07 OCtober

I suppose if I were to have a weekend like these past few days for the next few months, it will tally a sizable number of pretty ridiculous stories to bring back to the States. Friday was an exciting adventure into the bafflings that constitute a Georgian education.  It is the first time I had to walk the mile down the road in the rain, which was made even better by my lack of umbrella. Luckily, I only have one class on Fridays, so I have turned the last day of the week into a self-imposed casual day, and I didn’t’ get a nice dress shirt sopping wet. I walked into the school entrance, only to be stared at by students, teachers, and parents alike as I shook of a layer of rainwater. I had to explain to people three separate times that I was at school because I had a lesson before I finally discovered that, when it rains, most teachers and students don’t bother showing up. It was a strange idiosyncrasy of Americana that my observers added to their already impressive tally when I explained that, in America, school was not cancelled because of a small downpour. On the plus side, I got to play 3 hours of soccer before walking back into the storm for my mile walk home, the day made complete by being splashed by a passing car and having to step over the small pool of blood surrounding a pig that had been necked and gutted and left in the cold rain for rigamortis to take over.

I had an hour at home with the house to myself before Ollie came to pick me up, driven by his co-teacher and her father. That whole dynamic is an interesting story on its own, considering the fact that, last time I checked, Ollie was forbidden by his host family from speaking to his co-teacher, even if they were working on a lesson together. Anyhow, we jumped into the hotbed of Zugdidi, a city about 30 minutes south of my village, and spent hours wandering through the labyrinthine markets – small shacks with precarious stacks of merchandise ripe for unwary customer (read: me) to bump into and smash, the entire metropolis of retail squalor covered by an intricate network of tarp ceilings, which would occasionally burst or be dumped by the shop owners, merely an additional obstacle thrown at buyers and sellers alike. After too many stores looking for the ingredients for Ollie to make carrot cake, we were perched on a corner by the co-teacher, who went off to buy some illicit items that she felt too embarrassed to purchase in front of us. Her parting promise of a snappy return began to rang hollow after the first 45 minutes of waiting, and Ollie and I made the slow realization that a girl is a girl is a girl, and shopping will always take ungodly amounts of time regardless of what country you’re in.

Ollie’s co-teacher eventually returned to check that her charges were adequately watered and the windows were still cracked to stave off dehydration, and we were aptly rewarded for our patience by the only true stop after hours of shopping – the bar. When TLG began 3 years ago, a volunteer came with the first group and never left. After three months he married a Georgian woman and moved out of the states permanently to settle down and open an American bar, which has become a favorite ex-pat stop in by plenty of English speakers. This sounded like too good a prospect to pass up, and we were not disappointed. The beer was cheap and the burgers true ground beef, and I was pleasantly surprised to run into 3 people who were in my training group in Tbilisi, an American named Brent and a married couple from South Africa who were enjoying a few pints before catching the night train off to Tbilisi. I also met a girl who traded elementary education for teaching the police force English (much to my jealousy), and we shared communal stories of experiences in Mexico. Tally of people in Georgia who can speak Spanish: 3. The night came as quickly as the evening passed, and plans were soon hatched to catch rides to Kutaisi for a Saturday of cave exploring and spelunking.

They say fall is the rainy season in Georgia, and the steady stream of water that was Friday was merely a precursor to the gale that slammed the windows and corn fields Friday night into Saturday morning. As my alarm shook me out of my warm bed and into the cold rain at 6:30, it took a few minutes to actually stand against the chilly wind and the puddle that had formed overnight underneath the window. Finally, I stumbled into the bathroom to gauge the actual accumulation of rain (keep in mind, my bathroom is outside; a fact that is becoming more and more fun with the steady decrease of fall temperatures), and was splashed with a gust of wind and rain as I opened the back porch door. I stared in horror at the five lumps of humans occupying the outdoor beds, the covers that were thrown over their heads clearly ill prepared to keep the inhabitants dry and warm throughout the long night. Why these people still don’t sleep inside will be one of the great unfathomable that will trouble my imagination long after my time in Georgia is over. I sighed and paid my bag after splashing warm water through my hair and across my face. It was the first time I would be allowed to jump on a marshutka without my host father hailing the correct one, and I was not anxious for fifteen minutes at the end of the driveway sans umbrella.

The marshutka ride into Kutaisi was a non-event, and before we had time to fully inhale the uncomfortably nostalgic scent of McDonalds ‘french fries’ we were herded onto the next bus (my third of the day) and whisked to the entrance mouth to a mile jaunt throw stalactites, stalagmites, and stalagnites (and you had difficulty keeping track of the first two). The caves were amazing, great flashes of rock contorted over millennia, splashing water frozen in a picture of immoveable rock. I cheered for Aaron Rolston (the hiker depicted by James Franco, of 127 Hours fame), and everyone collectively stared at me wondering what the loud American was talking about. There were endless crevices and twists aching to be properly explored, but the small path with the impenetrable 4 inch rock barrier proved impenetrable, keeping everyone at a safe and lawsuit-free distance. My desire to climb anything and everything grew with each step, only kowtowed by the vivid images of prisoner abuse scandals in Tbilisi prisons (it’s bad enough that the guards sexually abuse prisoners, why did they feel they need to show the full video on the 6 o’clock news?).

