdata.youtube.com/static/images/icn_star_empty_11x11.gif" /></div> <div>0 <span>ratings</span></div></td></tr> <tr><td><span>Time:</span> <span>01:22</span></td> <td><span>More in</span> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/videos?c=29">Nonprofits &amp; Activism</a></td></tr></tbody></table></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/losers-back-home.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-27 16:29:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I went to Puzata Xata, the cheapUkrainian buffet. It was a great place to visit, since the food wasalmost always tasty, ethnic, cheap and the interiors made it look asthough I were eating somewhere fancy. Not to mention, the sheerquantity of beautiful Ukrainian women that lingered around tables,eating sausages and cakes – that certainly was not a negative. OnTuesday nights, an English club meets at the Puzata Xata atKontraktova Square, attracting a large variety of Ukrainians andnative English speakers who want to practice their English. I hadgone with Daria one week, who noted that all the American and Britishmen in attendance were mostly LBHs, or Losers Back Home. I couldn'thelp to agree. I had met a couple of LBHs before – many of themhad come to Ukraine, feeling as poor and miserable and unwantedpeople in the US and enjoyed the popularity they received beingEnglish practice tools. <br /><br />I met one near 50 year old guy whohad published his own poetry book and carried it around to show offto young 18 year old Ukrainian girls. “I'm a published poet,”he'd tell them, showing them his book. I was with another Ukrainianguy who was running a hostel then. The younger Ukrainian said, “Oh,I didn't know you were a poet.” <br /><br />“What do you think I do? I'm a poet. Obviously. I can't believe you didn't know. How couldyou not know?” the guy said. He was skinny with a mustache andbeard and wore a cardigan, but not in a slightly “I'm cool becauseI do my own thing way” but rather in a “I'm a douchebag” way. It was clear he was a LBH. He kept talking to the girl saying, “Doyou like any American authors? Oh, I'm a literature professor. Hemingway is so awful, the way he writes women is miserable. They'rejust not strong characters, they're so dainty.” <br /><br />“Butman,” I interrupted. “Femininity in the 20s was centered arounddaintiness, especially in Spain and Italy. And when you couple thatwith a culture that promotes women's virginity and innocence, that'swhat you get. I met many Georgian girls who act exactly like thecharacters in his books. I think critics of Hemingway in this regardoften just don't understand the culture that he was writing from.” <br /><br />“No, you just don't understand a weak writer.” <br /><br />“Youcan call him weak all you want, but he at least didn't have topublish his own books.” I didn't know why I was protectingHemingway, but if someone was going to critique him, it should havebeen on something more substantial than a bogus textbook feministargument. <br /><br />The LBHs were everywhere that teaching English wasinvolved, mainly for that reason. Occasionally you met an Englishteacher who had a genuine interest in Slavic and Eastern Europeanculture, but it was the exception and not the rule. Most had come toUkraine to score with girls who would have been far above them on theladder scale had they stayed back in the United States. That was thesame comment that Daria was making. “You seem to be the onlynormal guy I've met from the States,” she said. <br /><br />“I'mreally not a good standard of normality,” I told her. “Did Imention, I play accordion?”<br /><br />Also at Puzata Xata, on Mondaynights, is Russian language club. Since I need all the practice Ican get, I decided to go. Chris wanted in on the practicing action,though truly I know he was going for ulterior motives. Granted, ifI got some hot Ukrainian tail due to my love of Russian language, Iwouldn't be against it. But that wasn't the primo uno reason I wasgoing. And, just my luck, it was all Frenchmen at my table whobarely had a Russian skill and one Ukrainian girl, who spoke at alevel only just above my own. <br /><br />About thirty minutes into theclub, I got a call. “Shawn, can you come to the school?” Tanya,my new boss, asked. “I have a class for you to substitute.”<br /><br />“I'm a bit far now, in Podil, it will take me some 40minutes to get there, at least.” <br /><br />“That's okay, just comeas soon as you can.” <br /><br />I got up from the table and went overto Chris. “Hey man, I got to go,” I told him. <br /><br />“Whereare you going?” he said, looking something like a lost child. Itwas clear he wanted to come with me. <br /><br />“To work!” I said,leaving him confused. I raced out of the Puzata Xata towards themetro. When I arrived at the school, Tanya led me to the class. During class, I felt I was back in my natural state. My new studentsencompassed everything I had liked about teaching English back inGeorgia. They were all friendly, playful and excited to learn –thus saving me from all the aspects of teaching in Georgia that Ihated. When I finished cleaning the classroom, Tanya came to me. “Listen, you will be the new permanent teacher for this class,okay? It will be 200 grivna a session. You have an envelope fromValya?” Valya was the mother of the two year old I had tried toteach that morning. <br /><br />“Yes, here it is.” I handed Tanyathe envelope. <br /><br />Tanya tour it open and took some cash out. “Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me 200 grivna. “I'llsee you next Monday? And if you want to attend anyone else'sclasses, you are welcome.” <br /><br />“Thanks,” I said. I had anew class to prepare for. I left, wanting to celebrate with someonesomewhere, but couldn't, since I didn't want to ride 30 minutes onthe metro back into town and more importantly, since I didn't want tospend much money. Instead I just went to the store and picked up abeer, so I could drink it watching a movie back at home. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-5466854565765881657?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/losers-back-home.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-27 16:29:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I went to Puzata Xata, the cheapUkrainian buffet. It was a great place to visit, since the food wasalmost always tasty, ethnic, cheap and the interiors made it look asthough I were eating somewhere fancy. Not to mention, the sheerquantity of beautiful Ukrainian women that lingered around tables,eating sausages and cakes – that certainly was not a negative. OnTuesday nights, an English club meets at the Puzata Xata atKontraktova Square, attracting a large variety of Ukrainians andnative English speakers who want to practice their English. I hadgone with Daria one week, who noted that all the American and Britishmen in attendance were mostly LBHs, or Losers Back Home. I couldn'thelp to agree. I had met a couple of LBHs before – many of themhad come to Ukraine, feeling as poor and miserable and unwantedpeople in the US and enjoyed the popularity they received beingEnglish practice tools. <br /><br />I met one near 50 year old guy whohad published his own poetry book and carried it around to show offto young 18 year old Ukrainian girls. “I'm a published poet,”he'd tell them, showing them his book. I was with another Ukrainianguy who was running a hostel then. The younger Ukrainian said, “Oh,I didn't know you were a poet.” <br /><br />“What do you think I do? I'm a poet. Obviously. I can't believe you didn't know. How couldyou not know?” the guy said. He was skinny with a mustache andbeard and wore a cardigan, but not in a slightly “I'm cool becauseI do my own thing way” but rather in a “I'm a douchebag” way. It was clear he was a LBH. He kept talking to the girl saying, “Doyou like any American authors? Oh, I'm a literature professor. Hemingway is so awful, the way he writes women is miserable. They'rejust not strong characters, they're so dainty.” <br /><br />“Butman,” I interrupted. “Femininity in the 20s was centered arounddaintiness, especially in Spain and Italy. And when you couple thatwith a culture that promotes women's virginity and innocence, that'swhat you get. I met many Georgian girls who act exactly like thecharacters in his books. I think critics of Hemingway in this regardoften just don't understand the culture that he was writing from.” <br /><br />“No, you just don't understand a weak writer.” <br /><br />“Youcan call him weak all you want, but he at least didn't have topublish his own books.” I didn't know why I was protectingHemingway, but if someone was going to critique him, it should havebeen on something more substantial than a bogus textbook feministargument. <br /><br />The LBHs were everywhere that teaching English wasinvolved, mainly for that reason. Occasionally you met an Englishteacher who had a genuine interest in Slavic and Eastern Europeanculture, but it was the exception and not the rule. Most had come toUkraine to score with girls who would have been far above them on theladder scale had they stayed back in the United States. That was thesame comment that Daria was making. “You seem to be the onlynormal guy I've met from the States,” she said. <br /><br />“I'mreally not a good standard of normality,” I told her. “Did Imention, I play accordion?”<br /><br />Also at Puzata Xata, on Mondaynights, is Russian language club. Since I need all the practice Ican get, I decided to go. Chris wanted in on the practicing action,though truly I know he was going for ulterior motives. Granted, ifI got some hot Ukrainian tail due to my love of Russian language, Iwouldn't be against it. But that wasn't the primo uno reason I wasgoing. And, just my luck, it was all Frenchmen at my table whobarely had a Russian skill and one Ukrainian girl, who spoke at alevel only just above my own. <br /><br />About thirty minutes into theclub, I got a call. “Shawn, can you come to the school?” Tanya,my new boss, asked. “I have a class for you to substitute.”<br /><br />“I'm a bit far now, in Podil, it will take me some 40minutes to get there, at least.” <br /><br />“That's okay, just comeas soon as you can.” <br /><br />I got up from the table and went overto Chris. “Hey man, I got to go,” I told him. <br /><br />“Whereare you going?” he said, looking something like a lost child. Itwas clear he wanted to come with me. <br /><br />“To work!” I said,leaving him confused. I raced out of the Puzata Xata towards themetro. When I arrived at the school, Tanya led me to the class. During class, I felt I was back in my natural state. My new studentsencompassed everything I had liked about teaching English back inGeorgia. They were all friendly, playful and excited to learn –thus saving me from all the aspects of teaching in Georgia that Ihated. When I finished cleaning the classroom, Tanya came to me. “Listen, you will be the new permanent teacher for this class,okay? It will be 200 grivna a session. You have an envelope fromValya?” Valya was the mother of the two year old I had tried toteach that morning. <br /><br />“Yes, here it is.” I handed Tanyathe envelope. <br /><br />Tanya tour it open and took some cash out. “Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me 200 grivna. “I'llsee you next Monday? And if you want to attend anyone else'sclasses, you are welcome.” <br /><br />“Thanks,” I said. I had anew class to prepare for. I left, wanting to celebrate with someonesomewhere, but couldn't, since I didn't want to ride 30 minutes onthe metro back into town and more importantly, since I didn't want tospend much money. Instead I just went to the store and picked up abeer, so I could drink it watching a movie back at home. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-5466854565765881657?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/27/a-couple-of-breaths/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-27 09:43:56 </div> <div> I&#8217;ve done yoga ten out of the last eleven days. Sixteen out of the last nineteen. I quite like it. &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/27/a-couple-of-breaths/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3167&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/wash-your-hands-to-teach.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-25 20:51:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>It was time to get a job. I had a fewleads from Bruce, a guy I had met a while back and stayed in contactwith, meeting him for coffee once in a week or two. He gave me theemail of a place near where I lived, near the Kharkivska metro. “They're about to have a few openings,” he told me, “since I'llbe leaving them soon, and they have a really unmotivated teacherthere too. I trust you're motivated enough. You've got to becareful who you recommend, because their actions can always reflectback to your own reputation.” We were at Kofe Hauz, his hands werepressed tight around a cup of steaming coffee. I was sipping on myown usual mocha. “Just know that even if you send something nowthough, you might not hear back from them for a while. I mean, it isthe break. The break doesn't end for a few more weeks, on January10th. People want to read the application and makeimmediate hires, that's just how it works here, with teachingespecially. If you can't work immediately, don't apply until youcan.” <br /><br />I took his advice and waited until it was closer tothe end of the break. When I was in Kharkivska was when I sent outan email to his lead, Tanya. A few days later, Tanya emailed backand said almost the same thing. “Just come in on January 11th and we can talk.” On January 11th,I came to theschool. The language school had its own office in the elementaryschool and borrowed the classrooms after the school was out. As Iwalked in, there were still some children lingering in the courtyard,even though by seven o'clock the dark had already settled over thecity and stray dogs had come out to make their rounds at trashcontainers everywhere. <br /><br />“You are Tanya?” I asked the girlsitting at the desk on a laptop. <br /><br />“No, I'm Maria,” shesaid, smiling. “Tanya's coming though.” <br /><br />I waited for abit and chatted with Maria. She was something of the main clerk forthe language school. We chatted for a bit. She was from theSoutheastern part of Ukraine, where it was the most industrializedand Russian. She shared the family name of a famous Russian marshalwho was one of Stalin's top advisors during World War II. “Once,in Bulgaria, I was late for a plane because of my connecting flightfrom Turkey. They held the plan for almost an hour for me. TheBulgarian captain greeted me, saying he remembered what the marshalhad done for his own father.” <br /><br />Finally Tanya came, who wasevery bit as attractive as the younger Maria. “We can take you onas a substitute first, but otherwise we have too many teachers as itis. Oh, but I do know one client who has a two year old daughter. Have you worked any with two year olds?” <br /><br />“The youngestI've taught was an eight year old, but I'm willing to try anything,”I said. I couldn't imagine how I'd come across to the mother of atwo year old girl or how I would just teach her. I could just playwith her and talk to her, I suppose that would work. The daughter ofone of my old host families in Georgia was two years old and we gotalong just fine. That's what I told the mother when we talked on thephone. “Though, to be honest, she ended up teaching me moreGeorgian than I taught her English!”<br /></span></div><div><span>I went to the meet the next week onMonday. “You'll go to Lebidinska Metro and meet the driver there,”she instructed me. “Meet there at 8:30.” I was there at 8:35,underestimating how slow the metro would be, and how slow my walk toit would be, since I seemed determined on taking wrong turns. Iexited the metro into the tunnels and first took the tunnel to theright. I didn't think the station would be too complicated, but Ishould have realized that almost all the stations are. The drivercalled me and spoke in Russian, “Where are you?” <br /><br />“I'mhere at the metro,” I said. I was looking around for landmarks. “Where are you?” <br /><br />“I'm on the side with the green fence. Do you see a green fence?”<br /><br />“No, I see a green storethough.” <br /><br />“Oh, you are on the other side.” He hung up. I went back down into the winding maze of tunnels, filled with fruitsellers and window electronics and underwear vendors and came outnear a green fence, behind which was a construction site. <br /><br />Myphone rang again. “Where are you?” the driver asked. <br /><br />“I'mon the side with the construction.” <br /><br />“Oh, I came to meetyou over on the side with the green store, next to where all themarshrutkas are.” <br /><br />“Oh, okay, I'll come to you,” I said. “Just wait.” I went back into the tunnels and up near where Istarted. I went to the parking lot with the marshrutkas and wasimmediately met by a tall man in a black leather coat. “You'reShawn?” <br /><br />“That's me.”<br /><br />“Good, I finally foundyou!” he said. “Come with me, I'm on the other side of themetro.” We went back into the tunnels and came up near theconstruction site. We walked down there a bit and went up to a blackVolkswagen minivan. “If you come back, this is where I always parkand wait, got it?”<br /><br />“Got it,” I nodded as I entered theminivan, which was already full, with six other passengers. As wedrove, I wondered if these passengers would be dropped off before orafter me. If they were dropped off before, I might be even morelate. As we drove further out of town and into a forest, it becameclear to me that perhaps these other passengers were going to thesame place I was. And if they were, what kind of place was I comingto? The forest cleared out, revealing a huge mansion. Two securityguards in black suits and earpieces were at the door, looking intothe forest. A quick glance around the forest revealed other securitycheckpoints, forming a vague perimeter around the mansion. As Iapproached the door, I expected the large Ukrainian man to take mylaptop case and search it, while the other over-sized guard checkedmy body, but instead they simply opened the door for me and allowedme on through. <br /><br />The huge, two story circular entrance hadstairs that followed either wall, with a black and white checkeredtiled floor underneath. A Christmas tree still towered in thecenter, its peak reaching up to the ceiling, branches still ladenwith blue and red ornaments. I was brought to a cloak room on theside, where I could leave my things. The mother came in as I wastaking off my coat and greeted me, introducing me to her daughter,Lydia. “Hello Lydia,” I said. “How are you?” I bent downto greet the girl, extending my hand. She took it and said, “I'mgood.” <br /><br />“What's your name?” <br /><br />“Lydia,” shesaid. She stepped back behind her mothers legs and stared out at mefrom there. <br /><br />“If you'd come this way and wash your hands,”her mother, Valya, told me. She was a dark haired Ukrainian woman. More homely than I would expect from someone this wealthy. I wouldhave expected more of a trophy wife, but clearly she had some hiddenattributes, or the man married simply to have a mother for hischildren, since it was clear she was not of the working type.<br /><br />Ispent an hour and a half with the Lydia and her mother, who mostlysat in the corner of the large parlor room watching us. Lydia and Isat at a small plastic table, playing with a monkey doll and plasticfruits. The entire time, I felt a bit like the Mad Hatter playingtea with little Alice, having her pour me pretend tea into my littleplastic tea cup. “Pour me some tea, Lydia,” I would say.<br /><br />“No,”she would reply. <br /><br />“Why can't I have some tea?”