After emerging back into the sun, hapless mole people blinking furitively against the sudden sun exposure, we were back on a two-marshutka ride back to the city center (2 marshutkas to Kutaisi, 2 marshutkas to the caves, 2 marshutkas back to the city. AKA, a Saturday in Georgia). As all good TLG-ers do when in a big city, we quickly overloaded the shaurma stand with 5 requests for the largest hand held delicacy they had, and retreated with a beer to what felt like would be one of the last bright sunny days of summer/ fall. Our group broke up after lunch, some people retreating back to another marshutka and village life, and the rest of us wandering without predisposition or intention around the city. After meandering through the park and realizing that all of the sights to be held were beholden over previous trips, the group issued a collective shrug and lemminged into the bar. The suspiciously low price of wine (3 Lari for a liter) proved a wise investment, as the red wine was dry and free of floating debris (unlike village wine) and the white wine was decent, but chilled for the first time since Georgia began, which improved the experience ten-fold. Soon, my favorite part of Georgia became the true entertainment for the evening, and the table of four men behind us invited us to pull our table alongside theirs, where we were treated with a mass of Georgian finger food, more wine, a few beers, and a shot or two of tchacha (tchacha for me at least, as I’m a guy and it’s socially uncouth for women to take shots in public. Although, in reality, I’m sure that their gracing me with a shot was to serve mainly as a distraction while they flirted with the two girls. I know my role in this social configuration). All in all, it was a relaxing hour or two where we were introduced to some of the locals, who proved to be incredibly nice, very welcoming, and truly grateful at America’s continued influence in their country.

It was here that the group took its last fraction, the girls catching a cab to their village and me off to a hostel, as all of the marshutkas had left by this time. I settled in with free wifi, a book, and the starry sky, complacent in the fact that, for the first time in nearly two months, I was alone. It was a startling realization when it first hit me, but I had escaped the typical housing structure that I am used to in America (plenty of visitors, parents, siblings, and other visitors coming and going, always offering someone to talk to), and was travelling without a cohort. It was a nice release to be able to sit and relax, to have no one to answer to, and the night slowly fizzled to a close.

I awoke Sunday morning without aid of an alarm or a day with drawn at plans, still relishing the autonomy of complete control over my schedule. It made for a lethargic start to the day over breakfast (coffee, bread, fruit, and an egg) and conversation with an affable Korean couple who had mistakenly bought tickets to Georgia and were making the best of a surprise vacation (Don’t worry, it confused me, too). When my body felt like it, I slowly packed my few belongings and started off at a slow walk, intent on finding a cup of real coffee and a bank on the 6 mile walk back to McDonald’s and my marshutka home. Trusting the locals over my ability to read Georgian scrawl on the cardboard destination plates in the windshield of marshutkas, I allowed myself to be shepherded onto a bus that set off in what felt like generally the right direction, and let the landscape pass through my inattentive eyes as FUN. blared in my iPod headphones. Slowly, I began to realize that I had been on the bus far too long and had not seen a single thing that resembled familiar territory, and so climbed off the bus to try and find someone who could generally tell me where I was going. I chanced into an English speaking 13 year old girl who was sitting outside of her family’s gas station, who rapidly switched from facial expressions of confusion, bemusement,  and genuine concern as she explained that the city I was looking for was about 45 kilometers in a far off direction (thank god I got off the marshutka), and there were no other marshutkas expected until the following morning. As she explained the situation to her confused Georgian parents, who were quick to begin laughing at me, I sighed and tightened my backpack, reaying myself for the sort of hike that I had certainly not anticipated at 2 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I got my general bearing from the girl, and set off along the cow-poop strewn, unpaved road. Despite TLG’s advice that hitchhiking is not a good idea, I soon flagged down two 20-something year old boys driving what I assumed to be their father’s BMW, who willingly picked me up as they sped past. They were an ecitable duo, thrilled at the prospect of having an American in their backseat, although their English was tenuous at best. They were slightly disheartened at my taste of music and baffled at my explanation that not everyone in America blasted Lady Gaga’s “Born That Way” on repeat during their road trips, but smiled nonetheless. This ride only got me a few kilometers down the road, but the boys were sympathetic to my plight and handed me a freezing cold beer, which they knew would occupy me for at least the first kilometer on my long hike home.

Reduced again to pedestrian status, I cracked the beer and savored the experience that was European travel for the 22 ounces while I covered the better part of two kilometers. Despite the friendly American flag velcroed to the back of my backpack, my hand in the air failed to hail any cars, and I began to wonder when I should tell my family that it would be a few hours until I made it home. Just as I was going to break down and call my host brother, a farmer came out of an access road amidst his flock of cows, and he was shocked to see an American pedestrian sipping a beer and singing along to his strange English music that was magically blasting from his pocket. After telling him that I was trying to walk back to Senake/ Chkhorotskkus, he smiled at the kilometers I had left on my journey, and said that he would be more than willing to give me a ride. At first I assumed that my Georgian was slipping and I did not properly understand what he was saying (considering the man’s lack of automobiles), until he took my bag and rested it on a cow, hoisting me up to take a semi-comfortable seat on the donkey that was at the head of his flock.

Just in case I did not do an accurate job painting that picture into your mind’s eye, I will recap. Having been ushered onto the wrong marshutka after mistakenly allowing a marshutka driver shepherd me onto his bus, I walked off into the middle of nowhere after being on the bus for too long and still not seeing anything familiar. A 13 year old and her gas station owning parents laughed at the fact that I had landed myself 45 kilometers away from home sans transportation, and offered me a beer for the tiring journey down a dirt road. Two twenty year old driving a way-too-nice- BMW were shocked at my admission that not everyone in America had dyed platinum-blonde hair and friends that they called Alejandro, and dropped me at the corner of the road 2 kilometers from a farmer who stuck my scrawny self on a donkey, and continued to whip said donkey as it sauntered down the road towards, I hoped, my village, fresh beer in hand (farmers come prepared). I hope that this comes to be the defining picture of my time in this strange, strange country.

Despite the fact that the donkey ride was fun, it was a very slow moving 5 kilometers, and I was beginning to feel bad for my donkey. And the farmer was out of beer. And so, with immense gratitude, I jumped off my steed, grabbed my pack, and set off at a slight jog, for no real reason than to mentally make up for some lost time. Soon enough, all problems were solved as I hailed a pickup truck that was moving in my direction, and the last 25 or 30 kilometers passed in a blur of a dust cloud, with my bouncing along in the bed of a truck that would certainly have not passed emissions or inspection back in Connecticut. I made it to the town center, about 5 kilometers from my house, and texted my family to let them know that I was alive, almost home, and stopping for something to eat. The Kinkali (doughy balls filled with seasoned ground beef) were delicious, topped off with a huge bottle of water and a cola, and accompanied by three Georgian men, very inebriated, singing classical Georgian songs and watching a small TV sitting on the corner of the bar (playing, of course, the first Twilight movie). The crowd occasionally peppered me with questions, but the lack of any English speakers and the continued intoning of the three not-quite-tenors kept most social interaction brief. That is, until the three men stopped singing and one left, stealing my phone and dialing his number, so that at some other point he can call me and we can get a beer together. I would have protested more, but the 65 year old was wasted, seemed good natured enough, and he had a total of 4 fingers on his two hands, and it was uncomfortable enough the first time he shook my hand. Finally the crowd of about 20 began to cheer again for the two main to continue their songs, who deflected to me, under the guise of wanting to hear me sing songs in English. At first I balked, sure that this was a terrible idea, but their insistences were echoed by the masses, 25 pairs of ears (including the staff who had stopped working to watch) suddenly desperate for Americana. Finally I shrugged, declined a shot of tchacha from the men for the umpteenth time, and stood to clapping and cheers. Too bad they did not realize I don’t have much in the way of a singing voice. Slightly panicked by what song I was going to sing, I smiled and thought of my brother Bobby and friend Dan Cruz, and broke into the first stanza of Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight.” I am sure no one knew anything that I was saying, but they still seemed quite thrilled to have English hurled at them in a rapid, onomatopoeic fashion, and I quickly realized how much I missed the song. Without really intending to, and certainly not being stopped by anyone else, I had soon performed all 8 minutes, and stood awkwardly as the crowd stared at me, unsure what to make of my song.

Finally I left, ready for the last few miles to my front door, hardly an aerobic even considering the 45 kilometer hike I was faced with just a few hours ago. Luck played into my hand again, and I was graced with another ride, to save my family an additional hour of worrying. This time, a large tractor left the construction site next to the restaurant, and I was allowed to climb into the enormous bucket, which carted me past the homes of my students and fellow teachers, staring at me in sudden recognition and wondering what the hell I was doing. I thanked the construction worker for my ride, and, 7 marshutka rides, one BMW, one donkey, one bed of a pickup truck, and one backhoe later, I was home.

TLG Blog 1

So I was accepted to write for the official TLG blog. I suppose even their internet is so bored that they are looking for more words to fill the insurmountable void. I figured I might as well do my part, and figured I'd throw them on here, although they are bound to not be as interesting because we have to follow prompts and the government of Georgia (supposedly) has a strong editorial hand. Enjoy

 

Tom Sheridan 23 September 2012

Georgia: Love, Live, and Chame

If you have not already heard, you will. It will be the main talking point for most of orientation training, and then will be proven over and over again when you arrive to your host family: Georgians are hospitable. Hospitable bordering on aggressive. The ‘freshman fifteen’ that everyone warns you about when you set off for college is a paltry physical undertaking to the amount of food that will be put before you at each meal, at every supra, and at random times in between feedings if your bebia finds you sitting and your hand or mouth is not occupied. Food is nearly as constant as oxygen, which is just as well, as most of the food offered by this country is delicious. “Chame” (EAT!) is one of the Georgian words that you will remember forever.

Georgia was not a land built for Dr. Atkins or the lactose intolerant, so prepare yourself for constant loaves of bread and endless amounts of cheese, much of which is made from the curds of fresh squeezed milk in the backyard. Fair warning, the cheese is often very salty. Highly addictive, but it can take some getting used to during your first few helpings. Much of the food offered to you, especially if you are placed in a village, is homemade, from the chickens and cows your host mom will slaughter, to the fruits and vegetables that are pulled right off the vine or out of a tree. Here is a small sampling of foods you will undoubtedly see in the beginning of your Georgian experience:

khatchapuri: On the surface, this sounds like a simple dish you could get anywhere in America: bread smothered with cheese and then baked. However, this is no late night Domino’s offering. There are three types; Adjaran, where the bread is formed into a boat with a pool of cheese sloshed into the middle, pulled together by an egg cracked on top. Simply rip the boat apart and dip, and the taste will distract you from the molten dairy product dripping all over your fingers and clothes. Magrule is a much more compact dish, the cheese baked in between two layers of bread, baked, and cut into slices like a pizza pie.

Kinkali: Another national dish of Georgia. This is a handmade dumpling formed into something resembling a giant, pasty Hershey’s Kiss, and then stuffed with a ball of ground beef and seasoning, and ounces of hot and delicious broth ready to bust through on your first bite. Typically, the plate of Kinkali comes with a pepper shaker to season to your personal liking, and I highly recommend going heavy.

Tsvadi: The Georgian version of baby back ribs, unfortunately minus the BBQ sauce. This dish comes in two offerings, pig and cow, and is served with slices of raw onion. The first time I had this dish was at some tiny roadside stand in the mountains leaving Tbilisi after orientation. The grill was a long, slim construction where logs were lit on fire on one end, and then the coals were scraped to the opposite side and skewers of meat (kabob-style) were laid across to sear.

The hardest thing for me to adjust to has been the coffee. There are two options for coffee, either Turkish or instant. The instant coffee is awful, not because the Georgian’s don’t make it as well as Americans, only because it is instant coffee, which shouldn’t even count, regardless of the country. The Turkish coffee is a bit like an espresso, hand ground coffee beans put into water and boiled, so that the last few sips of the chewy consistency of your mouth filling with spent grounds. The first cup is a bit weird, but you refine your technique for drinking it quite soon. If your family harvests hazelnuts in the beginning of the year, it adds quite the aromatic bump to your morning joe to take a nut, break it open, and toss it into the hand grinder with the coffee beans. The small shavings of hazelnut do not dissolve as nicely as the ground coffee, but steeped in the boiling water long enough will draw out enough scent and flavor that you might think you’re sitting in a café back home.