<br /><br />“Mommy!”Lydia said, repeating the word again and again until finally hermother came over and joined us, sitting on another plastic chair. <br /><br />“I'm right here,” she said. Lydia immediately went toher and climbed up into her lap. <br /><br />By the end of the hour anda half, the mother gave me a few pointers. “So, just next time,remember that. And we'll work through Tanya, okay? And give thisenvelope to Tanya, too.” <br /><br />“Sure, right,” I said, takingthe envelope from her and silently wondering what was in it. I feltlike as I was just on a date with the mom and said something wrong –it was that kind of awkward. The driver pulled up in his minivan. This time it was just him and me. As he drove, we chatted in Russiana little, though I was constantly thrown in slight confusion wheneverhe said a word with a “g” in it since Western Ukrainians oftenhave a hard time with the letter, pronouncing it like “h”. Hewas clearly a Western Ukrainian. “Where are you hoinh?” heasked. <br /><br />“Just drop me at the metro, that's fine,” I toldhim. “Kiev's a great city, isn't it?”<br /><br />“Yes, it's reallyhreat.” <br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7173637512659841958?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/wash-your-hands-to-teach.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-25 20:51:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>It was time to get a job. I had a fewleads from Bruce, a guy I had met a while back and stayed in contactwith, meeting him for coffee once in a week or two. He gave me theemail of a place near where I lived, near the Kharkivska metro. “They're about to have a few openings,” he told me, “since I'llbe leaving them soon, and they have a really unmotivated teacherthere too. I trust you're motivated enough. You've got to becareful who you recommend, because their actions can always reflectback to your own reputation.” We were at Kofe Hauz, his hands werepressed tight around a cup of steaming coffee. I was sipping on myown usual mocha. “Just know that even if you send something nowthough, you might not hear back from them for a while. I mean, it isthe break. The break doesn't end for a few more weeks, on January10th. People want to read the application and makeimmediate hires, that's just how it works here, with teachingespecially. If you can't work immediately, don't apply until youcan.” <br /><br />I took his advice and waited until it was closer tothe end of the break. When I was in Kharkivska was when I sent outan email to his lead, Tanya. A few days later, Tanya emailed backand said almost the same thing. “Just come in on January 11th and we can talk.” On January 11th,I came to theschool. The language school had its own office in the elementaryschool and borrowed the classrooms after the school was out. As Iwalked in, there were still some children lingering in the courtyard,even though by seven o'clock the dark had already settled over thecity and stray dogs had come out to make their rounds at trashcontainers everywhere. <br /><br />“You are Tanya?” I asked the girlsitting at the desk on a laptop. <br /><br />“No, I'm Maria,” shesaid, smiling. “Tanya's coming though.” <br /><br />I waited for abit and chatted with Maria. She was something of the main clerk forthe language school. We chatted for a bit. She was from theSoutheastern part of Ukraine, where it was the most industrializedand Russian. She shared the family name of a famous Russian marshalwho was one of Stalin's top advisors during World War II. “Once,in Bulgaria, I was late for a plane because of my connecting flightfrom Turkey. They held the plan for almost an hour for me. TheBulgarian captain greeted me, saying he remembered what the marshalhad done for his own father.” <br /><br />Finally Tanya came, who wasevery bit as attractive as the younger Maria. “We can take you onas a substitute first, but otherwise we have too many teachers as itis. Oh, but I do know one client who has a two year old daughter. Have you worked any with two year olds?” <br /><br />“The youngestI've taught was an eight year old, but I'm willing to try anything,”I said. I couldn't imagine how I'd come across to the mother of atwo year old girl or how I would just teach her. I could just playwith her and talk to her, I suppose that would work. The daughter ofone of my old host families in Georgia was two years old and we gotalong just fine. That's what I told the mother when we talked on thephone. “Though, to be honest, she ended up teaching me moreGeorgian than I taught her English!”<br /></span></div><div><span>I went to the meet the next week onMonday. “You'll go to Lebidinska Metro and meet the driver there,”she instructed me. “Meet there at 8:30.” I was there at 8:35,underestimating how slow the metro would be, and how slow my walk toit would be, since I seemed determined on taking wrong turns. Iexited the metro into the tunnels and first took the tunnel to theright. I didn't think the station would be too complicated, but Ishould have realized that almost all the stations are. The drivercalled me and spoke in Russian, “Where are you?” <br /><br />“I'mhere at the metro,” I said. I was looking around for landmarks. “Where are you?” <br /><br />“I'm on the side with the green fence. Do you see a green fence?”<br /><br />“No, I see a green storethough.” <br /><br />“Oh, you are on the other side.” He hung up. I went back down into the winding maze of tunnels, filled with fruitsellers and window electronics and underwear vendors and came outnear a green fence, behind which was a construction site. <br /><br />Myphone rang again. “Where are you?” the driver asked. <br /><br />“I'mon the side with the construction.” <br /><br />“Oh, I came to meetyou over on the side with the green store, next to where all themarshrutkas are.” <br /><br />“Oh, okay, I'll come to you,” I said. “Just wait.” I went back into the tunnels and up near where Istarted. I went to the parking lot with the marshrutkas and wasimmediately met by a tall man in a black leather coat. “You'reShawn?” <br /><br />“That's me.”<br /><br />“Good, I finally foundyou!” he said. “Come with me, I'm on the other side of themetro.” We went back into the tunnels and came up near theconstruction site. We walked down there a bit and went up to a blackVolkswagen minivan. “If you come back, this is where I always parkand wait, got it?”<br /><br />“Got it,” I nodded as I entered theminivan, which was already full, with six other passengers. As wedrove, I wondered if these passengers would be dropped off before orafter me. If they were dropped off before, I might be even morelate. As we drove further out of town and into a forest, it becameclear to me that perhaps these other passengers were going to thesame place I was. And if they were, what kind of place was I comingto? The forest cleared out, revealing a huge mansion. Two securityguards in black suits and earpieces were at the door, looking intothe forest. A quick glance around the forest revealed other securitycheckpoints, forming a vague perimeter around the mansion. As Iapproached the door, I expected the large Ukrainian man to take mylaptop case and search it, while the other over-sized guard checkedmy body, but instead they simply opened the door for me and allowedme on through. <br /><br />The huge, two story circular entrance hadstairs that followed either wall, with a black and white checkeredtiled floor underneath. A Christmas tree still towered in thecenter, its peak reaching up to the ceiling, branches still ladenwith blue and red ornaments. I was brought to a cloak room on theside, where I could leave my things. The mother came in as I wastaking off my coat and greeted me, introducing me to her daughter,Lydia. “Hello Lydia,” I said. “How are you?” I bent downto greet the girl, extending my hand. She took it and said, “I'mgood.” <br /><br />“What's your name?” <br /><br />“Lydia,” shesaid. She stepped back behind her mothers legs and stared out at mefrom there. <br /><br />“If you'd come this way and wash your hands,”her mother, Valya, told me. She was a dark haired Ukrainian woman. More homely than I would expect from someone this wealthy. I wouldhave expected more of a trophy wife, but clearly she had some hiddenattributes, or the man married simply to have a mother for hischildren, since it was clear she was not of the working type.<br /><br />Ispent an hour and a half with the Lydia and her mother, who mostlysat in the corner of the large parlor room watching us. Lydia and Isat at a small plastic table, playing with a monkey doll and plasticfruits. The entire time, I felt a bit like the Mad Hatter playingtea with little Alice, having her pour me pretend tea into my littleplastic tea cup. “Pour me some tea, Lydia,” I would say.<br /><br />“No,”she would reply. <br /><br />“Why can't I have some tea?”<br /><br />“Mommy!”Lydia said, repeating the word again and again until finally hermother came over and joined us, sitting on another plastic chair. <br /><br />“I'm right here,” she said. Lydia immediately went toher and climbed up into her lap. <br /><br />By the end of the hour anda half, the mother gave me a few pointers. “So, just next time,remember that. And we'll work through Tanya, okay? And give thisenvelope to Tanya, too.” <br /><br />“Sure, right,” I said, takingthe envelope from her and silently wondering what was in it. I feltlike as I was just on a date with the mom and said something wrong –it was that kind of awkward. The driver pulled up in his minivan. This time it was just him and me. As he drove, we chatted in Russiana little, though I was constantly thrown in slight confusion wheneverhe said a word with a “g” in it since Western Ukrainians oftenhave a hard time with the letter, pronouncing it like “h”. Hewas clearly a Western Ukrainian. “Where are you hoinh?” heasked. <br /><br />“Just drop me at the metro, that's fine,” I toldhim. “Kiev's a great city, isn't it?”<br /><br />“Yes, it's reallyhreat.” <br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-7173637512659841958?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/25/appreciating-the-good/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-25 15:17:24 </div> <div> As we&#8217;ve mentioned, probably ad nauseum to many of you, we had a bit of a rough time adjusting after &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/25/appreciating-the-good/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3160&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/in-search-of-shisha.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-24 16:28:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>After I moved into my apartment, Ifound myself having the “now what” moment. My week of partyingin Kharkiv had come to an end and I had to find new ways to occupymyself in Kiev. I had already been building an array of friends herebefore I had left, so I decided to tap into that pool and get back intouch with Bridget. “You want to get some drinks sometime?” Iasked her over Facebook. <br /><br />“Actually, you know there's aHash meeting and a concert tomorrow,” she wrote back. “You wantto come?” <br /><br />“Right on.” Hashing is an international clubthat involves jogging, scavenger hunting and drinking. I loved atthe very least doing a third of those activities. Basically, what itinvolves is a group of people meeting at a pub somewhere in a city. They then follow a “maze” of flour spots that the leaders haveput out and they try to find the correct location. At the end ofthis, there's typically a break for beer followed by another flourmaze, then after the hashing is done, everybody meets again to drinkup all the calories they burned while jogging around in circleslooking for the right path. The things some people invent to passthe time in this life! All in all though, I suppose it's better thanwearing hair underwear and flogging yourself in a dungeon.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o94FOSqc2Ac/Tx7aBjc6PiI/AAAAAAAAJCs/b1Dszyfuqus/s1600/P1020142.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o94FOSqc2Ac/Tx7aBjc6PiI/AAAAAAAAJCs/b1Dszyfuqus/s400/P1020142.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>One view along the hash, piano made of tiles</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>Organizing the hash was Dima, the same large Ukrainian guywho was trying to kiss me at Anika's party. I didn't mind seeing himagain, since he seemed a decent enough fellow, despite all thedrunken kisses. Though I got used to men trying to kiss me a lotwith their slobbery lips while I was in Georgia, so this wasn't toohuge of a concern for me. I realized that some Eastern Europeans andAsians just tend to take the bromance thing to a whole new notch.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IS-NvTrhwj8/Tx7aSEtUfEI/AAAAAAAAJC0/LpJuKYvWhF4/s1600/P1020145.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IS-NvTrhwj8/Tx7aSEtUfEI/AAAAAAAAJC0/LpJuKYvWhF4/s400/P1020145.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>more public art on the route</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>There was a decent mix of foreigners and Ukrainians in thegroup. There was one English guy who was in Kiev teaching Englishfor one company. “You should apply there, they take everyone,”he said. I did apply later, but never heard back from them. Thenthere was Daria, a girl who reminded me of the cartoon character ofthe same name, with a very dry wit and a face that looked like shewas never impressed with anything. She carried a professional stylecamera with her and was taking pictures of all the different scenesof the city that we witnessed. There was also Tanya, another girlwho was obsessed with drawing, she kept a sketch book with herwherever she went. Her goal in life was to design monsters for videogames. In the meantime, she was in love with a guy from Canada whoshe may or may not see again. <br /><br />After the hash, we all wentback to Anika's place where we tanked up on beer, vodka andsandwiches before we headed on to the concert. The concert was at aplace called <a href="http://babuin.ua/">Babuin</a>, a more Bohemian style cafe that commonly had livemusic. Books lined all the walls and Ukrainian hipsters adorned thechairs, reading books and surfing on their MacBooks while adjustingtheir fake, horn rimmed glasses. Though I have a natural disdain forhipsters – back when I lived in Denver, I used to wax ecstatic forhours regarding how the degeneration of a society can be measured bythe presence of fixed gear bicycles – I always enjoyed theirlocales. Mostly because hipster girls tend to be fairly attractive,slim, wearing black dresses and makeup. The only downside was thathipster girls tended to like more about as much as they'd like Tupac. <br /><br />The band that we watched was a folk band, playing a varietyof old Ukrainian songs on ethnic instruments. The music was a bitstaunch and rigid though, and there was something a bit tooaristocratic about it to make it real folksy.&nbsp; It was more like if the king hired a "folk" band to play something nice for the nobility, like when Presidents of the United States of America played at a Billy Clinton rally in the nineties.<br /><br />Moreinteresting was when they were finished. In the other room entered agroup of street bards, dressed up in colored cloaks and masks. Theycarried instruments with them, violins, accordions and bass drums,along with a stench that could be smelled from the other room. Theyplayed a much more lively version of Ukrainian folk. They played twoor three songs in the bar, while sending a bouncy woman around with ahat to collect money from the onlookers, before they retreated backup the stairs and went back onto the street. I assumed they weresome sort of musicians' collective who just toured bars and tried tolive off tip money. <br /><br />My friends Alex and Katsia showed up,with an expressed intention to go somewhere to smoke some hookah. Assome of our troupe broke up, Alex stood up and said, “Let's get outof here and get some shisha.” We took some of the hashers with usin a jaunt across town, looking for a hookah place where we knew wewouldn't have to reserve a table – in most Kievan bars, tablereservations are a must, as they usually don't have standing room inmost of the bars. Alex took a path that led us through alleys andcourtyards, while Daria kept calling a boy to tell her their exactlocation. <br /><br />“Why doesn't he just meet us where we're going?”I asked her. <br /><br />“Because he wants to try to catch up withus,” she said. <br /><br />“But with this route, he'll never be ableto find us,” I said.<br /><br />“He keeps saying we're going thewrong direction.” <br /><br />We finally found the bar, and a few ofthe other hashers caught up with us, but unfortunately the bar hadstopped serving hookah for some mysterious reason. “They usuallyhave hookah,” Alex explained. “I wouldn't have led you guys llthe way here if I had known.” “I thought it was a fun route,”I chimed in. “Maybe the hookah guy is just out? Who knows. Palata No. 6 serves shisha, we can check if they've got any.” Wewent on to Palata No. 6, but without calling ahead for reservations,we found it impossible to get a seat there. We decided to just walkin one direction go to the first place that served hookah, <a href="http://www.inyourpocket.com/ukraine/kyiv/restaurants-cafes/Uzbek/Uruk_86562v">Uruk</a>, whichended up being an Uzbek restaurant near Zoloti Vorota. Uzbek foodrevolved mostly around pilaf and these dumplings that mysteriouslylooked a lot like Georgian khinkali. I opted against ordering them,since their cost was the same as how much khinkali cost at theGeorgian restaurant I had found in Kiev a month back. The hookah wasalso the most expensive I had found yet in Ukraine. It was more than<a href="http://elmate.com.ua/">El Mate</a>, and didn't have the premium hookah service and flavor thataccompanied the usual trip to El Mate. <br /><br />Dima caught up withus at the Uzbek place, but only at the end. Everyone had to leave tocatch their respective metros. I was the last out, leaving Daria andDima alone at the bar. I raced to the metro, still having plenty oftime for the last train. Getting out at my stop some 30 minuteslater, the air was crisp and cold and I listened to my headphones onthe walk back to my apartment, ever enjoying the lights of thesurrounding apartment towers. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-101958966060198505?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/in-search-of-shisha.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-24 16:28:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>After I moved into my apartment, Ifound myself having the “now what” moment. My week of partyingin Kharkiv had come to an end and I had to find new ways to occupymyself in Kiev. I had already been building an array of friends herebefore I had left, so I decided to tap into that pool and get back intouch with Bridget. “You want to get some drinks sometime?” Iasked her over Facebook. <br /><br />“Actually, you know there's aHash meeting and a concert tomorrow,” she wrote back. “You wantto come?” <br /><br />“Right on.” Hashing is an international clubthat involves jogging, scavenger hunting and drinking. I loved atthe very least doing a third of those activities. Basically, what itinvolves is a group of people meeting at a pub somewhere in a city. They then follow a “maze” of flour spots that the leaders haveput out and they try to find the correct location. At the end ofthis, there's typically a break for beer followed by another flourmaze, then after the hashing is done, everybody meets again to drinkup all the calories they burned while jogging around in circleslooking for the right path. The things some people invent to passthe time in this life! All in all though, I suppose it's better thanwearing hair underwear and flogging yourself in a dungeon.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o94FOSqc2Ac/Tx7aBjc6PiI/AAAAAAAAJCs/b1Dszyfuqus/s1600/P1020142.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o94FOSqc2Ac/Tx7aBjc6PiI/AAAAAAAAJCs/b1Dszyfuqus/s400/P1020142.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>One view along the hash, piano made of tiles</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>Organizing the hash was Dima, the same large Ukrainian guywho was trying to kiss me at Anika's party. I didn't mind seeing himagain, since he seemed a decent enough fellow, despite all thedrunken kisses. Though I got used to men trying to kiss me a lotwith their slobbery lips while I was in Georgia, so this wasn't toohuge of a concern for me. I realized that some Eastern Europeans andAsians just tend to take the bromance thing to a whole new notch.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IS-NvTrhwj8/Tx7aSEtUfEI/AAAAAAAAJC0/LpJuKYvWhF4/s1600/P1020145.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IS-NvTrhwj8/Tx7aSEtUfEI/AAAAAAAAJC0/LpJuKYvWhF4/s400/P1020145.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>more public art on the route</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span>There was a decent mix of foreigners and Ukrainians in thegroup. There was one English guy who was in Kiev teaching Englishfor one company. “You should apply there, they take everyone,”he said. I did apply later, but never heard back from them. Thenthere was Daria, a girl who reminded me of the cartoon character ofthe same name, with a very dry wit and a face that looked like shewas never impressed with anything. She carried a professional stylecamera with her and was taking pictures of all the different scenesof the city that we witnessed. There was also Tanya, another girlwho was obsessed with drawing, she kept a sketch book with herwherever she went. Her goal in life was to design monsters for videogames. In the meantime, she was in love with a guy from Canada whoshe may or may not see again. <br /><br />After the hash, we all wentback to Anika's place where we tanked up on beer, vodka andsandwiches before we headed on to the concert. The concert was at aplace called <a href="http://babuin.ua/">Babuin</a>, a more Bohemian style cafe that commonly had livemusic. Books lined all the walls and Ukrainian hipsters adorned thechairs, reading books and surfing on their MacBooks while adjustingtheir fake, horn rimmed glasses. Though I have a natural disdain forhipsters – back when I lived in Denver, I used to wax ecstatic forhours regarding how the degeneration of a society can be measured bythe presence of fixed gear bicycles – I always enjoyed theirlocales. Mostly because hipster girls tend to be fairly attractive,slim, wearing black dresses and makeup. The only downside was thathipster girls tended to like more about as much as they'd like Tupac. <br /><br />The band that we watched was a folk band, playing a varietyof old Ukrainian songs on ethnic instruments. The music was a bitstaunch and rigid though, and there was something a bit tooaristocratic about it to make it real folksy.&nbsp; It was more like if the king hired a "folk" band to play something nice for the nobility, like when Presidents of the United States of America played at a Billy Clinton rally in the nineties.<br /><br />Moreinteresting was when they were finished. In the other room entered agroup of street bards, dressed up in colored cloaks and masks. Theycarried instruments with them, violins, accordions and bass drums,along with a stench that could be smelled from the other room. Theyplayed a much more lively version of Ukrainian folk. They played twoor three songs in the bar, while sending a bouncy woman around with ahat to collect money from the onlookers, before they retreated backup the stairs and went back onto the street. I assumed they weresome sort of musicians' collective who just toured bars and tried tolive off tip money. <br /><br />My friends Alex and Katsia showed up,with an expressed intention to go somewhere to smoke some hookah. Assome of our troupe broke up, Alex stood up and said, “Let's get outof here and get some shisha.” We took some of the hashers with usin a jaunt across town, looking for a hookah place where we knew wewouldn't have to reserve a table – in most Kievan bars, tablereservations are a must, as they usually don't have standing room inmost of the bars. Alex took a path that led us through alleys andcourtyards, while Daria kept calling a boy to tell her their exactlocation. <br /><br />“Why doesn't he just meet us where we're going?”I asked her. <br /><br />“Because he wants to try to catch up withus,” she said. <br /><br />“But with this route, he'll never be ableto find us,” I said.<br /><br />“He keeps saying we're going thewrong direction.” <br /><br />We finally found the bar, and a few ofthe other hashers caught up with us, but unfortunately the bar hadstopped serving hookah for some mysterious reason. “They usuallyhave hookah,” Alex explained. “I wouldn't have led you guys llthe way here if I had known.” “I thought it was a fun route,”I chimed in. “Maybe the hookah guy is just out? Who knows. Palata No. 6 serves shisha, we can check if they've got any.” Wewent on to Palata No. 6, but without calling ahead for reservations,we found it impossible to get a seat there. We decided to just walkin one direction go to the first place that served hookah, <a href="http://www.inyourpocket.com/ukraine/kyiv/restaurants-cafes/Uzbek/Uruk_86562v">Uruk</a>, whichended up being an Uzbek restaurant near Zoloti Vorota. Uzbek foodrevolved mostly around pilaf and these dumplings that mysteriouslylooked a lot like Georgian khinkali. I opted against ordering them,since their cost was the same as how much khinkali cost at theGeorgian restaurant I had found in Kiev a month back. The hookah wasalso the most expensive I had found yet in Ukraine. It was more than<a href="http://elmate.com.ua/">El Mate</a>, and didn't have the premium hookah service and flavor thataccompanied the usual trip to El Mate. <br /><br />Dima caught up withus at the Uzbek place, but only at the end. Everyone had to leave tocatch their respective metros. I was the last out, leaving Daria andDima alone at the bar. I raced to the metro, still having plenty oftime for the last train. Getting out at my stop some 30 minuteslater, the air was crisp and cold and I listened to my headphones onthe walk back to my apartment, ever enjoying the lights of thesurrounding apartment towers. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-101958966060198505?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-first-ever-snow-day.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7543">The Road is Life</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-22 15:53:00 </div> <div> Friday was the first day back to school.&nbsp; Friday was also the day it snowed.&nbsp; A lot.&nbsp; I am fortunate in that I live in one of the warmest regions of Georgia, so last year we maybe got one or two days with snow, and it didn't really stick.&nbsp; Friday, however, was different.&nbsp; And since people here aren't used to snow like the rest of the country, no one went to school.&nbsp; I trekked my way there around 8:30 am because I knew the teachers would show up, and one or two students, and then after a brief snowball fight (it seemed like it was Georgians against Americans...yeah, there is only one American in my village) I headed back home to drink some tea.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eifk8GlJYk0/TxwwICaZZnI/AAAAAAAACRo/uWei1lTZoGg/s1600/DSC_0302.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="207" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eifk8GlJYk0/TxwwICaZZnI/AAAAAAAACRo/uWei1lTZoGg/s320/DSC_0302.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q4I6E0CGBQE/TxwwLH3DPaI/AAAAAAAACRw/qqzdrT-mcp0/s1600/DSC_0303.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q4I6E0CGBQE/TxwwLH3DPaI/AAAAAAAACRw/qqzdrT-mcp0/s320/DSC_0303.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s_ydK8zr7pQ/TxwwNFSJCyI/AAAAAAAACR4/3uwweVvbWps/s1600/DSC_0304.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s_ydK8zr7pQ/TxwwNFSJCyI/AAAAAAAACR4/3uwweVvbWps/s320/DSC_0304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9derE9NEGSo/TxwwPeiVQ6I/AAAAAAAACSA/EupxkR2GRJU/s1600/DSC_0307.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9derE9NEGSo/TxwwPeiVQ6I/AAAAAAAACSA/EupxkR2GRJU/s320/DSC_0307.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jn5RsC65nIg/TxwwRF6dHrI/AAAAAAAACSI/BC6JR9A2CVY/s1600/IMG_0433.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jn5RsC65nIg/TxwwRF6dHrI/AAAAAAAACSI/BC6JR9A2CVY/s320/IMG_0433.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tnEZQtJdZWs/TxwwTI8cqhI/AAAAAAAACSQ/Dg2r4WfkSS4/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tnEZQtJdZWs/TxwwTI8cqhI/AAAAAAAACSQ/Dg2r4WfkSS4/s320/IMG_0437.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iBRlkf1bnQ/TxwwUvKeFPI/AAAAAAAACSY/8mRs1GhPrXs/s1600/IMG_0461.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iBRlkf1bnQ/TxwwUvKeFPI/AAAAAAAACSY/8mRs1GhPrXs/s320/IMG_0461.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4092943856710090372-3968581275863788768?l=kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/azeri.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-21 19:35:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>One morning, Sasha had called fromKharkiv. I was in the other room and only heard tidbits of theconversation. “The police were called? What for? There hasn'tbeen anything here Sasha, it's been all quiet. There was a kidsparty upstairs, but that was it. Shawn's been quiet. There hasn'tbeen anything happening. No, Sasha, you need to talk with thelandlord and put your foot down. Nothing's been happening here.” The conversation gave me a little to worry about, but not much tothink about. I went back to surfing on Facebook. But then laterthat day, there was a knock on the door. I approached it, lookingfor a key, but then it opened on its own. A short, wide man withdarker skin and a thick, Stalin-esque mustache walked in. He lookedCaucasian, but I couldn't tell if he was Azeri, Armenian or Georgian,he had one of those pan-Caucasus looks about him. <br /><br />Heimmediately walked in and started looking around. “Who are you?”I asked in Russian. <br /><br />“I am the owner,” he said inRussian. “Who are you?”<br /><br />“We're Sasha's friends,” Isaid. I didn't know how much he knew about us or if Sasha had eventold him about renting the other rooms out to other people. Being aninternational, you quickly learned that things like housing youwanted to know the least about and accepted the most tenaciousagreements. <br /><br />“Which rooms are you staying in? That one?”he pointed to Chris's room. The room was a disaster. Papers wereeverywhere, the white pleather couch was missing cushions, there wasa mattress on the floor. <br /><br />“Yes, we're both in that one.” <br /><br />“And there's another occupied one,” he said, looking backat my room. “Who's in that one?”<br /><br />“I don't know, we justgot here.” <br /><br />He pulled us into the kitchen. “Listen,”he said, putting his hands on the table. “Where are youfrom?”<br /><br />“We're Americans.”<br /><br />Chris chimed in, “Tellhim we have our documents. Everything's in order. I can show him mywork documents and registration.”<br /><br />“We have our documents. Everything's in order. He's got a work visa.” <br /><br />Chris ranout of the room for a moment. The owner said, “I'm just worriedabout foreigners. You know, we are not supposed to have foreigners. They bring attention. You know, if someone asks about foreigners,then the police might come and check into and I'd have to pay thebribes. I don't like that. I'm weary about foreigners.”<br /><br />“What'she saying?” Chris asked me when he came back in with a stack ofsheets. I translated for him. Chris hand the papers to the owner. “These guys are always overwhelmed by papers,” he said to me inEnglish, handing over all his papers. <br /><br />“What did he say?”the owner said.<br /><br />“He said that he was working in L'vov,” Itranslated. While the owner perused the documents, I asked him wherehe was from. <br /><br />“Azerbaijan.”<br /><br />“Azerbaijan! Yaxshi!” I exclaimed. “Yaxshi” meant “good” in Azeri. Iswitched to Azeri. “How are you?”<br /><br />“I'm good,” he saidin Azeri. “And you?” <br /><br />“I'm good too. How long haveyou been in Ukraine?” <br /><br />“For 20 years,” he said. <br /><br />Ihad expended my knowledge of Azeri, so I switched back to Russian. “20 years? That's a long time. Do you go back often?” <br /><br />“Yes,often,” he said. “So how long are you guys staying here?”<br /><br />Chris had gotten up to fix some tea for us. <br /><br />“We'vebeen staying for a week.” <br /><br />“How long will you stay?” heasked.<br /><br />“Can we stay for a couple of months?”<br /><br />“Whatwould you pay?” <br /><br />“How about 1300 a month?” This wasthe same amount that Sasha was charging me. I figured it would beokay to offer that. <br /><br />“How about in American dollars?” heasked. <br /><br />“That is a joke, right?”<br /><br />“Yes, ofcourse,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was relaxing a bit. Onlya small flicker of a smile came across his face, but I couldn't readwhy he smiled like such. I also noticed that he didn't necessarilyagree to that price. <br /><br />“So why are you guys in Ukraine?”he asked. <br /><br />After translating the question, Chris had metranslate his response. “I'm here because I want to get more intoOrthodoxy. I'm really active in the Church.” <br /><br />“And whatare you?” the owner asked me. <br /><br />“Catholic,” I replied. <br /><br />“I'm Muslim.” <br /><br />This is when Chris startedreciting a syrah. Chris had, in the course of his career as anEnglish teacher, lived and worked in Syria, where he also studiedIslam and Arabic. When Chris finished reciting the syrah, the ownertook it up and recited the rest. “Do you know what thatmeans?”<br /><br />“It means that God is one,” Chris said. <br /><br />“Yes,” the owner said. “Listen, when someone comeshere, tell them you are a friend of Taymaz. That's me. If someonecomes asking, they can't know you are living here. Just tell themthat you are friends of mine and are visiting. You're visiting fromL'vov. Understand?”<br /><br />“Yeah, sure, no problem,” wereplied. <br /><br />“Listen, Taymaz, do you know where any good cheapAzeri restaurants are around here?” I asked him, interested inwhere I could get some lamb shish kebab and pilaf. <br /><br />“Wecould go get some food now if you want to join us?” Chris said. <br /><br />“Okay, I know a place very close,” Taymaz said. “Butfirst I need to say my prayers.” He stood up, took off his jacketand went into the next room to say the prayers. I drank the rest ofmy tea while Chris went on talking, theorizing about just why Taymazhad come in. <br /><br />“Do you think the whole thing about thepolice was a ruse?” he asked. <br /><br />“It might well have been. He might have just wanted to check out the situation here.” <br /><br />Taymaz came back in the room. “What do you want toeat?”<br /><br />“I guess some shish kebab,” I told him. <br /><br />“I'llcall a place.”<br /><br />“Before we go, I need to go shower.” Iwent to take a shower. When I came back, Taymaz was still sittingthere with Chris. Not having a common language, they sat silently. “How about 1600 grivna for the room per month?” he asked. <br /><br />“Ineed to talk with Sasha about that,” I replied. I had agreed withSasha at 1300 grivna, plus 200 for the bills. <br /><br />“I need totalk with him about that,” he said. “1600 grivna?” herepeated, holding up a calculator. I knew that if I had refused todeal, then it would be obvious to him that we had made an arrangementwith Sasha already. But on the other hand, we didn't know what Sashahad arranged with him and if Sasha was receiving a cut from our rentmoney. I wouldn't have minded that, as long as Sasha would have toldme in advance what exactly was going on. After Taymaz insisted onsolidifying the deal, I decided to go ahead and enter intonegotiations. <br /><br />“1500, but only if it includes everything. All bills paid,” I said. <br /><br />Taymaz considered and thenagreed. “Okay then,” he said. “I don't want to put you guysout on the street during winter. Where would you go? 1500 is okay,with everything.” <br /><br />Taymaz then brought us down to his carand drove us over the river. He was on the phone, so I had to waitbefore I asked him where he was taking us. I heard him saying on thephone though, “2,000 would be normal, yes? 2,000 for each room,with all the bills paid. In March we do that. The contract is untilthe end of March.” I didn't know what contract he was talkingabout, but I can only assume he had a surprise waiting for Sasha whenit was time to renegotiate. <br /><br />When Taymaz hung up, I asked,“Where are we going?”<br /><br />“Ah, that other place was out oflamb. I'm taking you to another place I know about. But I don'tknow how it is.”<br /><br />“It's not expensive is it?” <br /><br />“Idon't know, I've never been there.” When he parked the caropposite the street of the restaurant, he said, “I don't eat atrestaurants anyway. I eat only clean food. So I'll leave you twoguys here.” <br /><br />“Where's the metro from here?”<br /><br />“Far,you can just take the bus back. Any bus.” <br /><br />“Right. Theidea was to eat with you, Taymaz.” <br /><br />“No, that's okay, Idon't eat out as it is.” <br /><br />He left us on the side of theroad. Luckily the temperature hadn't turned too cold yet. “Do youreally want to eat here?” asked Chris.<br /><br />“No, not really,let's get back. I'm supposed to meet a girl soon anyway.” </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-4902406898728876044?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/azeri.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-21 19:35:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>One morning, Sasha had called fromKharkiv. I was in the other room and only heard tidbits of theconversation. “The police were called? What for? There hasn'tbeen anything here Sasha, it's been all quiet. There was a kidsparty upstairs, but that was it. Shawn's been quiet. There hasn'tbeen anything happening. No, Sasha, you need to talk with thelandlord and put your foot down. Nothing's been happening here.” The conversation gave me a little to worry about, but not much tothink about. I went back to surfing on Facebook. But then laterthat day, there was a knock on the door. I approached it, lookingfor a key, but then it opened on its own. A short, wide man withdarker skin and a thick, Stalin-esque mustache walked in. He lookedCaucasian, but I couldn't tell if he was Azeri, Armenian or Georgian,he had one of those pan-Caucasus looks about him. <br /><br />Heimmediately walked in and started looking around. “Who are you?”I asked in Russian. <br /><br />“I am the owner,” he said inRussian. “Who are you?”<br /><br />“We're Sasha's friends,” Isaid. I didn't know how much he knew about us or if Sasha had eventold him about renting the other rooms out to other people. Being aninternational, you quickly learned that things like housing youwanted to know the least about and accepted the most tenaciousagreements. <br /><br />“Which rooms are you staying in? That one?”he pointed to Chris's room. The room was a disaster. Papers wereeverywhere, the white pleather couch was missing cushions, there wasa mattress on the floor. <br /><br />“Yes, we're both in that one.” <br /><br />“And there's another occupied one,” he said, looking backat my room. “Who's in that one?”<br /><br />“I don't know, we justgot here.” <br /><br />He pulled us into the kitchen. “Listen,”he said, putting his hands on the table. “Where are youfrom?”<br /><br />“We're Americans.”<br /><br />Chris chimed in, “Tellhim we have our documents. Everything's in order. I can show him mywork documents and registration.”