There are many more options for furthering your culinary experience as you continue to travel. If you take a trip to a big city, be sure to find a roadside stand where you can purchase shaurma, a gyro-style , pita pocket, handheld delicacy that is more than worth the 4 or 5 Lari that you will pay. Chile peppers are optional, but certainly complete the meal. There was one dish that my host parents ordered for me while in Kutaisi that was simply a 10x5x2 brick of solid, salty cheesed, baked in milk and covered in a pesto-ish thing. I don’t want to say that it is bad, but if a lump of cheese is the main entrée, you are bound to fill up quick as your blood slows to a faint trickle working its way through your arteries. For those who are truly adventurous, there is a pirate ship restaurant on the Black Sea in Batumi that will serve you cow brains. They were, in a word, squishy.

01 October

It was certainly a busy weekend. School came and went on Thursday with my new position as school soccer coach fully in place. I was even excused from my last lessons to go to the gym and kick a ball around with the kids, dividing the seething masses of youthful energy into two teams and pretending I was a giant amongst pygmies playing a game of keep away that led children to marvel at my ability and me to feel a bit like 18 year old hotshots who used to make themselves feel better by keeping the ball away from my 8 year old self. Friday I was even allowed to take the crew outside, and we played long sessions of keep away and small scrimmages before ending the day with a shoot out, of which I did terribly as I refuse to allow myself unleash as hard a kick as I can muster into the face of a second grade boy or girl. Afterwards, I was mobbed by 100 some-odd kids all screaming my name and thrusting pens and paper in my face, desperate for my autograph (I even signed the hands and forearms of kids who did not think ahead to bring paper). Between the autographs and the photos, I imagine this is how Justin Bieber feels like at all times – hordes of 14 year old girls screaming my name. It was exhausting.

Finally I escaped the paparazzi and jumped on a marshutka, as I was off to spend a weekend in Tbilisi with some other volunteers enjoying the maelstrom of election weekend. I met with Daylene in Senake and spent the few hours waiting for the night train hunting out a shwarma shack for dinner and a wine bar as the true Georgian past time while waiting for anything. In the end, we settled for a bottle of wine next to the train tracks, and were wildly entertained by the station manager Rezni (or something like that) who was wasted and, apparently, deeply troubled at the fact that he only spoke Georgian and Russian and we only spoke English and Spanish. All the same, language barriers did not prevent our recently married friend from trying to convince Daylene to come home with him. Welcome to Georgia. The night train came right on schedule, which I did not realize happened in this country, and 7 hours later we woke up in Tbilisi, only to jump on a marshutka and travel three hours north to Kazbegi Mountain.

The hike to up the mountain was incredible. In the distance there was a snow capped peak serving as the backdrop for an ancient monastery perched on top of our smaller mountain, and the winding trail took us stumbling up the loose rock that served as roads for the tiny village at the mountain base. People with more daring (or at least more money to burn) raced past us on horses, and my group took a communal inhalation to lament the general lack of planning in mountain climbing gear. Once we cleared the village, the woods took on a very New England feel; the leaves have begun their multicolored decay into fall, the yellows, greens, oranges, and reds dazzling our viewpoints and transported me to the woods of Tolland. The air was crisp, the looming shade had not shaken the morning chill, and the scent of fall roamed freely, nature’s Yankee Candle offering unfulfilled promises of apple pie, warm cider, and pumpkin beers at our journey’s end. While we were lost in our nostalgic gazes, the trail shook our complacency by jumping upward, demanding that we earn each step further up to the summit. The curves became sharper, separating each member of the group as the altitude and steep climbs began separating our closely knit pack. The path became more of a battle, and nature’s assault threatened to turn all those involved back around, until finally relenting just as the trees broke and we reached the top of the world, the ancient monastery sitting serenely on the side of the cliff as though asking us what took so long.

The Walk down was much simpler, gravity asking only our respect as it slowly sucked as downward, everyone careful of foot placement to save an embarrassing tumble into the dust (except, of course, for Daylene, who managed to fall twice, narrowly avoiding the booby traps of excrement piles that have come to truly define our experiences in this country). After burning through the descent (only 30 minutes compared to the 2 hours up), it was time to celebrate the only way how (universally, I believe, not just American or Georgian), with a beer and greasy meat. The only down side was jumping back onto the marshutka for the 3 hour ride back to Tbilisi, but even this turned into dinner and a show. As there were 9 of us on this hike and marshutkas come with 15 seats, we were in prime position to nearly fill the entire bus with just our group. This is a very good thing, if you are a marshutka driver. However, it resulted in massive juggling between different marshutkas, drivers kicking other people off of their busses to make room for us, which seemed to upset the apple cart in general. There was plenty of yelling and shoving, with 9 sets of American eyes staring unblinkingly from their seats, until the cops were called and everyone began to settle down. Finally an old grandmother, an octogenarian who had been the loudest of all shouters, walked on as though looking for a seat (still shouting), and finally collected all of the money from the 15 passengers and disappeared, without giving any of the money to the driver. Clearly, this woman is my hero.

24 September

Well it has been a couple of days since I have updated, so I apologize if this is a longer entry than normal.

The first week of school came to an exciting close in a flash of disorganization. I only have one class on Friday’s (a schedule that college me is eying enviously), which is in the 3^rd grade with my younger coteacher Dika. However, 5 minutes into class, a girl burst into our room in a confused sort of dazed. It turns out the English teacher for the upper grades did not show up, and I was asked to go teach the 11^th grade by myself. For the record, this is completely outlawed by TLG and my contract, but I did not really see the harm it could cause, and figured I couldn’t destroy any of these kids educations in a mere 45 minutes. I made sure, upon walking into the room filled with smiling and expectant 17 year olds, to tell them all that they were not allowed to tell them that I was teaching them without a coteacher (seeing as how it would get me in trouble), and they all stared at me wondering what the hell I just said. Turns out English was only made compulsory last year, so even though they are going to graduate in a year their abilities range from a 5^th grader’s to that Carlos Mencia beer commercial when he teaches his citizenship class to say ‘BUD LIGHT!’ This was going to be harder than I thought.