<br /><br />“We have our documents. Everything's in order. He's got a work visa.” <br /><br />Chris ranout of the room for a moment. The owner said, “I'm just worriedabout foreigners. You know, we are not supposed to have foreigners. They bring attention. You know, if someone asks about foreigners,then the police might come and check into and I'd have to pay thebribes. I don't like that. I'm weary about foreigners.”<br /><br />“What'she saying?” Chris asked me when he came back in with a stack ofsheets. I translated for him. Chris hand the papers to the owner. “These guys are always overwhelmed by papers,” he said to me inEnglish, handing over all his papers. <br /><br />“What did he say?”the owner said.<br /><br />“He said that he was working in L'vov,” Itranslated. While the owner perused the documents, I asked him wherehe was from. <br /><br />“Azerbaijan.”<br /><br />“Azerbaijan! Yaxshi!” I exclaimed. “Yaxshi” meant “good” in Azeri. Iswitched to Azeri. “How are you?”<br /><br />“I'm good,” he saidin Azeri. “And you?” <br /><br />“I'm good too. How long haveyou been in Ukraine?” <br /><br />“For 20 years,” he said. <br /><br />Ihad expended my knowledge of Azeri, so I switched back to Russian. “20 years? That's a long time. Do you go back often?” <br /><br />“Yes,often,” he said. “So how long are you guys staying here?”<br /><br />Chris had gotten up to fix some tea for us. <br /><br />“We'vebeen staying for a week.” <br /><br />“How long will you stay?” heasked.<br /><br />“Can we stay for a couple of months?”<br /><br />“Whatwould you pay?” <br /><br />“How about 1300 a month?” This wasthe same amount that Sasha was charging me. I figured it would beokay to offer that. <br /><br />“How about in American dollars?” heasked. <br /><br />“That is a joke, right?”<br /><br />“Yes, ofcourse,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was relaxing a bit. Onlya small flicker of a smile came across his face, but I couldn't readwhy he smiled like such. I also noticed that he didn't necessarilyagree to that price. <br /><br />“So why are you guys in Ukraine?”he asked. <br /><br />After translating the question, Chris had metranslate his response. “I'm here because I want to get more intoOrthodoxy. I'm really active in the Church.” <br /><br />“And whatare you?” the owner asked me. <br /><br />“Catholic,” I replied. <br /><br />“I'm Muslim.” <br /><br />This is when Chris startedreciting a syrah. Chris had, in the course of his career as anEnglish teacher, lived and worked in Syria, where he also studiedIslam and Arabic. When Chris finished reciting the syrah, the ownertook it up and recited the rest. “Do you know what thatmeans?”<br /><br />“It means that God is one,” Chris said. <br /><br />“Yes,” the owner said. “Listen, when someone comeshere, tell them you are a friend of Taymaz. That's me. If someonecomes asking, they can't know you are living here. Just tell themthat you are friends of mine and are visiting. You're visiting fromL'vov. Understand?”<br /><br />“Yeah, sure, no problem,” wereplied. <br /><br />“Listen, Taymaz, do you know where any good cheapAzeri restaurants are around here?” I asked him, interested inwhere I could get some lamb shish kebab and pilaf. <br /><br />“Wecould go get some food now if you want to join us?” Chris said. <br /><br />“Okay, I know a place very close,” Taymaz said. “Butfirst I need to say my prayers.” He stood up, took off his jacketand went into the next room to say the prayers. I drank the rest ofmy tea while Chris went on talking, theorizing about just why Taymazhad come in. <br /><br />“Do you think the whole thing about thepolice was a ruse?” he asked. <br /><br />“It might well have been. He might have just wanted to check out the situation here.” <br /><br />Taymaz came back in the room. “What do you want toeat?”<br /><br />“I guess some shish kebab,” I told him. <br /><br />“I'llcall a place.”<br /><br />“Before we go, I need to go shower.” Iwent to take a shower. When I came back, Taymaz was still sittingthere with Chris. Not having a common language, they sat silently. “How about 1600 grivna for the room per month?” he asked. <br /><br />“Ineed to talk with Sasha about that,” I replied. I had agreed withSasha at 1300 grivna, plus 200 for the bills. <br /><br />“I need totalk with him about that,” he said. “1600 grivna?” herepeated, holding up a calculator. I knew that if I had refused todeal, then it would be obvious to him that we had made an arrangementwith Sasha already. But on the other hand, we didn't know what Sashahad arranged with him and if Sasha was receiving a cut from our rentmoney. I wouldn't have minded that, as long as Sasha would have toldme in advance what exactly was going on. After Taymaz insisted onsolidifying the deal, I decided to go ahead and enter intonegotiations. <br /><br />“1500, but only if it includes everything. All bills paid,” I said. <br /><br />Taymaz considered and thenagreed. “Okay then,” he said. “I don't want to put you guysout on the street during winter. Where would you go? 1500 is okay,with everything.” <br /><br />Taymaz then brought us down to his carand drove us over the river. He was on the phone, so I had to waitbefore I asked him where he was taking us. I heard him saying on thephone though, “2,000 would be normal, yes? 2,000 for each room,with all the bills paid. In March we do that. The contract is untilthe end of March.” I didn't know what contract he was talkingabout, but I can only assume he had a surprise waiting for Sasha whenit was time to renegotiate. <br /><br />When Taymaz hung up, I asked,“Where are we going?”<br /><br />“Ah, that other place was out oflamb. I'm taking you to another place I know about. But I don'tknow how it is.”<br /><br />“It's not expensive is it?” <br /><br />“Idon't know, I've never been there.” When he parked the caropposite the street of the restaurant, he said, “I don't eat atrestaurants anyway. I eat only clean food. So I'll leave you twoguys here.” <br /><br />“Where's the metro from here?”<br /><br />“Far,you can just take the bus back. Any bus.” <br /><br />“Right. Theidea was to eat with you, Taymaz.” <br /><br />“No, that's okay, Idon't eat out as it is.” <br /><br />He left us on the side of theroad. Luckily the temperature hadn't turned too cold yet. “Do youreally want to eat here?” asked Chris.<br /><br />“No, not really,let's get back. I'm supposed to meet a girl soon anyway.” </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-4902406898728876044?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/that-guy.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-19 16:34:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEjbakvynUQ/TxhHg_R1a5I/AAAAAAAAJCY/VGY5n6NigK8/s1600/P1020170.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEjbakvynUQ/TxhHg_R1a5I/AAAAAAAAJCY/VGY5n6NigK8/s320/P1020170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>near my hood</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;<span>I got back to Kiev. From the trainstation, I decided to first go to the new apartment and try out thekeys. I was in a rush to make sure I hadn't been scammed again andwas given a fake set of keys while someone scored on my money. ThenI was going to go back into town to get my main backpack, which I hadleft at the hostel, since I didn't want to drag it all aroundKharkiv. When I made it back to my apartment, I met my new roommate,Chris. When I came into the apartment, he was asleep, but soon wokeup. When he came to introduce himself to me, he wore a towel wrappedaround his waist and a t-shirt. He was short and bald, with intensebrown eyes that seemed to pop out and shake when he talked withsomeone – and he never talked about frivolous things. As his eyespopped, he would also lick his lips constantly, almost appearing likeHeath Ledger's rendition of the Joker, just without makeup, scars andknives. He would prefer guns anyway. <br /><br />I sat down and decidedto try to talk with him for a bit to get to know my new neighbor. Chris was originally from the Pacific Northwest. He had searchedmost of his early life for a religion that he felt fit the Bible themost, going from Baptist to Pentecostal before finally setting onCatholicism. He became a very strict and traditional Catholic, evengoing on many Catholic missions around the world, from India to SouthAmerica. Eventually, he became disillusioned to what he saw was thecollapse of the Church due to liberalism and decentralization. Hedecided he'd look into Eastern Christianity. He went to L'vov,Ukraine, to see how the Greek Catholics were, if they were holdingtrue to a pre-Vatican II Church. When he saw the Novus Ordo massbeing practiced there, he was further disillusioned and decided tojoin the Russian Orthodox Church – what he saw was the mostconservative of all churches (I've since tried to tell him thatGeorgians managed to beat the Russians in having a conservative andtraditional church). <br /><br />“I can't stand America anymore,” hetold me. He got up to stir his pot of legumes and grains that wasboiling on the stove. “It's full of degenerate mongrels. We'velet our society completely collapse. I just can't stand it. I hadto come here to find something better. But you know, even here, withhow everyone is looking to the West, you can see the degenerationslowly creep in. Here still, though, they have family values. Theydon't divorce, the wives serve their husbands, you know. Childrenare more obedient, because you can hit them if they aren't. Theystay in line. When I was teaching classes in a Catholic school inIndia, I was trying to keep the class calm. But they were crazy. The headmaster told me, 'Look Chris, just put a stick on your table.' So I did. And the class was calm for a few days, but then theyrealized I wasn't going to use the stick. A few days later, theheadmaster came back in, 'Look Chris,' he said to me, 'you'll findthe boy who is loudest and noisiest of them, just give him a thwack.' And I did. They shut up and paid attention the rest of thesemester.” <br /><br />Sipping tea, after I got my bag, he went on,“You know what another problem in America is? Mexicans. I used tothink they'd have a positive influence, because they had familyvalues. But they don't have family values anymore. They've come toAmerica and degenerated in all the negative ways Americans have andare even worse, since they come to America and don't even try toadapt to the culture. They keep speaking their Spanish. When Iworked on a farm, I'd work side by side with the Mexicans. They'rehard workers. And even though I spoke Spanish, I would only speakEnglish to them because they were in my country and they should bespeaking English.” <br /><br />“But you don't speak Ukrainian orRussian?” I interjected. <br /><br />“That's something differententirely,” he replied. “They're in our country, wanting all ofour rights and benefits, they have to learn our language.” <br /><br />“Manyjust want to make money and go back home.” <br /><br />“That mightbe how it used to be, but now Mexico is even more degenerate thanAmerica, with how bad all the gang violence has gotten. And they'rebringing all that violence into America. We should just get rid ofthem all, and the ones that don't want to go should be shot.” <br /><br />“Idon't know, I think language is a thing of economics. I don'tunderstand how you Republicans can preach laissez-faire on nearlyeverything, but when it comes to language, you puss out. Why? Youcan't learn another language? Whatever language is economicallyadvantageous to speak and know, people will learn. All secondgeneration immigrants speak English fine.” <br /><br />“But they'redegenerates. And they're preserving their own degenerate race whenthey refuse to bledn into America.” And so on. <br /><br />Chris wasa generally amicable guy, even though he had some pretty extremeopinions on everything, like how domestic violence wasn't thegovernment's business, how Sharia law was good because it enforcedfamily values and how all Socialist health care was the worst in theworld though he'd only lived in England and Italy (the two countrieswith the worst healthcare in Europe) and that America's was the best,especially because of the malpractice lawsuits and insurancestructure. Despite his opinions though, he was able to keep them atthe table. He never grew violent or directly offensive, nor did heever yell or become haughty and he always let the other person talk. But Chris could out talk anyone and would keep talking for hoursafter I got bored of the subject. Which was impressive, because Iwas normally that guy.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T-zZ-liDl_c/TxhHli3IZeI/AAAAAAAAJCg/_2IBEsPGa-k/s1600/P1020169.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T-zZ-liDl_c/TxhHli3IZeI/AAAAAAAAJCg/_2IBEsPGa-k/s640/P1020169.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>near my hood, after the first snow</td></tr></tbody></table><span>I had been lying low for those fewdays. Chris was also on a permanent state of lying low, complainingabout not being able to exercise since he was in a slump, or abouthow he hated the growing degeneracy of the Ukrainian people. Icertainly wasn't the most positive charge in the power plant, but hewas a charge, that much was certain. We walked around theneighborhood a few times. Kharkivska mostly consisted of massiveSoviet block apartments that looked rather barren at first site. Butthen I began to notice a cafe here, a bar there, a pub over there,hair salons and butchers, milk shops and fish shops.&nbsp; They even had small beer shops that served some twenty different beers from keg to bottle. The place wascrawling with activity – it was an unexpected surprise.</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-1610775462833586250?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/that-guy.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-19 16:34:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEjbakvynUQ/TxhHg_R1a5I/AAAAAAAAJCY/VGY5n6NigK8/s1600/P1020170.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEjbakvynUQ/TxhHg_R1a5I/AAAAAAAAJCY/VGY5n6NigK8/s320/P1020170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>near my hood</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;<span>I got back to Kiev. From the trainstation, I decided to first go to the new apartment and try out thekeys. I was in a rush to make sure I hadn't been scammed again andwas given a fake set of keys while someone scored on my money. ThenI was going to go back into town to get my main backpack, which I hadleft at the hostel, since I didn't want to drag it all aroundKharkiv. When I made it back to my apartment, I met my new roommate,Chris. When I came into the apartment, he was asleep, but soon wokeup. When he came to introduce himself to me, he wore a towel wrappedaround his waist and a t-shirt. He was short and bald, with intensebrown eyes that seemed to pop out and shake when he talked withsomeone – and he never talked about frivolous things. As his eyespopped, he would also lick his lips constantly, almost appearing likeHeath Ledger's rendition of the Joker, just without makeup, scars andknives. He would prefer guns anyway. <br /><br />I sat down and decidedto try to talk with him for a bit to get to know my new neighbor. Chris was originally from the Pacific Northwest. He had searchedmost of his early life for a religion that he felt fit the Bible themost, going from Baptist to Pentecostal before finally setting onCatholicism. He became a very strict and traditional Catholic, evengoing on many Catholic missions around the world, from India to SouthAmerica. Eventually, he became disillusioned to what he saw was thecollapse of the Church due to liberalism and decentralization. Hedecided he'd look into Eastern Christianity. He went to L'vov,Ukraine, to see how the Greek Catholics were, if they were holdingtrue to a pre-Vatican II Church. When he saw the Novus Ordo massbeing practiced there, he was further disillusioned and decided tojoin the Russian Orthodox Church – what he saw was the mostconservative of all churches (I've since tried to tell him thatGeorgians managed to beat the Russians in having a conservative andtraditional church). <br /><br />“I can't stand America anymore,” hetold me. He got up to stir his pot of legumes and grains that wasboiling on the stove. “It's full of degenerate mongrels. We'velet our society completely collapse. I just can't stand it. I hadto come here to find something better. But you know, even here, withhow everyone is looking to the West, you can see the degenerationslowly creep in. Here still, though, they have family values. Theydon't divorce, the wives serve their husbands, you know. Childrenare more obedient, because you can hit them if they aren't. Theystay in line. When I was teaching classes in a Catholic school inIndia, I was trying to keep the class calm. But they were crazy. The headmaster told me, 'Look Chris, just put a stick on your table.' So I did. And the class was calm for a few days, but then theyrealized I wasn't going to use the stick. A few days later, theheadmaster came back in, 'Look Chris,' he said to me, 'you'll findthe boy who is loudest and noisiest of them, just give him a thwack.' And I did. They shut up and paid attention the rest of thesemester.” <br /><br />Sipping tea, after I got my bag, he went on,“You know what another problem in America is? Mexicans. I used tothink they'd have a positive influence, because they had familyvalues. But they don't have family values anymore. They've come toAmerica and degenerated in all the negative ways Americans have andare even worse, since they come to America and don't even try toadapt to the culture. They keep speaking their Spanish. When Iworked on a farm, I'd work side by side with the Mexicans. They'rehard workers. And even though I spoke Spanish, I would only speakEnglish to them because they were in my country and they should bespeaking English.” <br /><br />“But you don't speak Ukrainian orRussian?” I interjected. <br /><br />“That's something differententirely,” he replied. “They're in our country, wanting all ofour rights and benefits, they have to learn our language.” <br /><br />“Manyjust want to make money and go back home.” <br /><br />“That mightbe how it used to be, but now Mexico is even more degenerate thanAmerica, with how bad all the gang violence has gotten. And they'rebringing all that violence into America. We should just get rid ofthem all, and the ones that don't want to go should be shot.” <br /><br />“Idon't know, I think language is a thing of economics. I don'tunderstand how you Republicans can preach laissez-faire on nearlyeverything, but when it comes to language, you puss out. Why? Youcan't learn another language? Whatever language is economicallyadvantageous to speak and know, people will learn. All secondgeneration immigrants speak English fine.” <br /><br />“But they'redegenerates. And they're preserving their own degenerate race whenthey refuse to bledn into America.” And so on. <br /><br />Chris wasa generally amicable guy, even though he had some pretty extremeopinions on everything, like how domestic violence wasn't thegovernment's business, how Sharia law was good because it enforcedfamily values and how all Socialist health care was the worst in theworld though he'd only lived in England and Italy (the two countrieswith the worst healthcare in Europe) and that America's was the best,especially because of the malpractice lawsuits and insurancestructure. Despite his opinions though, he was able to keep them atthe table. He never grew violent or directly offensive, nor did heever yell or become haughty and he always let the other person talk. But Chris could out talk anyone and would keep talking for hoursafter I got bored of the subject. Which was impressive, because Iwas normally that guy.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T-zZ-liDl_c/TxhHli3IZeI/AAAAAAAAJCg/_2IBEsPGa-k/s1600/P1020169.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T-zZ-liDl_c/TxhHli3IZeI/AAAAAAAAJCg/_2IBEsPGa-k/s640/P1020169.