I made it through pretty much unscathed; we did a few exercises in the workbook, I got to force noisy kids to read in front of their peers (which they did not like), and then I ultimately rewarded them with the ultimate American substitute teacher contribution – 20 minutes of heads up 7 up. To my credit, the kids learned a bit, enjoyed the rest of their Friday, and only one kid jumped out of the first story window and ran down the street, not to be seen again for that school day. Overall, a success.

After class I made the 2 kilometer walk back to my house and got changed, as I had been selected (asked? Coerced?) into helping coach the school’s soccer team. I mad a small lap around the village and ran up to the gates of the school where the kids were running around outside of the marshutka, just about ready to pull away. They stared at me as though I was some sort of alien, as the concept of physical exercise in Georgia is pretty boring. There might have been an additional humanizing moment as they saw me sweaty and out of breath in shorts and a tshirt, rather than up at the front of the classroom in slacks and a nice shirt spouting a language they barely understood. Either way, 20 of us piled into a bus meant for 12 people, health and safety for minors were hurled out the window (we didn’t have any space to carry the book on safety regulations), and our possibly inebriated hurtled the rust, 1980, soviet-era death trap hurtling through the cows and pigs to our soccer game.

Ultimately, we lost 5-2 (despite the kids assurances that they were really good and Chkhorosqus didn’t stand a chance – I should have known when we showed up an hour late, missing kids, and not in matching uniforms like the royal blue and yellow numbered jerseys of our opponent). It was truly heartbreaking because I could tell that the kids really wanted to show off for their new American teacher, but I think they eventually warmed up after I taught them some fun U-12 soccer mini games from by past glory days of 11 year old soccer. I even found some 20 year olds who were watching everything who kicked around with me for a while, and I managed to disguise my crippling uncoordination enough to fool them with some semblance of athleticism, and they offered me a spot on their adult team that plays on Saturday mornings. I bid my two new teams goodbye as the students made their way back to the bus, and I was dragged to the backroom of the stadium house for food and vodka, as is the Georgian way. Thirteen shots and not enough food later, I was bright red and giggling at the gap in the front teeth of the opposing coach, and everyone decided it was time for everyone to go home (my head coach was barely conscious). Little did I know, the kids had not been ushered back to the school while we were celebrating whatever celebration, and were hanging out of the windows of the bus waiting for our return. I then got to take a few mile ride back to the school, feeling terribly self conscious about my ill disguised intoxication, and realizing that this ‘culture’ of Georgia is merely a firable offense in the US.

Saturday woke me up with another small prayer that I still offer every morning after drinking, realizing how lucky I am that I’ve never had a hangover.  I laced up my shoes and filled my backpack with 2 liter bottles of water (my host mother still gave me a look that told me she thought I was an idiot) and I stepped off for my first day of soccer on the field about 5 miles away. The game went pretty well, all though it was more of a practice than an actual game, everyone on the pitch showing obvious signs of not sharing in my luck of being immune to hangovers. The game came and went without too much of a sweat being broken, but luckily I had the back half of a 10 mile to get back to the house. I was about half a mile from my house and freedom from my backpack, when a voice broke through my iPod speakers, a distinct call of ‘amigo!’ I immediately paused, wondering whether I had heard correctly or had simply become completely fluent in Georgian through some sudden osmosis. But I was right, the owner of the local gas station moved to Georgia a few years ago after having lived in Madrid for 7 years, and I finally had someone that I could speak to in a foreign language. My Spanish was a little bit rusty, but my ability grew almost as quickly as my confidence as 2.5 liters of beer and 500 ml bottles of orange Fanta (filled with vodka) were broken out. It was a nice reward after the long walk and soccer game, but, between the complete absence of food for the day and the slight dehydration from such walking, the drink quickly caught up with me and I convinced myself to leave around 3. I walked back to my house and Saturday was just about shot, except for a small note from my host parents that there are certain people I need to shy away from drinking with, as some people have been accused of putting drugs in new people’s glasses. You can take the kid out of Wilkes Barre, but…

Today marked the return to a typical work week, Monday being my busiest day of the week with 5 classes. My entire village exists on one road, about 3 kilometers from one end to the other. I live at one of the farthest points from the school, which means I often walk past many students on my way in to work. Today, it resulted in a flock of 8 year old girls following me all the way to the school gate, either making fun of the way that I walk or trying to match my longer gait with their small legs. Either way, I was escorted into the building by my posse, both hands held, and immediately said ‘hello’ 100 times, as that is the main thing most people are confident in saying, and each student wants their own greeting. I even had one girl say she loved me, and some students coming back for their second or third hello. Finally, I get to know what Justin Bieber feels like.

19 September

It was 3 nights ago that I lay in bed, unsure how I was supposed to sleep, what I was supposed to think, unsure what to expect the next morning (Monday). It’s been 3 years since the last time I had a school night, a sense that I needed to get a decent night’s sleep to open my mind to the world of academia the next morning, made all the important that this time I would be the imparting knowledge, rather than merely staring blankly from the audience, desperate for the 15 minutes of classroom time that constitutes syllabus week is over. The age old questions ran through my head; who will be in my classes? Will I enjoy the schedule that I am given? Will everyone like me? Who will I eat lunch with? (A question that I had never needed to ask, as Georgian schools do not come with lunch breaks.) As it turns out, Bowling For Soup might have been on to something – High school never ends.

Monday was a general clusterfuck of Georgian administration, school starting strictly at 9 am, the bells shrilling through the hallways more indicative of an air strike or prison riot than then melodic start to information absorption. As the students continued to wander through the front gates of the school at 9:23, I stared at my iPod wondering what the hell was happening, happy with the Temple Run app my younger brother installed to occupy my time, as staring at the students, teachers, and students staring at me had worn thin after about 10 minutes. Occasionally one of the students or parents, urged on through social pressure by their peers that had amassed into respective gossip circles, would tip toe up to me, the idea of stealth traded for mutual eye contact through their daring journey towards the American teacher, mutter hello, only to be completely disarmed by my wide smile and loud proclamation of “Hello! DILA MISHVIDOBISA!!,” meant more for everyone than just the social martyr. Georgians, one of the friendliest and least abashed people I have been thrust to, are constantly unaware to someone meeting their extroversion.

Finally some semblance of procedure is under way, hundreds of students, parents, teachers, administrators, and hot shot government officials forming an unconvincing semicircle around the front stoops of the school for the director’s welcoming speech. Pictures were taken, hands were shaken, computers delivered, certificates awarded, pleasantries cast off as though they had stockpiled to alarming rates over the summer. Pomp and circumstance ruled, complete with the high school’s jazz band and adorable 4 year olds screeching through a national anthem as the flag is raised. I had no idea what was being said, but it was an amazing moment to be a part of, my position of ‘teacher’ a posting of barely earned merit, forged into reality by my status as American. Before I realized that my presence had become the main topic of speech, I was urged onstage, dragged by the surprisingly stallworth grasp of my director’s stubby fingers, and pushed from behind by my traitorous co-teachers, none of whom warned me I was about to be made spectacle of. I was then urged to give an impromptu speech, foreign words strung into improvised sentences and tossed into the eager but unabsorbing faces of my future students, current bosses, glowing neighbors, and politicians with ambiguous stares of nonchalant coolness shaded by their Roy Ban sunglasses (no, that is not a typo). I was originally going to muddle through a slur of ridiculous puns, song lyrics, and allusions to the Declaration of Independence with quotes from the Gettysburg Address, but something told me that my coteacher (who was serving as translator) would eventually catch on. Either way, my coteacher is a 50 year grandmother who has been teaching under the Soviet occupation for 25 years, and her tenuous grasp of the English undoubtedly skewed what I was trying to say to the masses; God knows what my translated self actually said. Either way, I was carried off stage by unwavering support and applause, and the 32 teeth smiles and flashbulbs blinded me and carried straight through the front gates. My first day as a teacher had gone before I even realized it was there.

Day two was much more indicative of what my life will be like for the next few months. My schedule is ideal, starting at 9, 930 or 1015 every day, and over at 12 or 1 every day, with the exception of Friday which entertains me for one 45 minute period from 1015 to 11. College me is staring out at me from the jealous world of “There was so much that could have been done in college with such a ridiculous lackluster schedule.” I teach 6 different grades a few times each over the course of the week, 3 classes with Nani, a nearly octogenarian Russian immigrant, and 3 with Dika, a cute-ish 25 year old second year teacher who has been saved for me to marry, successfully securing my future in this rural Georgian town for the next 75 years and 3 generations. Even though it has been a while that I have seen attractive females my age, snow blindness is hardly shocking enough to white out the lack of modern day appliances and animal excrement that have encased the dress shoes I wasted money on to come out here. Either way, everyone is genuinely excited for me to be here, and their hospitality and generosity in time and resources are nearly overwhelming, which is saying something considering the dietic status I have been living in for the past 6 weeks (holy crap, I left Connecticut going on 6 weeks ago).

The teaching styles of my coteachers are going to be the main thing to deal with, the rusty shackles of the Soviet era still dictating the general air of the classroom, Nani being especially forceful of students’ respect demonstrated in standing upon my arrival, not sitting until I tell them to, standing to answer questions, and raising their hand by bending their arm at 90 degree angle, hand pointed straight into the air with the unraised arm a perpendicular line, opposite hand pointed right into the joint of the elbow of the raised hand. If only the kids were standing, alternating the arm that is raised while kicking their legs in time, it would be very similar to a traditional Georgian Folk dance. When a child is finally called on, they are never quick enough to stand for Nani’s liking, and she is more than willing to grasp the student’s from behind by the shoulders and drag them to their feet, squeezing them by the crook of the elbow as though applied pressure will assist in squirting out the correct answer in perfect British diction. Her air of prefect control is only shattered by her guttural pronunciation that does something to decimate the English language, and the separation in her insistent jarbling of words to be New England accent only serves to confuse the 3^rd and 4^th graders.

Dika stands at the front of the classroom with the controlling stare of a moth being sucked into a fluorescent lightbulb. She is genuinely sweet and joined teaching for the right reasons (to actually help students, inspire them to travel and excel to big universities, have summers off to travel), and her grasp of English is quickly improving through night school that the Ministry funds. The question of whether she should be instructing children in speaking and listening skills is hardly for me to determine.  However, she is far more willing to let me make an impact on the classroom, and soon the room was divided into 2 groups, one doing workbook exercises on the board as I worked with the other students on a dialogue about zoo animals and Boffy the Clown.

The students are an absolute charm, immediate justification that coming here and enough to serve as a realization of my future desire to be in a classroom. There is no definitive uniform, but the crisp black slacks and button up white dress shirts are further outdone by individual flares of style (presumably from the parents), argyle sweaters, cardigans, and suit vests covering ties and bowties, the girls opting for frilly skirts (some of uncomfortable shortness) and intricately patterned white dress shirts, there is, of course, the requisite Scarlet Letter of the classes, a short brunette chick in a tight skirt and a cheerleading outfit cut so the bra straps share an equal prominence across exposed shoulders. Everyone wonders where the girl’s parents are and when the eating disorder and inevitable drug addiction will take their toll. Or maybe I’m just the jaded American. Either way, the communal desire to learn, to better themselves in every area of school, is evident through their rapt attention, the multitudes of students who continue to sneak into my class to be taught by the ‘native speaker,’ and the cries of ‘Mas! Mas!!’ (short for the Georgian word for teacher) as the students tug on their necks (a sign language for please) and fly out of their seats, desperate to be the one to answer correctly. Days like this make me think back to days in Core English courses, when teachers’ answered fizzled out against the odious aroma of students’ hangovers and ambivalence, until a group of 2 or 3 students inevitably raised their hands to keep the class moving along. Over the past 3 days, I have managed to fall in love hundreds of times watching these kids jockey for academic position, as though sitting attentively was not enough to allow information to properly flow into their long term memories.