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>near my hood, after the first snow</td></tr></tbody></table><span>I had been lying low for those fewdays. Chris was also on a permanent state of lying low, complainingabout not being able to exercise since he was in a slump, or abouthow he hated the growing degeneracy of the Ukrainian people. Icertainly wasn't the most positive charge in the power plant, but hewas a charge, that much was certain. We walked around theneighborhood a few times. Kharkivska mostly consisted of massiveSoviet block apartments that looked rather barren at first site. Butthen I began to notice a cafe here, a bar there, a pub over there,hair salons and butchers, milk shops and fish shops.&nbsp; They even had small beer shops that served some twenty different beers from keg to bottle. The place wascrawling with activity – it was an unexpected surprise.</span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-1610775462833586250?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/19/eight/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7509">seanandmckinze.com</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-19 10:39:46 </div> <div> It&#8217;s been quiet on here.  After the New Years-ing I&#8217;ve been thrown back into work, which isn&#8217;t necessarily a bad &#8230;<p><a href="http://seanandmckinze.com/2012/01/19/eight/">Continue reading &#187;</a></p><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=seanandmckinze.com&amp;blog=10665157&amp;post=3149&amp;subd=seanandmckinze&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/01/18/living-on-the-edge/ <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/11410">all of the bells</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-18 19:45:03 </div> <div> Tomorrow I&#8217;m going skiing. My host mom loves to ski and has invited me to join her. Georgia, with all its breathtaking mountains, is becoming known as an excellent destination for ski lovers and we happen to live just two hours &#8230; <a href="http://allofthebells.wordpress.com/2012/01/18/living-on-the-edge/">Continue reading <span>&#8594;</span></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=allofthebells.wordpress.com&amp;blog=19580611&amp;post=553&amp;subd=allofthebells&amp;ref=&amp;feed=1" width="1" height="1" /> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/01/longest-post-ever-lamest-funicular-ride.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/7543">The Road is Life</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-18 10:46:00 </div> <div> <div></div>Have you missed me?<br /><br />I was completely ready to go through all of my pictures (and Kyle's....he took about 2000) to post them on here, but then I realized I needed to do my grad school applications.&nbsp; Then a big grant for GLOW, then some meetings in Tbilisi.&nbsp; So before heading back to site after arriving back in Georgia, I stashed away my camera in the office back in Tbilisi so I wouldn't even be tempted to look through them.&nbsp; Good plan, because I literally did not leave my house for 8 days straight while I was being productive.&nbsp; And now I'm hoping its pretty smooth sailing for my last 6 (!!!) months in Georgia.<br /><br />So on to Spain.&nbsp; As you recall from an earlier post, we were incredibly excited to have tapas.&nbsp; They were quite a disappointment though.&nbsp; Basically all the bars at night serve them. They are small (which we expected) but after walking around for 10 hours all day like the tourists we were, small was not what we were looking for.&nbsp; We did end up having some really amazing meals in Spain (us Peace Corps Volunteers are really into our food when we're not in Georgia....cheers to no khatchapuri for a week!) as well as some really good beer and wine at each meal.&nbsp; <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7_QZbgV9eo/TxW_-cLzRTI/AAAAAAAACQc/XaqBe9-sJ2U/s1600/Granada1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7_QZbgV9eo/TxW_-cLzRTI/AAAAAAAACQc/XaqBe9-sJ2U/s400/Granada1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Valencia mandarins, paella, Estrella Inedit!, olives, Iberian ham, hummus, and spinach gnochi. mmmmmm</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><br />Our trip started in Madrid.&nbsp; The first thing I noticed when we all met at the hostel was just how much the guys had changed since I had left Arizona a year and a half ago.&nbsp; yep, my two roommates who never wore anything but t-shirts and khaki shorts were now standing in front of me, wearing jeans and jackets.&nbsp; yes, Steve actually can get cold, weird, right?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CXaA3oI4iUU/TwRkVaM6xWI/AAAAAAAACF4/_9lNHVRAap0/s1600/IMG_20111220_152735.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CXaA3oI4iUU/TwRkVaM6xWI/AAAAAAAACF4/_9lNHVRAap0/s320/IMG_20111220_152735.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>jeans!?!?</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We spent three days in Madrid, wandering around some of their old town, wandering around looking for real restaurants, and visiting some of the museums to see Picasso, Goya, and Dali.&nbsp; Two of these artists I really like, the third was on some major creepster drugs and I guess that's just not my thing.<br />We also took a day trip to Toleda, the old Spanish capital, where we saw the house of El Greco and some of his paintings.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1TfWs7nBkwA/TwRkT2y402I/AAAAAAAACF0/TrqZ5lwcET8/s1600/IMG_20111220_152144.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1TfWs7nBkwA/TwRkT2y402I/AAAAAAAACF0/TrqZ5lwcET8/s320/IMG_20111220_152144.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>bored, hungry, and waiting for Steve.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4atMXvnD_c0/TxQsE5scctI/AAAAAAAACIw/go_YVgXcP5U/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4atMXvnD_c0/TxQsE5scctI/AAAAAAAACIw/go_YVgXcP5U/s320/DSC_0115.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IvfcjEPp6R8/TxQsGr_mkKI/AAAAAAAACI0/D8FTmsH4vC0/s1600/DSC_0116.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IvfcjEPp6R8/TxQsGr_mkKI/AAAAAAAACI0/D8FTmsH4vC0/s1600/DSC_0116.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jeAfTGc2TYk/TxQsKRKk2hI/AAAAAAAACI4/xgVW3pAHR44/s1600/DSC_0117.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jeAfTGc2TYk/TxQsKRKk2hI/AAAAAAAACI4/xgVW3pAHR44/s320/DSC_0117.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>a fountain in Madrid's huge park</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ebu1yrhCF8o/TwRkdjuSUgI/AAAAAAAACGA/QRC7WlmgXG8/s1600/PANO_20111220_163614.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="70" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ebu1yrhCF8o/TwRkdjuSUgI/AAAAAAAACGA/QRC7WlmgXG8/s400/PANO_20111220_163614.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>all of the panorama's are from Kyle's new crack phone.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-npuYlfg8lPU/TwRkcHCHC1I/AAAAAAAACF8/SKwqLJpJDaQ/s1600/IMG_20111220_165030.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-npuYlfg8lPU/TwRkcHCHC1I/AAAAAAAACF8/SKwqLJpJDaQ/s320/IMG_20111220_165030.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>as are the self pictures of the 3 of us</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uNdQLSiXUGc/TxQsbCZSoEI/AAAAAAAACJY/Wl0uH2SGdVk/s1600/DSC_0182.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uNdQLSiXUGc/TxQsbCZSoEI/AAAAAAAACJY/Wl0uH2SGdVk/s1600/DSC_0182.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>After wandering around forever on the first day trying to find real food.&nbsp; this also was ironically the only place to have the beer Steve found for me, Estrella Inedit, it's better than Blue Moon! </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oh4nWWEUzsU/TxQscXxIzYI/AAAAAAAACJc/AbefRIokVuM/s1600/DSC_0185.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oh4nWWEUzsU/TxQscXxIzYI/AAAAAAAACJc/AbefRIokVuM/s320/DSC_0185.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>and it's beer served in a wine glass.&nbsp; classy.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ube0ygGhNg/TxQsgnWtsLI/AAAAAAAACJk/dwU1lgd7s2Y/s1600/DSC_0208.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ube0ygGhNg/TxQsgnWtsLI/AAAAAAAACJk/dwU1lgd7s2Y/s320/DSC_0208.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>the palace</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp; <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rC6wQcdtVh0/TxQs1o0euAI/AAAAAAAACKU/WI2PGtpQXX4/s1600/DSC_0331.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rC6wQcdtVh0/TxQs1o0euAI/AAAAAAAACKU/WI2PGtpQXX4/s1600/DSC_0331.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>a tapas bar.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HVyGnHHWsko/TxQs0St7oJI/AAAAAAAACKQ/ApcV18eadBU/s1600/DSC_0314.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="165" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HVyGnHHWsko/TxQs0St7oJI/AAAAAAAACKQ/ApcV18eadBU/s1600/DSC_0314.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>some fun architecture</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lbn_PWmcX8Y/TxQs8hrIinI/AAAAAAAACKk/L2UL-slCSEE/s1600/DSC_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lbn_PWmcX8Y/TxQs8hrIinI/AAAAAAAACKk/L2UL-slCSEE/s320/DSC_0376.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>For Christmas Spain had really creepy Jesus baby pictures hanging everywhere.&nbsp; They looked like a cross between a doll and a robot.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o5Sye4Hl0NE/TwRkzs5uGCI/AAAAAAAACGM/u1xDJYg8XqE/s1600/IMG_20111221_162313.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o5Sye4Hl0NE/TwRkzs5uGCI/AAAAAAAACGM/u1xDJYg8XqE/s400/IMG_20111221_162313.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>these were people who took garlands and made it into a costume, then added a snapping deer head.&nbsp; They tried to bite you. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjmdwcza7H0/TwRk6OlhaEI/AAAAAAAACGU/kul2ls2JYg0/s1600/PANO_20111221_162637.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="62" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjmdwcza7H0/TwRk6OlhaEI/AAAAAAAACGU/kul2ls2JYg0/s400/PANO_20111221_162637.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>plaza mayor, complete with Sponge Bob</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8dvDW_SbSmg/TxQs69NXBqI/AAAAAAAACKg/4XI_K14xBDQ/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8dvDW_SbSmg/TxQs69NXBqI/AAAAAAAACKg/4XI_K14xBDQ/s400/DSC_0372.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>waiting for cars to pass by in Toledo</td></tr></tbody></table><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lj2OnnsHFnA/TwRk9918uNI/AAAAAAAACGg/uIYUlk9kC5g/s1600/PANO_20111222_170027.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="78" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lj2OnnsHFnA/TwRk9918uNI/AAAAAAAACGg/uIYUlk9kC5g/s400/PANO_20111222_170027.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yKiIL-Rlc6g/TxQtAC6-VgI/AAAAAAAACKs/eKUF6syLtpQ/s1600/DSC_0409.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yKiIL-Rlc6g/TxQtAC6-VgI/AAAAAAAACKs/eKUF6syLtpQ/s320/DSC_0409.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>a synagogue in Toledo</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2HmW1XJdsgk/TwRk8wZP8LI/AAAAAAAACGc/f4_qs6S5nwc/s1600/PANO_20111222_125611.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="76" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2HmW1XJdsgk/TwRk8wZP8LI/AAAAAAAACGc/f4_qs6S5nwc/s400/PANO_20111222_125611.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>El Greco's house, or what someone thought it looked like.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBlXxUd05oQ/TxQtNAmSJ0I/AAAAAAAACLI/tUuSoAQzJPQ/s1600/DSC_0507.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBlXxUd05oQ/TxQtNAmSJ0I/AAAAAAAACLI/tUuSoAQzJPQ/s320/DSC_0507.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Kyle had a funny story to tell us.&nbsp; For those of you who know Kyle and his laughing fits, you can imagine how it took him ten minutes to squeak it out between tears and laughter.&nbsp; it's about Koala's, you should ask him about it.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We moved on to Granada for our Christmas weekend.&nbsp; We stayed in a really nice hostel where we got our own apartment, and where on Xmas Eve they served a free vegetarian meal for all of the guests.&nbsp; Christmas Eve Day was spent at the Alhambra, which was my favorite place in Spain.&nbsp; It was an old Moorish Palace grounds that the Spanish kinds added to over time, so the grounds are huge and the gardens are gorgeous.&nbsp; We spent the whole day there, ad then headed over to the Old Town cathedral for a nice lunch.&nbsp; Granada itself has a pretty center that is fun to wander around as well as on old Muslim quarter called Albaycin that is full of twisting roads and white houses.&nbsp; We spent the next two days exploring these parts.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mzn2UCaa86A/TxQvDBPcvrI/AAAAAAAACM4/tEcTGguvGeU/s1600/DSC_0534.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mzn2UCaa86A/TxQvDBPcvrI/AAAAAAAACM4/tEcTGguvGeU/s400/DSC_0534.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>a beautiful cathedral in the center of Granada</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DLNXd9QNDE/TxQvFd58yHI/AAAAAAAACM8/_9AVHeeUT-o/s1600/DSC_0540.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DLNXd9QNDE/TxQvFd58yHI/AAAAAAAACM8/_9AVHeeUT-o/s320/DSC_0540.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>flamenco dresses.&nbsp; They only had them for little girls though, biggest disappointment of the trip!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fr6sqH7ohDQ/TxQvG86rvOI/AAAAAAAACNA/E3kt2GVfHmw/s1600/DSC_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fr6sqH7ohDQ/TxQvG86rvOI/AAAAAAAACNA/E3kt2GVfHmw/s320/DSC_0542.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>the boys were not willing subjects of my photography</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dUW3oCNCwyE/TxQvIpC4kPI/AAAAAAAACNE/TkhVQMwrdeQ/s1600/DSC_0546.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dUW3oCNCwyE/TxQvIpC4kPI/AAAAAAAACNE/TkhVQMwrdeQ/s320/DSC_0546.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>buildings however, had no choice.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5xxzqtPz0oQ/TxQvKK4xcnI/AAAAAAAACNI/STXe5QmYwTE/s1600/DSC_0552.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5xxzqtPz0oQ/TxQvKK4xcnI/AAAAAAAACNI/STXe5QmYwTE/s320/DSC_0552.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>an old market </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wgvISRhnjEU/TxQvNbjh5MI/AAAAAAAACNQ/fU4ZDECbUvo/s1600/DSC_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wgvISRhnjEU/TxQvNbjh5MI/AAAAAAAACNQ/fU4ZDECbUvo/s320/DSC_0558.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--H2075CGjy4/TxQvPENpvyI/AAAAAAAACNU/mDXuzG9WTq8/s1600/DSC_0564.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--H2075CGjy4/TxQvPENpvyI/AAAAAAAACNU/mDXuzG9WTq8/s320/DSC_0564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>another part of the cathedral</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iwaUmIx85TA/TxQvQm6aOCI/AAAAAAAACNY/AZhqQcvS7xo/s1600/DSC_0574.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iwaUmIx85TA/TxQvQm6aOCI/AAAAAAAACNY/AZhqQcvS7xo/s320/DSC_0574.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>Christmas!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ji7nPQI4Vao/TxQvTeIWoUI/AAAAAAAACNg/j_6VsOxcvws/s1600/DSC_0591.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ji7nPQI4Vao/TxQvTeIWoUI/AAAAAAAACNg/j_6VsOxcvws/s320/DSC_0591.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>eating paella, a rice dish with saffron</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ik3_vE6Qyik/TxQvWbFM2QI/AAAAAAAACNo/4nCfG8G-6Yw/s1600/DSC_0597.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ik3_vE6Qyik/TxQvWbFM2QI/AAAAAAAACNo/4nCfG8G-6Yw/s1600/DSC_0597.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KFHkI6cwktE/TxQvYb9BKhI/AAAAAAAACNs/0qOamvNyCmU/s1600/DSC_0615.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KFHkI6cwktE/TxQvYb9BKhI/AAAAAAAACNs/0qOamvNyCmU/s320/DSC_0615.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gCyh441FFw8/TxQvZ8phDRI/AAAAAAAACNw/mFxgzTutVU8/s1600/DSC_0621.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gCyh441FFw8/TxQvZ8phDRI/AAAAAAAACNw/mFxgzTutVU8/s320/DSC_0621.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4sHECPunPuM/TxQvch1HO0I/AAAAAAAACN0/LiufmGFpl_8/s1600/DSC_0628.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4sHECPunPuM/TxQvch1HO0I/AAAAAAAACN0/LiufmGFpl_8/s320/DSC_0628.JPG" width="224" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4BSyMYxjIYU/TxQveNuGJdI/AAAAAAAACN4/2IxM-MhKF9U/s1600/DSC_0637.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4BSyMYxjIYU/TxQveNuGJdI/AAAAAAAACN4/2IxM-MhKF9U/s1600/DSC_0637.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>churros with brandy chocolate</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fC82PX3odQk/TxQvfltztII/AAAAAAAACN8/uxa_fG5HyoM/s1600/DSC_0638.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fC82PX3odQk/TxQvfltztII/AAAAAAAACN8/uxa_fG5HyoM/s320/DSC_0638.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>some kids playing, they probably had way too much chocolate.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vnP_NJltO6U/TxQvhCmXbiI/AAAAAAAACOA/-BH1ZNG2ZTQ/s1600/DSC_0654.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vnP_NJltO6U/TxQvhCmXbiI/AAAAAAAACOA/-BH1ZNG2ZTQ/s320/DSC_0654.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYnT1XWvQHc/TxQvi-l4QTI/AAAAAAAACOE/yStXhhwW8mg/s1600/DSC_0657.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYnT1XWvQHc/TxQvi-l4QTI/AAAAAAAACOE/yStXhhwW8mg/s320/DSC_0657.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>people drinking Christmas Eve</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0m2Ppsbb1Lw/TwRlAMX3jxI/AAAAAAAACGo/Zjy7dz-QrgU/s1600/PANO_20111224_105439.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="68" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0m2Ppsbb1Lw/TwRlAMX3jxI/AAAAAAAACGo/Zjy7dz-QrgU/s400/PANO_20111224_105439.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>in Charles' incomplete palace</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VYUry1rapzQ/TxQv8L0ED0I/AAAAAAAACOQ/v5pd8GSpirM/s1600/DSC_0738.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VYUry1rapzQ/TxQv8L0ED0I/AAAAAAAACOQ/v5pd8GSpirM/s320/DSC_0738.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>it was square on the outside, circular on the inside.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zvhyb_rDOjU/TxQv_jF7ABI/AAAAAAAACOY/6d9mEUkRKFQ/s1600/DSC_0765.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zvhyb_rDOjU/TxQv_jF7ABI/AAAAAAAACOY/6d9mEUkRKFQ/s320/DSC_0765.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgNegx2hyGg/TxQwBDFDXdI/AAAAAAAACOc/ZiNI2r8k4hI/s1600/DSC_0779.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgNegx2hyGg/TxQwBDFDXdI/AAAAAAAACOc/ZiNI2r8k4hI/s320/DSC_0779.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>it was sunny, this is the best picture we got.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U_SZ4TvHnBE/TxQwFNKdiDI/AAAAAAAACOk/avxrnZM9CcM/s1600/DSC_0802.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U_SZ4TvHnBE/TxQwFNKdiDI/AAAAAAAACOk/avxrnZM9CcM/s320/DSC_0802.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__RkPX0W95s/TxQwHdphzWI/AAAAAAAACOo/_eYQExN6A3s/s1600/DSC_0803.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__RkPX0W95s/TxQwHdphzWI/AAAAAAAACOo/_eYQExN6A3s/s320/DSC_0803.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5mr7jnxmRd8/TxQwYFHUW-I/AAAAAAAACPM/Dn4lnUtILc8/s1600/DSC_0900.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="182" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5mr7jnxmRd8/TxQwYFHUW-I/AAAAAAAACPM/Dn4lnUtILc8/s320/DSC_0900.