The MacMllian books that we use to tech (not that any of them have been delivered yet) teach using British English, which means I will soon develop a fluency in Cockney rhyming slang and can, come December call people ‘Guvnah’ and say ‘Cheers’ instead of ‘thank you’ with no sense of Hipster irony. On the other hand, this resulted in the first time an 8 year old boy asked me for a rubber. As my eyebrows jumped as though suddenly desperate to become simply ‘brows,’ and a quick blush flashed across my face, my teacher handed him an eraser and he sat back down to correct some mistake on his paper. Who would have thought such a language barrier existed between us and the Brits.

15 September

Today we took a family trip to Aneklia, a fresh, bumpin’ city (the kids are still talking like that, right?) on the coast of the Black Sea, a bit of a drive north of Batumi. A much smaller affair than big city Batumi, the family feel is much more prevalent, massive hotels staring off into the horizon occupying more space than bars, clubs, and casinos, and, instead of a dance floor, a family water park occupies most of the skyline, the giddy screams of childhood excitement audible from the impressive footbridge a few hundred meters away. Meters; I’ve become such a European. The ‘beach’ is still comprised mainly of rocks and leisurely discomfort, but the water is warm and Donald Trump’s forehead, the foreshadowing to the gaudy skyscraper to obscure the Batumi coast, is blissfully absent.

The waterpark is a small slice of Americana served in small, guttural proportions. The scent of chlorine is evident before you walk through the gate, the ticket prices disproportionately expensive for the amount of rides open, and bags are not allowed by the lawn chairs, the keys to a small locker exorbitantly expensive. Luckily we are spared the extortionate costs of food by a political rally that has decided to try and buy votes via hamburgers and hotdogs (successfully, I might add) and the disappointing absence of a liquor license. The stereo system is impressive, although it sounds as though it is manned by a 16 year old lifeguard with his iPod, the songs constantly repeating themselves and cutting out halfway through the second verse. Apparently musical ADD has traversed the Atlantic Ocean. The screams are the same as they might be at the American version of a water park, a mass of unintelligible excitement pushed around a lazy river, down plastic chutes, or running around the wave pool until a life guard yells and ruins the fun for everyone. Flo Rida continues to blare in the background, for some reason intent on ‘blowing my whistle’ (is it too much to hope this is a sports metaphor?), and every few minutes a bell rings. At the bell, countless 8-45 year olds gather under a 500 gallon bucket, giggling nervously while plugging their noses and pinching their bathing suits, intent on avoiding any embarrassing social situation when so many gallons of water pound down on their heads. A garbled Georgian dialect is frattled through the loudspeakers, interrupting Flo Rida’s come ons, insisting everyone on the next sale or opening slide or lost child, until the time is announced and my host brother and sister groan at the parents’ shouts that they are done and it is time to go home. The shouts of dismay and misfortune from the younger kids, hopeful for one last slide or 4 seconds wading in the wave pool, are beaten only by the parents’ shouts that the children line up obediently behind the full body automated dryers, their looks of relief that the day baking in the sun drowning in the cacophony of noise is over.

The only noise in the parking lot is the children half lamenting at such an early departure while replaying out loud how brave they were at attempting this slide or that, coupled with the attendees who thought ahead with packed coolers, soccer balls breaking out across the parking lot to traditional Georgian folk songs and American pop music. Finally the engines roar and everyone races out of their parking spot, only to screech to a halt and wait angrily at the 45 minute line to get out of the parking lot.

The ride home is when we encounter the build up to the first car accident I have seen since being in Georgia, the continued road construction having worsened and the time delay testing the patience of everyone involved. As my host father speeds in and out of stopped traffic and drivers who are clearly not navigating the potholes or 4 way traffic correctly, the manual gears are sent through a flurry of a workout, the grinds and groans of first gear flying into second and up to third only to be smacked back down to first are more felt than heard, the floor vibrating with their effort as the upholstery creaks and adjusts to such violent handling. It is almost comically nostalgic to watch my host mother clutch the door handle in panic while stomping on her imaginary brake that is only the passenger side floor, her belief that her right foot could actually slow the car down doing little more than providing a small dent in the floor. Never have I seen another person since my real mother take in such a vehement amount of oxygen while gritting their teeth, praying the rosary, and letting the smallest of “SHIT’s” slip through her gums. My host dad is continuing an endless monologue that no one pays any attention to besides me (the only one that can’t understand), gesticulating wildly while saying something along the lines, I assume, of “All of these people are idiots, if everyone were as good as I am at driving, there would be no problem at all and the chaos of the road construction would dissipate into perfect vehicular harmony. Of course I am not lost, this is just a small shortcut, which will save us time and put us miles ahead of where we thought we would be.” How could I ever be homesick when it feels as though I have never left? Sorry, Mom and Dad.

The bang-bang-screech of the inevitable car accident is meant with general surprise by everyone involved and watching; the car at fault wondering where the bright green car right in front of them could have possibly come from, every other mother in the passenger seat thankful they managed to avoid the accident, and every other father behind every other wheel casting a reproachful look of disdain, as if to say ‘if only you followed my example, you could have avoided such inconvenience.’ The road work continues uninterrupted, the constant hum of heavy machinery in constant juxtaposition to the 1 man working, 4 men smoking and talking situation that is unionized work in America. The professional noise and the screams of children and farm animals running in and out of traffic compete for airspace with tourist cars, shouts, and screams of people and radios inside those cars, and the mechanical ache of so many vehicles exhausted into service to survive this journey of chaos and antiprogress. My host father is only one that continues his screams as to the ignorance of all others, mothers continue their prayers and exclamations, children sing along to the radio while recounting their stories of excitement and bravery, and every other kid in the car recants their story as fabrication and exaggeration. I smile and laugh to myself, an innocent bystander to the same scenario I have witnessed for 25 years, singing along to words on the radio even though I don’t speak Georgian (my game plan for singing these songs I have heard so many times but do not understand is to simply mumble along in Russian, another language which I do not speak nor understand). A cow meanders out in front of our stalled car perched precariously over the crevice of a pothole, eschewing another string of rants from my father, until it turns away from the hood and defecates all over the Mercedes Benz hood ornament. I swear that this is the first time I have seen a cow smile. Children scream and sing, men cuss and swear, women scold and pray, farm animal bleat and defecate, and machinery everywhere rev and groan. In the distance, Flo Rida is whistling and blowing whistles while being interrupted by automated announcements, bells are sounding and 500 gallons of water are being dumped over slightly nervous coeds. And everybody screams.