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TKaE8cl5ZFU/TxQwbJhPZ4I/AAAAAAAACPQ/SThEx5fAr1k/s1600/DSC_0908.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TKaE8cl5ZFU/TxQwbJhPZ4I/AAAAAAAACPQ/SThEx5fAr1k/s320/DSC_0908.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>they know how to do courtyards</td></tr></tbody></table><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DV4HQ9-Xx6I/TxXAJ8PAlmI/AAAAAAAACQg/8g9B42J4h0U/s1600/Granada2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DV4HQ9-Xx6I/TxXAJ8PAlmI/AAAAAAAACQg/8g9B42J4h0U/s400/Granada2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8dq3fbpUJ4/TwRlDa8MvPI/AAAAAAAACGw/5ADTVTm3vTc/s1600/PANO_20111224_110640.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="77" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8dq3fbpUJ4/TwRlDa8MvPI/AAAAAAAACGw/5ADTVTm3vTc/s400/PANO_20111224_110640.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>view of Albaycin from the Alhambra</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUA9WEsrwGc/TwRlHeChmBI/AAAAAAAACG0/7vL-Kqcte40/s1600/IMG_20111224_122027_1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUA9WEsrwGc/TwRlHeChmBI/AAAAAAAACG0/7vL-Kqcte40/s320/IMG_20111224_122027_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ge60o0ic0QA/TwRlQhSRRKI/AAAAAAAACHI/m3pg4lus6pY/s1600/PANO_20111224_130727.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="73" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ge60o0ic0QA/TwRlQhSRRKI/AAAAAAAACHI/m3pg4lus6pY/s400/PANO_20111224_130727.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>palace of relaxation</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div></div><div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MD40FraVGLQ/TxQwhWhcs1I/AAAAAAAACPk/2BWIfkUafhw/s1600/DSC_1005.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MD40FraVGLQ/TxQwhWhcs1I/AAAAAAAACPk/2BWIfkUafhw/s320/DSC_1005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td>i got them churchkhela (Georgian candy turd thing), balloons, butterfly stickers, and a keychain.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zYW6uWPLf4I/TwRlWQhNlSI/AAAAAAAACHU/oYLnn6goEns/s1600/IMG_20111224_225128_1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zYW6uWPLf4I/TwRlWQhNlSI/AAAAAAAACHU/oYLnn6goEns/s320/IMG_20111224_225128_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>presents!&nbsp; I got ritz, reese's, and tea.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_uiv3cVqOck/TwRlbkNATcI/AAAAAAAACHc/cjOitCRGWLY/s1600/IMG_20111224_231120.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_uiv3cVqOck/TwRlbkNATcI/AAAAAAAACHc/cjOitCRGWLY/s320/IMG_20111224_231120.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>we may have had some wine by now....</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>&nbsp;We took the train from Granada to Valencia, where we were separated into boys and girls for the sleeper car.&nbsp; I was alone with a woman who knew no English, and after a few attempts to speak Spanish to me, she gave up talking to me to sit in silence.&nbsp; A few minutes later, she managed "where you from?" I answered and then asked her.&nbsp; To my surprise, she was from Russia.&nbsp; We started talking in Russian, and laughed at the randomness of being in the same cabin. We arrived in Valencia at 4am.&nbsp; Our apartment wouldn't be ready until 1 or 2, so we took the metro out to the Mediterranean, where we watched the sunrise.&nbsp; And it was so pretty we decided it wasn't even worth taking pictures!&nbsp; (no, not really, Kyle spent about an hour trying to do a time lapse only to have his phone erase it).&nbsp; After finding a Starbucks to crash in for another few hours, we checked in and then took a nap.&nbsp; Valencia had a really bohemian feel to its Old town, and we found a really amazing art cafe/restaurant for dinner.&nbsp; They also have a really modern looking science/conference center/museum area that we checked out.&nbsp; The next day we had to catch a bus to Barcelona, so there wasn't a lot of time to explore, but we did manage to get some of the best oranges and mandarins I've ever had in my life, which made the entire stop in Valencia worth it.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ufvggD85XQ/TwRlmCYUViI/AAAAAAAACHw/h-3nKIaRvH0/s1600/PANO_20111227_180305.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="72" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ufvggD85XQ/TwRlmCYUViI/AAAAAAAACHw/h-3nKIaRvH0/s400/PANO_20111227_180305.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i3HKThmaQJw/TxQtUwaKyqI/AAAAAAAACLQ/xysyHRDR_JQ/s1600/DSC_0043.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i3HKThmaQJw/TxQtUwaKyqI/AAAAAAAACLQ/xysyHRDR_JQ/s320/DSC_0043.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>the bohemia area had some really fun murals</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qXAhkRemZ8Y/TxQtfQ3QFbI/AAAAAAAACLk/UtDPepP5r_k/s1600/DSC_0106.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qXAhkRemZ8Y/TxQtfQ3QFbI/AAAAAAAACLk/UtDPepP5r_k/s320/DSC_0106.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>this was the center, all white buildings</td><td><br /></td><td><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>&nbsp;We didn't have much time in Barcelona, just one day really, but we had enough time to criss cross the town looking at Gaudi's buildings and parks.&nbsp; Unfortunately his work doesn't lend itself well to photographing. </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-92N6t5VouVc/TwRl0FQ9lqI/AAAAAAAACIM/pMQNm-CRVMg/s1600/IMG_20111229_125008.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-92N6t5VouVc/TwRl0FQ9lqI/AAAAAAAACIM/pMQNm-CRVMg/s320/IMG_20111229_125008.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>spain likes its outdoor escalators.&nbsp; So do I. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5viCEmUEPhY/TxQtvtlHvnI/AAAAAAAACMA/S_N9xYnhIbA/s1600/DSC_0186.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5viCEmUEPhY/TxQtvtlHvnI/AAAAAAAACMA/S_N9xYnhIbA/s320/DSC_0186.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>part of the Cathedral</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75-LGuDGfIE/TxQtxDBKHYI/AAAAAAAACME/9qK5qzQ0POs/s1600/DSC_0190.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75-LGuDGfIE/TxQtxDBKHYI/AAAAAAAACME/9qK5qzQ0POs/s320/DSC_0190.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>door</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ovDz3JEzYR8/TxQtzH1tI4I/AAAAAAAACMI/30l0R5xBECk/s1600/DSC_0191.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ovDz3JEzYR8/TxQtzH1tI4I/AAAAAAAACMI/30l0R5xBECk/s320/DSC_0191.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>meant to look like a forest</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOsnYJSBFdY/TxQt2IWyeMI/AAAAAAAACMQ/24ZDootmT5M/s1600/DSC_0216.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOsnYJSBFdY/TxQt2IWyeMI/AAAAAAAACMQ/24ZDootmT5M/s320/DSC_0216.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>the columns had an interesting geometric construction</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PfvnoSIXTHE/TxQt4NC__JI/AAAAAAAACMU/UwLOGYc9DpE/s1600/DSC_0221.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PfvnoSIXTHE/TxQt4NC__JI/AAAAAAAACMU/UwLOGYc9DpE/s320/DSC_0221.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>yeah, it wasn't any easier to look at in person.</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;We decided to spend the last night in Spain on the mountain where the Olympics were held and where the guidebook said "you could spend a good few days on exploring."&nbsp; We took the funicular, excited to do something not Gaudi related.&nbsp; It started, went up the hill for literally one minute, and then stopped.&nbsp; That was it.&nbsp; The lamest funicular ever.&nbsp; We got out and there was really nothing at all to do but look at the stadium.&nbsp; We gave up and went back down the 'hill' to find a bar.&nbsp; So ended our trip to Spain.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CQi9x1gejb4/TxQt7FFEyQI/AAAAAAAACMc/EVqQlEW4g-w/s1600/DSC_0236.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CQi9x1gejb4/TxQt7FFEyQI/AAAAAAAACMc/EVqQlEW4g-w/s320/DSC_0236.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>waiting on the way back from the finicular. </td><td><br /></td><td><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RtTpbCWfAm8/TwRl3TonWfI/AAAAAAAACIQ/ZC2ScnBMOho/s1600/IMG_20111229_155306.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RtTpbCWfAm8/TwRl3TonWfI/AAAAAAAACIQ/ZC2ScnBMOho/s320/IMG_20111229_155306.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Oh yeah, Matt Damon.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4MTHfjqjfrI/TxQt9rQ1z0I/AAAAAAAACMk/E0pj2CvpeLI/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4MTHfjqjfrI/TxQt9rQ1z0I/AAAAAAAACMk/E0pj2CvpeLI/s320/DSC_0272.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td>I have a life long love for Matt Damon, so I was enthralled with these posters all over Spain.&nbsp; It would have worked better if it had been smaller, oh well.&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table>A good ten day break from Georgia!<br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5dM1bGsCdBk/TxW_0hhwIHI/AAAAAAAACQY/JGBsRZDdyfA/s1600/Madrid.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5dM1bGsCdBk/TxW_0hhwIHI/AAAAAAAACQY/JGBsRZDdyfA/s400/Madrid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4092943856710090372-395765807491223012?l=kelseyingeorgia.blogspot.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/little-things.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-17 21:08:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I went to Dasha's squat one last time,where I found the room full of people. When they saw me, they allgave me a cheer. “The American has returned!” Andrei cried. Immediately they brought me a glass of whiskey. “You couldn't getthe train?” <br /><br />“It looks like I'll be with you guys anothernight,” I said, taking the glass of whiskey and drinking aroundwith them. They then began to pour some champagne and toasting “tovictory!” “What's all this?” I asked someone. <br /><br />“Theyjust won the pub quiz,” Dima told me. We poured more rounds foreach other. <br /><br />Andrei called out to me, “American! Play thatsong I really like!” I pulled out my accordion again and startedplayed a set for everyone. Dasha smiled, clapped and brought meanother round. She said, “I can't stay too long, I've got work inthe morning. But I love your singing.” <br /><br />The night passedinto the morning, with much drinking and talking. Eventually, thedancing began and I took over the console behind the bar, playingrandom Russian songs. <br /><br />“How do you know these songs?”Dima kept asking me. “People in America don't know these, right?”<br /><br />“Right, I just do,” I said as I was putting onLeningrad's “Svoboda”. “Svoboda” is easily my favorite songby Leningrad, its chorus borrowing from an earlier Russian hair metalband named Kipelov. The lines, translated, are: “I'm free, likethe birds in the sky / I'm free, I forgot what fear is.” The songis, on the surface, about a woman leaving the singer and now he'sfree. The truth is though, his lover was the Soviet Union and he'ssinging about its collapse. The Leningrad version is more clear onits subject. “Just when you go against the stream / you understandwhat free opinion costs / Links gather into long chains / the line oflife become exact... to be different means to always be the same,choose what you want, poverty or prison / nobody gets freedom withouta reason / there is no exit and there is no entry.” The song notonly has a meaning I can relate with, but also memories that carryalong with it. I remember going to parties in Tbilisi to visit myEstonian friends, where me and Mathis would run around the placescreaming, “Ya svaboden! Slovna ptitsa v nebecax!” at the top ofour lungs, drinks held high to the air and arms around each othersshoulders. A scene later repeated in Estonia, near his home.<br /><br />“Youare the best couchsurfer to stay here!” he said. It wasn't thelast time he said it during the night. They had told me about a fewof the past couchsurfers who had come. There was a Dutch guy who wasthere, busy finding women off the internet to come visit him at thesquat. One girl had come and he catered to her needs, only to findher wanting money from him before he left. Then there was an Englishguy who was busy traveling across the world. He spent an entire weekthere, doing nothing but playing on their Sega II. I wasn't simplythe latest normal couchsurfer to come, but also one with a genuineinterest in their culture. I can imagine, compared to those otherguys, I was quite a magnificent traveler. <br /><br />The next day, Ihad spent most of my time in a coffee shop, waiting for it to pass. There are coffee shops everywhere in the big cities in Ukraine, mostof them resembling Starbucks, with the same corporate feel and almostidentical emblems. However, they usually also include servers andfree internet, two things Starbucks lacks. At the coffee shop, Ireceived word from a Fellowship that I had applied for. TheFellowship was done by a Russian bank, wanting to bring Americans into share their experience and knowledge as short term interns withRussian businesses and NGOs. They offered to fly me from Kiev to NewYork to interview. Of course, I immediately decided on this route ofaction and told my parents and friends and began to plot a trip toDenver if they'd let me stay a little bit longer in the States. Fromthe cafe, I went back to the squat to gather my things and spend myremaining time with Dasha and Andrei.<br /><br />I left the squat thenext night. More people gathered there in the evening to celebrateDima's birthday. I couldn't stay though, since I was able to buy myticket online successfully and I had to make my train for that night. Dasha went with me to the train station to say goodbye. We waitedfor about an hour at the coffee shop that was right near the station,where we talked. She was worried about her tenure as a mother. “Idon't feel like a mother, but I want to be something to my boy,”she told me. Her boy was 8 years old and she was raising him withthe help of her parents. “I guess I just don't want to grow up. Iwant to be something different, but I want to be something for him.” She was having a hard time expressing her concerns in English. <br /><br />Wemet Sasha, my new roommate at the platform at 11:30 at night. Mytrain was in twenty minutes. When I first booked, I had somereservations about trusting the Ukrainian railways with twentyminutes, since I knew Ukrainians, like most Europeans outside ofGermany, to be perpetually late. Sasha had reassured me earlier andsure enough, the train was on time. Sasha and his girlfriendstrolled up to me. “Ah, you weren't kidding about playing theaccordion!” he said, pointing to my cart and box. “You really doplay.” <br /><br />“Yeah, why would I joke about that?” I said,shrugging. “Merry Christmas, by the way.” January 7^th,the next day, was Orthodox Christmas. <br /><br />“Thanks, MerryChristmas. So here are the keys,” he said. Sasha's eyes werealways bright and glowing and with his nearly modelesque stature, hereminded me of Awesome from the television series Chuck. He handedme the key ring and told me what each of the keys did. “ListenShawn, we have to go catch our bus before it leaves.” They left. <br /><br />Dasha had been lurking in the background, smoking acigarette. She seemed somewhat shy about my leaving. “It's beenfun,” I said. <br /><br />“Yeah,” she said. Smoke trailed up fromthe tip of her cigarette, joining the smoke she exhaled, gatheringunder her hood before continuing to dissipate into the air. <br /><br />“Listen, I know it's cold. You don't have to wait her withme, you can go catch the metro.” <br /><br />“Are you telling me togo?” <br /><br />“No, I'm just – I mean, wait here if you want, butI understand if you need to go catch the metro.” We walked over tothe next platform and waited for my train, neither of us sayinganything. It rolled up, again exactly on time. I was beginning tobe really impressed with the rail system in Ukraine. Comfortable, ontime, and now with my knowledge of the existence of on-line railtickets, easy to use. <br /><br />I shared the compartment with anoverweight Ukrainian girl – perhaps the first truly overweight girlI had seen in Ukraine. I was afraid that I would come on board andwake up the inhabitants, since the train had first departed fromLugansk two hours earlier, but the girl had gone out of the train fora breath of air. She came back in with a quick grunt of a hello inRussian. She laid down and tried to sleep, but her phone kept goingoff and she talked in whispers. The light overhead was still on andI couldn't find the switch for it. <br /><br />“Is that lightautomatic?” I asked her in Russian. The train hadn't begun movingyet, so I assumed that maybe the light would just go off after theystarted rolling and it was only on for the convenience of the newpassengers.<br /><br />“No, there's a switch over there,” she said. She rolled up and across the room, shuffling aside my jacket whichwas hanging against the wall and turned off the light. She thenrolled back to her bed. Her bed was also on the lower bunk on theopposite side of mine. The top bunks were empty. <br /><br />“What'sthe word for the thing that turns on the light?” I asked. <br /><br />“Light-turn-offer. Or light-turn-onner, depending.” <br /><br />“That's funny.” <br /><br />“Russian is a very richlanguage.” <br /><br />“I know! With words like light-turn-offerand light-turn-onner! It's why I love it so much.” It was oftensurprising how simple some things in Russian language was, especiallyin light of its absurd grammatical complexities. It's the littlethings like “lightswitch” and all of its comedic rhymes that makeit all worthwhile. <br /><br />Even though the girl snored and breathedheavily through the night, I managed to sleep. <br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-1494907681066273268?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/little-things.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-17 21:08:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I went to Dasha's squat one last time,where I found the room full of people. When they saw me, they allgave me a cheer. “The American has returned!” Andrei cried. Immediately they brought me a glass of whiskey. “You couldn't getthe train?” <br /><br />“It looks like I'll be with you guys anothernight,” I said, taking the glass of whiskey and drinking aroundwith them. They then began to pour some champagne and toasting “tovictory!” “What's all this?” I asked someone. <br /><br />“Theyjust won the pub quiz,” Dima told me. We poured more rounds foreach other. <br /><br />Andrei called out to me, “American! Play thatsong I really like!” I pulled out my accordion again and startedplayed a set for everyone. Dasha smiled, clapped and brought meanother round. She said, “I can't stay too long, I've got work inthe morning. But I love your singing.” <br /><br />The night passedinto the morning, with much drinking and talking. Eventually, thedancing began and I took over the console behind the bar, playingrandom Russian songs. <br /><br />“How do you know these songs?”Dima kept asking me. “People in America don't know these, right?”<br /><br />“Right, I just do,” I said as I was putting onLeningrad's “Svoboda”. “Svoboda” is easily my favorite songby Leningrad, its chorus borrowing from an earlier Russian hair metalband named Kipelov. The lines, translated, are: “I'm free, likethe birds in the sky / I'm free, I forgot what fear is.” The songis, on the surface, about a woman leaving the singer and now he'sfree. The truth is though, his lover was the Soviet Union and he'ssinging about its collapse. The Leningrad version is more clear onits subject. “Just when you go against the stream / you understandwhat free opinion costs / Links gather into long chains / the line oflife become exact... to be different means to always be the same,choose what you want, poverty or prison / nobody gets freedom withouta reason / there is no exit and there is no entry.” The song notonly has a meaning I can relate with, but also memories that carryalong with it. I remember going to parties in Tbilisi to visit myEstonian friends, where me and Mathis would run around the placescreaming, “Ya svaboden! Slovna ptitsa v nebecax!” at the top ofour lungs, drinks held high to the air and arms around each othersshoulders. A scene later repeated in Estonia, near his home.<br /><br />“Youare the best couchsurfer to stay here!” he said. It wasn't thelast time he said it during the night. They had told me about a fewof the past couchsurfers who had come. There was a Dutch guy who wasthere, busy finding women off the internet to come visit him at thesquat. One girl had come and he catered to her needs, only to findher wanting money from him before he left. Then there was an Englishguy who was busy traveling across the world. He spent an entire weekthere, doing nothing but playing on their Sega II. I wasn't simplythe latest normal couchsurfer to come, but also one with a genuineinterest in their culture. I can imagine, compared to those otherguys, I was quite a magnificent traveler. <br /><br />The next day, Ihad spent most of my time in a coffee shop, waiting for it to pass. There are coffee shops everywhere in the big cities in Ukraine, mostof them resembling Starbucks, with the same corporate feel and almostidentical emblems. However, they usually also include servers andfree internet, two things Starbucks lacks. At the coffee shop, Ireceived word from a Fellowship that I had applied for. TheFellowship was done by a Russian bank, wanting to bring Americans into share their experience and knowledge as short term interns withRussian businesses and NGOs. They offered to fly me from Kiev to NewYork to interview. Of course, I immediately decided on this route ofaction and told my parents and friends and began to plot a trip toDenver if they'd let me stay a little bit longer in the States. Fromthe cafe, I went back to the squat to gather my things and spend myremaining time with Dasha and Andrei.<br /><br />I left the squat thenext night. More people gathered there in the evening to celebrateDima's birthday. I couldn't stay though, since I was able to buy myticket online successfully and I had to make my train for that night. Dasha went with me to the train station to say goodbye. We waitedfor about an hour at the coffee shop that was right near the station,where we talked. She was worried about her tenure as a mother. “Idon't feel like a mother, but I want to be something to my boy,”she told me. Her boy was 8 years old and she was raising him withthe help of her parents. “I guess I just don't want to grow up. Iwant to be something different, but I want to be something for him.” She was having a hard time expressing her concerns in English. <br /><br />Wemet Sasha, my new roommate at the platform at 11:30 at night. Mytrain was in twenty minutes. When I first booked, I had somereservations about trusting the Ukrainian railways with twentyminutes, since I knew Ukrainians, like most Europeans outside ofGermany, to be perpetually late. Sasha had reassured me earlier andsure enough, the train was on time. Sasha and his girlfriendstrolled up to me. “Ah, you weren't kidding about playing theaccordion!” he said, pointing to my cart and box. “You really doplay.” <br /><br />“Yeah, why would I joke about that?” I said,shrugging. “Merry Christmas, by the way.” January 7^th,the next day, was Orthodox Christmas. <br /><br />“Thanks, MerryChristmas. So here are the keys,” he said. Sasha's eyes werealways bright and glowing and with his nearly modelesque stature, hereminded me of Awesome from the television series Chuck. He handedme the key ring and told me what each of the keys did. “ListenShawn, we have to go catch our bus before it leaves.” They left. <br /><br />Dasha had been lurking in the background, smoking acigarette. She seemed somewhat shy about my leaving. “It's beenfun,” I said. <br /><br />“Yeah,” she said. Smoke trailed up fromthe tip of her cigarette, joining the smoke she exhaled, gatheringunder her hood before continuing to dissipate into the air. <br /><br />“Listen, I know it's cold. You don't have to wait her withme, you can go catch the metro.” <br /><br />“Are you telling me togo?” <br /><br />“No, I'm just – I mean, wait here if you want, butI understand if you need to go catch the metro.” We walked over tothe next platform and waited for my train, neither of us sayinganything. It rolled up, again exactly on time. I was beginning tobe really impressed with the rail system in Ukraine. Comfortable, ontime, and now with my knowledge of the existence of on-line railtickets, easy to use. <br /><br />I shared the compartment with anoverweight Ukrainian girl – perhaps the first truly overweight girlI had seen in Ukraine. I was afraid that I would come on board andwake up the inhabitants, since the train had first departed fromLugansk two hours earlier, but the girl had gone out of the train fora breath of air. She came back in with a quick grunt of a hello inRussian. She laid down and tried to sleep, but her phone kept goingoff and she talked in whispers. The light overhead was still on andI couldn't find the switch for it. <br /><br />“Is that lightautomatic?” I asked her in Russian. The train hadn't begun movingyet, so I assumed that maybe the light would just go off after theystarted rolling and it was only on for the convenience of the newpassengers.<br /><br />“No, there's a switch over there,” she said. She rolled up and across the room, shuffling aside my jacket whichwas hanging against the wall and turned off the light. She thenrolled back to her bed. Her bed was also on the lower bunk on theopposite side of mine. The top bunks were empty. <br /><br />“What'sthe word for the thing that turns on the light?” I asked. <br /><br />“Light-turn-offer. Or light-turn-onner, depending.” <br /><br />“That's funny.” <br /><br />“Russian is a very richlanguage.” <br /><br />“I know! With words like light-turn-offerand light-turn-onner! It's why I love it so much.” It was oftensurprising how simple some things in Russian language was, especiallyin light of its absurd grammatical complexities. It's the littlethings like “lightswitch” and all of its comedic rhymes that makeit all worthwhile. <br /><br />Even though the girl snored and breathedheavily through the night, I managed to sleep. <br /><br /></span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-1494907681066273268?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/like-planets-in-alignment.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-16 10:40:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I still had to bring Tasha her key back, since she had toleave in the morning for work while I was still asleep. We met nearthe Kharkiv planetarium, a building a block off one of the mainstreets, towering high in some sort of Soviet pride of science andstars. I imagined scores of Pioneers, children in red scarves andbrown uniforms, surrounding the building in the past, weaving in andout of the lines to gaze at the artificial lights in dreams that oneof them might be the next Yuri Gagarin. I stood outside theplanetarium in the dark. It was only five in the afternoon, but thewinter dusk had already settled in, making it seem like a late nightKGB drop. Tasha came running up the hill and hugged me in greeting. “Here's your key.” <br /><br />“Did you get your ticket?” sheasked. <br /><br />“There was quite a line. I mean, an insane line,”I said. “I spent all day at the place. But I got iteventually.”<br /><br />“You know, you could have just gotten yourticket online. I thought that's what you were going todo.”<br /><br />“There's a webpage for that?” I asked. <br /><br />“It'seven in English. That's what all the foreigners do, I thought.” She was smiling, laughing. <br /><br />“Your last boyfriend was in thePeace Corps here, so he probably knew a little bit more than Ido.”<br /><br />“True,” she said.<br /><br />“What's thewebsite?”<br /><br />“<a href="http://e-kvytok.com.ua/">E-kvytok.com.ua</a>,” she said. “You shoulduse that. You can charge to your credit card too.”<br /><br />“Ah,”I said. “Thanks. Good to know for next time. Anyways, I've gotto get going.” We hugged again. I wanted to hold her longer, butit seemed it would be awkward to do so outside the planetarium.<br /><br />“I'llsee you in Kiev then,” she said, smiling. “We've got a lot to dothere. Go to that shisha place you were talking about, and that gayclub I was talking about.” We left each other, like twoplanets that were momentarily aligned continuing on their orbit, rocketing towards the sun atdifferent speeds.<br /><br />I went to the squat. Andrei was already there, cleaning the place and making pizzas. Heworked there for Dasha as a kind of club operator, keeping everythingclean and making food for dinner. I liked these little communal lifethat I kept running across, from Kharkiv to Berlin. They gave meconfidence in human existence that I didn't have in the overbearingworld of the corporations. Granted, they were in nature parasitic,relying on the products and services of corporations in order toexist. If everyone were aware of what freedoms could be had outsideof the corporate sphere, then there would be no comforts left. I'mnot saying that in communes nobody works – everybody works and attimes, much harder. But their work seems all that much moresatisfactory. Even in traveling, I find myself cleaning dishes,picking things up, cooking, performing accordion and trying to makelife easier for those I'm staying with. I don't consider thesethings work, but they are. They're all services that cost a persontime, or money, if the person pays another to do such. All ofeconomics runs off of this exchange principal of labor – aprincipal I was still working off of, even using couchsurfing. Labor, however, doesn't have to be demeaning or degrading; it can befulfilling. There are certainly those in the modern system that feelthey have a fulfilling position – and they do. Maybe even, it isbetter to live that way. But I'm not so lucky to be one of thosethat finds happiness in slavery. <br /><br />My new roommate in Kiev, Sasha,called me. “Shawn, where are you? We have been waiting here atthe apartment for you.”<br /><br />“I thought you said that youwouldn't be home on Thursday, so to come on Friday, yeah?”<br /><br />“No,we said on the 5^th,” he said. “It is the 5^thnow. Shawn, you see, the problem is that we are going to Kharkiv onFriday night.” <br /><br />“Well, what time does your train get in?”I asked. <br /><br />“It gets in at 11:30 at night,” he said. Thatmeant the train got in after I left. <br /><br />“Are there any otherroommates?”<br /><br />“There is Steve, the American, but the problemis that Saturday is Orthodox Christmas and he is very religious, soprobably he will be gone all day.”<br /><br />“Oh,” I said. <br /><br />“Sohow are you going to get the key? Can you get here tomorrow?” <br /><br />“I'll see what I can do.” I hung up the phone, somewhatsaddened. I was hoping to party all night with the crew at the squatand then to leave the next day. I voiced my problem and thoughts outloud to Andrei, “Maybe I could stay with you guys for a couple ofdrinks, then go off and get a train for tonight. Or I could get alater train for tomorrow night.” I decided to try the first ideaand if that failed, then the second. I waited a little while until areasonable time to go, thinking that if I was able to change thetickets, then I could just wait at the station or at a nearby coffeeshop. At the squat, people kept coming in. First Tasha, then Dimawith a large smile, Misha with a striped sweater. They kept coming. They were gathering to play pub trivia.<br /><br />I returned to thetrain station, this time with all of my luggage, which I had workeddown to being just my accordion and my Soviet Red Army pack. I knewthe routine now. I had to avoid, at all cost, the regular ticketdesks for Ukrainians. I first looked for the international desk, itwas already closed. Then I went the information desk and asked aboutthe trains leaving. Tonight's train was already booked. But therewas a train coming through at one and another at one thirty. Iweighed my options and then called Sasha back. <br /><br />“Look,would it be possible to just meet you here in Kharkiv?” I asked. “Then I could get the key from you when you get here and I couldtake the next train out.” <br /><br />“Yes, of course, thatis possible,” he said. In truth, I had to repeat this a few times,so that my voice was clear over the din of the train station, withthe constant conversations and mechanical announcements beingbroadcast through the air. After we agreed on the drop, I went tothe Ukrainian ticket lines, knowing that I was going to be waitingfor another hour while the people back at the squat continued ontheir own party. <br /><br />While I stood in line, another old personwho couldn't read Ukrainian asked me if this was the right line. “Iguess,” I told her back. “It seems to me they're always thewrong line, so they all must be the right one, yeah?” She lookedback at me as though I were talking nonsense. <br /><br />The minutesturned into half hours and the half hours turned into hours. But Iwas glad for two things, that at least I wasn't constantly switchinglines because the clerks were going on breaks, like the problem I hadthe day before. Also, I wasn't in Georgia where no line existed,since Georgians are incapable of the concept of waiting for one's ownturn. In Georgia, even when you talk to a bank teller, Georgians tryto jump ahead of you by addressing the bank teller while you havealready begun discussing your business. “Waiting is for otherpeople,” one Georgian told me once. <br /><br />I had to go to therestroom. The lady in front of me promised to save my position. Iraced across the train station to the only men's restroom, ran pastthe stern looking babushka with the broom and used the urinal. WhenI made it back, some ten minutes later, I noticed the line had barelymoved.<br /><br />When I at last got to the front of the line, I told theclerk, “I bought the wrong ticket. Can I exchange it for the trainthat leaves tomorrow at midnight?” <br /><br />“I can give you arefund here, but you'll have to go to the office outside to buy nextday tickets. We sell only today's tickets here. Do youunderstand?”<br /><br />“Yes, of course,” I told her, while tellingmyself, “I understand that this whole ticketing system isbullshit.” It was a surprise to me that the entire train systemseemed pretty efficient – the trains were always on the dot intiming and they were fairly comfortable. But for the ticketing! Ileft with my money back in my hand and made it back to the squat. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-3398472464655938843?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/like-planets-in-alignment.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-16 10:40:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div> <title></title> </div><div><span>I still had to bring Tasha her key back, since she had toleave in the morning for work while I was still asleep. We met nearthe Kharkiv planetarium, a building a block off one of the mainstreets, towering high in some sort of Soviet pride of science andstars. I imagined scores of Pioneers, children in red scarves andbrown uniforms, surrounding the building in the past, weaving in andout of the lines to gaze at the artificial lights in dreams that oneof them might be the next Yuri Gagarin. I stood outside theplanetarium in the dark. It was only five in the afternoon, but thewinter dusk had already settled in, making it seem like a late nightKGB drop. Tasha came running up the hill and hugged me in greeting. “Here's your key.” <br /><br />“Did you get your ticket?” sheasked. <br /><br />“There was quite a line. I mean, an insane line,”I said. “I spent all day at the place. But I got iteventually.”<br /><br />“You know, you could have just gotten yourticket online. I thought that's what you were going todo.”<br /><br />“There's a webpage for that?” I asked. <br /><br />“It'seven in English. That's what all the foreigners do, I thought.” She was smiling, laughing. <br /><br />“Your last boyfriend was in thePeace Corps here, so he probably knew a little bit more than Ido.”<br /><br />“True,” she said.<br /><br />“What's thewebsite?”<br /><br />“<a href="http://e-kvytok.com.ua/">E-kvytok.com.ua</a>,” she said. “You shoulduse that. You can charge to your credit card too.”<br /><br />“Ah,”I said. “Thanks. Good to know for next time. Anyways, I've gotto get going.” We hugged again. I wanted to hold her longer, butit seemed it would be awkward to do so outside the planetarium.<br /><br />“I'llsee you in Kiev then,” she said, smiling. “We've got a lot to dothere. Go to that shisha place you were talking about, and that gayclub I was talking about.” We left each other, like twoplanets that were momentarily aligned continuing on their orbit, rocketing towards the sun atdifferent speeds.<br /><br />I went to the squat. Andrei was already there, cleaning the place and making pizzas. Heworked there for Dasha as a kind of club operator, keeping everythingclean and making food for dinner. I liked these little communal lifethat I kept running across, from Kharkiv to Berlin. They gave meconfidence in human existence that I didn't have in the overbearingworld of the corporations. Granted, they were in nature parasitic,relying on the products and services of corporations in order toexist. If everyone were aware of what freedoms could be had outsideof the corporate sphere, then there would be no comforts left. I'mnot saying that in communes nobody works – everybody works and attimes, much harder. But their work seems all that much moresatisfactory. Even in traveling, I find myself cleaning dishes,picking things up, cooking, performing accordion and trying to makelife easier for those I'm staying with. I don't consider thesethings work, but they are. They're all services that cost a persontime, or money, if the person pays another to do such. All ofeconomics runs off of this exchange principal of labor – aprincipal I was still working off of, even using couchsurfing. Labor, however, doesn't have to be demeaning or degrading; it can befulfilling. There are certainly those in the modern system that feelthey have a fulfilling position – and they do. Maybe even, it isbetter to live that way. But I'm not so lucky to be one of thosethat finds happiness in slavery. <br /><br />My new roommate in Kiev, Sasha,called me. “Shawn, where are you? We have been waiting here atthe apartment for you.”<br /><br />“I thought you said that youwouldn't be home on Thursday, so to come on Friday, yeah?”<br /><br />“No,we said on the 5^th,” he said. “It is the 5^thnow. Shawn, you see, the problem is that we are going to Kharkiv onFriday night.” <br /><br />“Well, what time does your train get in?”I asked. <br /><br />“It gets in at 11:30 at night,” he said. Thatmeant the train got in after I left. <br /><br />“Are there any otherroommates?”<br /><br />“There is Steve, the American, but the problemis that Saturday is Orthodox Christmas and he is very religious, soprobably he will be gone all day.”<br /><br />“Oh,” I said. <br /><br />“Sohow are you going to get the key? Can you get here tomorrow?” <br /><br />“I'll see what I can do.” I hung up the phone, somewhatsaddened. I was hoping to party all night with the crew at the squatand then to leave the next day. I voiced my problem and thoughts outloud to Andrei, “Maybe I could stay with you guys for a couple ofdrinks, then go off and get a train for tonight. Or I could get alater train for tomorrow night.” I decided to try the first ideaand if that failed, then the second. I waited a little while until areasonable time to go, thinking that if I was able to change thetickets, then I could just wait at the station or at a nearby coffeeshop. At the squat, people kept coming in. First Tasha, then Dimawith a large smile, Misha with a striped sweater. They kept coming. They were gathering to play pub trivia.<br /><br />I returned to thetrain station, this time with all of my luggage, which I had workeddown to being just my accordion and my Soviet Red Army pack. I knewthe routine now. I had to avoid, at all cost, the regular ticketdesks for Ukrainians. I first looked for the international desk, itwas already closed. Then I went the information desk and asked aboutthe trains leaving. Tonight's train was already booked. But therewas a train coming through at one and another at one thirty. Iweighed my options and then called Sasha back. <br /><br />“Look,would it be possible to just meet you here in Kharkiv?” I asked. “Then I could get the key from you when you get here and I couldtake the next train out.” <br /><br />“Yes, of course, thatis possible,” he said. In truth, I had to repeat this a few times,so that my voice was clear over the din of the train station, withthe constant conversations and mechanical announcements beingbroadcast through the air. After we agreed on the drop, I went tothe Ukrainian ticket lines, knowing that I was going to be waitingfor another hour while the people back at the squat continued ontheir own party. <br /><br />While I stood in line, another old personwho couldn't read Ukrainian asked me if this was the right line. “Iguess,” I told her back. “It seems to me they're always thewrong line, so they all must be the right one, yeah?” She lookedback at me as though I were talking nonsense. <br /><br />The minutesturned into half hours and the half hours turned into hours. But Iwas glad for two things, that at least I wasn't constantly switchinglines because the clerks were going on breaks, like the problem I hadthe day before. Also, I wasn't in Georgia where no line existed,since Georgians are incapable of the concept of waiting for one's ownturn. In Georgia, even when you talk to a bank teller, Georgians tryto jump ahead of you by addressing the bank teller while you havealready begun discussing your business. “Waiting is for otherpeople,” one Georgian told me once. <br /><br />I had to go to therestroom. The lady in front of me promised to save my position. Iraced across the train station to the only men's restroom, ran pastthe stern looking babushka with the broom and used the urinal. WhenI made it back, some ten minutes later, I noticed the line had barelymoved.<br /><br />When I at last got to the front of the line, I told theclerk, “I bought the wrong ticket. Can I exchange it for the trainthat leaves tomorrow at midnight?” <br /><br />“I can give you arefund here, but you'll have to go to the office outside to buy nextday tickets. We sell only today's tickets here. Do youunderstand?”<br /><br />“Yes, of course,” I told her, while tellingmyself, “I understand that this whole ticketing system isbullshit.” It was a surprise to me that the entire train systemseemed pretty efficient – the trains were always on the dot intiming and they were fairly comfortable. But for the ticketing! Ileft with my money back in my hand and made it back to the squat. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-3398472464655938843?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/ticket-line-shuffle.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/6576">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-14 11:20:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>I met Tasha at the metro station. Assoon as I came up the escalators, she called out to me from acrossthe barriers. “Shawn!” she said, jumping excitedly and waving meover. “I was expecting you sooner. The guy that was on the phonewith me, your friend, he didn't seem to know Kharkiv very well. Hekept saying that you're an American and you'll get lost. But youknow Russian, you've been traveling, I knew you could figure it out.” She spoke in nearly fluent English without an accent. Her eyes andface and demeanor were bright and glowing and energetic. The way shemoved seemed to capture life, though she spoke at near lightningspeed. As we talked on our way to her apartment, she spoke almosttoo fast for me – the native English speaker – to keep up.<br /><br />WhenI had sent out host requests for Kharkiv, two girls had almostimmediately replied. Dasha and Tasha. I was in luck, since this wasthe first time my top two picks had replied to me and quickly. DashaI had chosen because her situation sounded fun and interesting. Shedescribed her cafe / guest apartment structure as a “squat” withpeople gathering nearly every night. She loved alternative music andalternative lifestyles like my own. Tasha I chose because shemanaged bookstores and was well read. And she had red hair. And inour conversations, she wrote how much she loved accordions. My closefriends all know my childhood obsession with red headed girls. Bothhosts ended up being stellar choices. <br /><br />Tasha's flat was apractice in interior design. She had mastered making old furniturelook new and modern, mostly by way of using some sort ofpaper-machete technique to cover the furniture in different types ofpapers. She stuck mostly with bright colored paper, to liven up theplace, though on the refrigerator and her bathroom door she used somesort of comic paper. She was well read and had opinions oneverything, and that first night we emptied her bottle of rum andtalked through the hours, even though she had to wake up early forwork. “I hate these things like Pirate Bay, because you shouldn'tbe allowed to freely distribute anything,” she said. “But youknow, books are so expensive and I truly believe that they should becheaper and more available to everyone to read. If the publishinghouses and printing houses would just lower the prices, then theseillegal printing houses wouldn't have to pop up and sell the booksfor less. And we stock those books. But we shouldn't have to.” <br /><br />“But the presence of the print shops, and the sales ofthem, undermines the free market, so the larger publishing houseswill never feel the need to target the books,” I countered.<br /><br />“That's not true, because the larger firms can take on theillegal ones as it is.” <br /><br />“I guess you're right. Butstill, why not sell them if the larger firms aren't? I think you'redoing a good. And I think, for those who can't afford it, Pirate Bayis doing a good. I want people to listen to my music. Whether theyare paying for it or not isn't all that important. Though it'd benice to get paid for all my work, that's not why I do the work. WhenI download music now, I do it knowing I'll pay for the album later,when I have money.”<br /><br />“Come on, that's just living in anideal world,” she replied. <br /><br />“But that's my world. I'm anidealist. I live the world according to how I think it should be.” <br /><br />“Not everyone is like that. And therefore, you'd neverget paid for any of your work.”<br /><br />“That may be true, but atleast I'm living true.” <br /><br />“Look, listen,” she said,“I've got to get to bed. You can sleep in as much as you want, andI'll leave you the key.” <br /><br />“Awesome.” <br /><br />The nextday, I slept in and walked around Kharkiv. Time was pressing though,and soon I would have to be back in Kiev to move into my newapartment. That meant I had to get the train tickets for the nextnight. I decided I'd get the tickets, then return to Tasha's, thenI'd go on to a coffee shop to write. I thought those would be simpleenough tasks. <br /><br />The Kharkiv station, in appearance,looks quite orderly and convenient, as all the other stations I'dwitnessed in Ukraine (that is, the Kiev station) were. The floorswere shining and freshly swept and mopped, the doors sparkling, thebrass glistening like gold. The bathrooms were all immaculate andguarded by old fat ladies with brooms that doubled as clubs, to makesure there was no funny business going on like Senators putting theirhands under door stalls – none of that nonsense that happens indecadent Western states could happen at the Kharkiv station. Theticketing system was a greater piece of nonsense than past famousAmerican Senators though. There were about four windows, each withlines stretched across the hall. Each sign was about the same, Icouldn't really figure out the difference between them, though thiswas largely to my not knowing Ukrainian – like most of the oldpeople in the room trying to buy tickets. <br /><br />“Is this theline to buy tickets?” I asked one old lady. <br /><br />“I guess,”she replied. I stood in line. <br /><br />Thirty minutes passed until Icould get to the front. When I was at last at the front, I addressedthe lady asking her about buying tickets for the next day.<br /><br />“Thisis the wrong counter. Go to the blue sign.” <br /><br />I steppedback and saw that this sign was indeed a white one. I still couldn'tfigure out the difference in the services listed, though this oneobviously didn't include buying tickets. I waited in the next line. After thirty minutes, I was only halfway through when the clerk wenton break. Her window snapped shut at the next person in line. Iwent to another window. A girl had come in and tried to sneak infront of me, but I let her since she was more attractive than the oldhunched man that was otherwise in front of me. She spent more thanthree minutes with the clerk, which meant the clerk slapped closedthe blinds in front of me. “Please!” I shouted. “This isalready my third window!” <br /><br />I waited at another window. Ifinally succeeded in getting to the clerk. “We don't sell next daytickets here. You have to go to a ticket agent outside for that.” <br /><br />I was on the verge of giving up as I stormed out of theticketing hall. But then I passed the information desk and decidedto ask the clerk there. “Is there any way I can buy a ticket fortomorrow? I just want to get back to Kiev.” <br /><br />“Justacross the hall there, there is the international desk. It is forforeigners. You can buy your ticket there.” I walked across thehall and entered the office of the international desk. There wasonly one person in line. After that person left, the clerk waited tohear me out, then collected my money and printed a ticket. I walkedback to the information desk, “A huge thanks! You are awesome! Iwas waiting hours in that other hall and couldn't get anything done.” <br /><br />In the evening, I came home a bit late, though with fullintention to fix dinner for Tasha. I wanted to find out where agrocery store was so I could buy some curry or some other herbs andmix something special for her. But I came to find that Tasha hadbeat me back and had already started cooking supper. And what atalented cook she was! She had fixed some tasty mix of pumpkin,chicken and rice. A friend of hers had come over, though he wasfairly quiet and was mostly on the computer in the other room. Welater watched a movie about some girl who pretended to be deafbecause her parents died, then she moved in with some girl that washaving sex with her own father. The movie didn't make much sense,but I guess usually the most quality movies never do. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-3302810123146016531?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 http://www.saintfacetious.com/2012/01/ticket-line-shuffle.html <div style="margin-bottom:8px"> <div> <img src="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/images/flags/pcj/16/gg.png" alt="Georgia" width="16" /> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/country/29/gg" style="font-weight:bold">Georgia</a> <a href="http://peacecorpsjournals.com/journal/5380">Saint Facetious</a> </div> <div style="color:#888"> 2012-01-14 11:20:00 </div> <div> <div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div><title></title> </div><div><span>I met Tasha at the metro station. Assoon as I came up the escalators, she called out to me from acrossthe barriers. “Shawn!” she said, jumping excitedly and waving meover. “I was expecting you sooner. The guy that was on the phonewith me, your friend, he didn't seem to know Kharkiv very well. Hekept saying that you're an American and you'll get lost. But youknow Russian, you've been traveling, I knew you could figure it out.” She spoke in nearly fluent English without an accent. Her eyes andface and demeanor were bright and glowing and energetic. The way shemoved seemed to capture life, though she spoke at near lightningspeed. As we talked on our way to her apartment, she spoke almosttoo fast for me – the native English speaker – to keep up.<br /><br />WhenI had sent out host requests for Kharkiv, two girls had almostimmediately replied. Dasha and Tasha. I was in luck, since this wasthe first time my top two picks had replied to me and quickly. DashaI had chosen because her situation sounded fun and interesting. Shedescribed her cafe / guest apartment structure as a “squat” withpeople gathering nearly every night. She loved alternative music andalternative lifestyles like my own. Tasha I chose because shemanaged bookstores and was well read. And she had red hair. And inour conversations, she wrote how much she loved accordions. My closefriends all know my childhood obsession with red headed girls. Bothhosts ended up being stellar choices. <br /><br />Tasha's flat was apractice in interior design. She had mastered making old furniturelook new and modern, mostly by way of using some sort ofpaper-machete technique to cover the furniture in different types ofpapers. She stuck mostly with bright colored paper, to liven up theplace, though on the refrigerator and her bathroom door she used somesort of comic paper. She was well read and had opinions oneverything, and that first night we emptied her bottle of rum andtalked through the hours, even though she had to wake up early forwork. “I hate these things like Pirate Bay, because you shouldn'tbe allowed to freely distribute anything,” she said. “But youknow, books are so expensive and I truly believe that they should becheaper and more available to everyone to read. If the publishinghouses and printing houses would just lower the prices, then theseillegal printing houses wouldn't have to pop up and sell the booksfor less. And we stock those books. But we shouldn't have to.” <br /><br />“But the presence of the print shops, and the sales ofthem, undermines the free market, so the larger publishing houseswill never feel the need to target the books,” I countered.<br /><br />“That's not true, because the larger firms can take on theillegal ones as it is.” <br /><br />“I guess you're right. Butstill, why not sell them if the larger firms aren't? I think you'redoing a good. And I think, for those who can't afford it, Pirate Bayis doing a good. I want people to listen to my music. Whether theyare paying for it or not isn't all that important. Though it'd benice to get paid for all my work, that's not why I do the work. WhenI download music now, I do it knowing I'll pay for the album later,when I have money.”<br /><br />“Come on, that's just living in anideal world,” she replied. <br /><br />“But that's my world. I'm anidealist. I live the world according to how I think it should be.” <br /><br />“Not everyone is like that. And therefore, you'd neverget paid for any of your work.”<br /><br />“That may be true, but atleast I'm living true.” <br /><br />“Look, listen,” she said,“I've got to get to bed. You can sleep in as much as you want, andI'll leave you the key.” <br /><br />“Awesome.” <br /><br />The nextday, I slept in and walked around Kharkiv. Time was pressing though,and soon I would have to be back in Kiev to move into my newapartment. That meant I had to get the train tickets for the nextnight. I decided I'd get the tickets, then return to Tasha's, thenI'd go on to a coffee shop to write. I thought those would be simpleenough tasks. <br /><br />The Kharkiv station, in appearance,looks quite orderly and convenient, as all the other stations I'dwitnessed in Ukraine (that is, the Kiev station) were. The floorswere shining and freshly swept and mopped, the doors sparkling, thebrass glistening like gold. The bathrooms were all immaculate andguarded by old fat ladies with brooms that doubled as clubs, to makesure there was no funny business going on like Senators putting theirhands under door stalls – none of that nonsense that happens indecadent Western states could happen at the Kharkiv station. Theticketing system was a greater piece of nonsense than past famousAmerican Senators though. There were about four windows, each withlines stretched across the hall. Each sign was about the same, Icouldn't really figure out the difference between them, though thiswas largely to my not knowing Ukrainian – like most of the oldpeople in the room trying to buy tickets. <br /><br />“Is this theline to buy tickets?” I asked one old lady. <br /><br />“I guess,”she replied. I stood in line. <br /><br />Thirty minutes passed until Icould get to the front. When I was at last at the front, I addressedthe lady asking her about buying tickets for the next day.<br /><br />“Thisis the wrong counter. Go to the blue sign.” <br /><br />I steppedback and saw that this sign was indeed a white one. I still couldn'tfigure out the difference in the services listed, though this oneobviously didn't include buying tickets. I waited in the next line. After thirty minutes, I was only halfway through when the clerk wenton break. Her window snapped shut at the next person in line. Iwent to another window. A girl had come in and tried to sneak infront of me, but I let her since she was more attractive than the oldhunched man that was otherwise in front of me. She spent more thanthree minutes with the clerk, which meant the clerk slapped closedthe blinds in front of me. “Please!” I shouted. “This isalready my third window!” <br /><br />I waited at another window. Ifinally succeeded in getting to the clerk. “We don't sell next daytickets here. You have to go to a ticket agent outside for that.” <br /><br />I was on the verge of giving up as I stormed out of theticketing hall. But then I passed the information desk and decidedto ask the clerk there. “Is there any way I can buy a ticket fortomorrow? I just want to get back to Kiev.” <br /><br />“Justacross the hall there, there is the international desk. It is forforeigners. You can buy your ticket there.” I walked across thehall and entered the office of the international desk. There wasonly one person in line. After that person left, the clerk waited tohear me out, then collected my money and printed a ticket. I walkedback to the information desk, “A huge thanks! You are awesome! Iwas waiting hours in that other hall and couldn't get anything done.” <br /><br />In the evening, I came home a bit late, though with fullintention to fix dinner for Tasha. I wanted to find out where agrocery store was so I could buy some curry or some other herbs andmix something special for her. But I came to find that Tasha hadbeat me back and had already started cooking supper. And what atalented cook she was! She had fixed some tasty mix of pumpkin,chicken and rice. A friend of hers had come over, though he wasfairly quiet and was mostly on the computer in the other room. Welater watched a movie about some girl who pretended to be deafbecause her parents died, then she moved in with some girl that washaving sex with her own father. The movie didn't make much sense,but I guess usually the most quality movies never do. </span></div></div><div><img width="1" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2455464834086541133-3302810123146016531?l=www.saintfacetious.com" alt="" /></div> </div> </div> Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00