11 September

The sun has begun to set behind the mix of trees and defunct houses that comprise my horizons, the distant sun incapable of keeping the air as warm as our walk around the city all day, another indicator that fall is on its way. The trip into Kutaisi went smoothly enough, our second run through the marshutka hopping making us feel like old hands, and our ability to ask for directions in Georgian reminding us that we can’t actually speak Georgian (even if we have learned the appropriate phrases to apologize for any ineptitude). In the end, it is shocking how little of a native tongue you need to survive in a foreign land, and as long as you are willing to embarrass yourself through trying most people prove more than willing to work with you.

Although Kutaisi feels as though it lacks the sort of splendor that we became accustomed to while travelling in Batumi and Tbilisi, it does, at least, offer a McDonalds; the sight of Ronald perched on the bench outside and prospect of Big Macs lumped under the heat lamps inside was enough to send Ollie and I off the bus preemptively, the gigglish rush of ordering food that is typically a defeat (and ordering in English, at that!) aglow as we discover new taste buds – America, freedom, and nostalgia. As it turns out, bringing a girl to McDonalds has gigantically different social connotations in Georgia, serving more as the impetus of furthered romantic entanglements ultimately leading to marriage, as opposed to the American stigma of cheap and classless, unless such trip is post-high school prom and includes tuxedos, prom dresses, and a limo. Perhaps the real difference in Georgian McDonalds is the classy ambiance of plush 1970s-era chairs, a party room with a large table and flat screen TV (the happiest business meeting in corporate history), and the explicit and suggestive rap lyrics alternating with smooth jazz leaking out of overhead speakers. The lack of a dollar menu only adds to the stale stench of first love and ultimate heartache (cholesterol and emotional) that hangs in the air. Hopefully Ollie did not run away with too many high expectations after our first date.

The hostel, although well hidden, is another gem in the series of successes that has been an overnight trip. Perched behind a convenience store conveniently owned by the hostel proprietor, the beer comes discounted with rental of a bed and the entire house has an early Victorian feel. The downtown section of Kutaisi is equally ideal, miles of streets intertwining through new buildings and soviet era blocks, bustling citizens on foot or in taxi, an open air market, and shuarma good enough to knock the socks off anyone that wasn’t allowed the opportunity to try the shuarma around the corner of the Batumi hostel. Although the monastaries proved too far out of the city to be attainable, the charm of the city was ample without the desperate-to-be-western feel of Batumi and the air of Tbilisi clouded with noise and dust from perpetual construction. If Tbilisi is New York and Batumi is New Orleans with an additional southern California feel, Kutaisi is more of a collegiate Boston area.

Now is the best part of the day, the Efes Turkish pilsner that is colder than the impending fall and winter, and my feet have been granted a rest after their miles and kilometers of service throughout the day. The front porch just barely clears the roof of the convenience store out front, and the hills are littered with houses, monuments and relics leading over the river and into the mountains out of sight. The sun has slipped into the awkward stage between sunset and dusk, casting the last futile flashes of sunlight across the rooftops and occasionally irritating eyesight. Night life has yet to begun, and Zach, another TLG volunteer, is on a marshutka coming in from Batumi. There is no place to be until the next beer is gone, and the entire scenario is reminiscent to long nights spent on the back porch in Kingston. The beer is cold, the conversation flows freely between the intellectual and the juvenile, and the moments of silence lay as crisp as the settling autumn air. Some plans are launched to have the TLG volunteers recreate Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, allowing each volunteer to rewrite a tale in modern times, centered instead on our journeys through Georgia (Kartuli Tales, anyone?), but those thoughts are ultimately hung out and pushed to another day, wondering whether such a concept will be as inspirational through a more sober lens.

Without fail, and in true homage to nights in Kingston, the silent stillness is broken suddenly, Zach’s arrival reminding us there is still a night to be enjoyed. Georgia is hosting world powerhouses Spain, and the air is thick with my own anticipation of a routing of the host team as well as the locals’ morale. The beer is again cold, the gyros are not as tasty as the shuarma but importance is downplayed by the night alive with shrieks of excitement and groans of ultimate disappointment from the wine-laden patrons of our café. The night is over as quickly as it begun, the beer coupling with energy exerted to make a quick exit out of the world of the conscious.

I suppose I should mention a note of regret or at least sheepishness. I went a full day and quite a few points wrapped up in another adventure into the cities of Georgia, and obviously left the thought of America at home on an unfortunate day. It is only the morning after that I realize September 11 came and went without much in the way of an acknowledgement; of the tragic day in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania; of the lives that have been lost in war and are continued to be lost (and largely ignored) today, and my small role in that aspect of the world through my bried yet enlightening military career. Perhaps that is the ultimate goal of any tragedy, to be able to move on from that event stronger than before, to not live in the shadow of fear and still go out and take vacations and buy expensive things like George Bush preached in the aftermath 11 years ago (what a fucking idiot). Maybe it would have been more appropriate for Ollie and I to have eaten freedom fries earlier at McDonalds, who knows. Either way, in lieu of actual reflection and introspection due to lack of time, suffice it for now with a rediscovery of the past.

 

-Gravity

What is the terminal velocity
of a tax consultant’s body
as it falls from the 70^th floor?
Galileo must know, after his
fateful experiment.
What of a man and woman,
leaping at once, strangers
gripping each others’ hands in
desperation – will they be parted on the
long journey down?
How aerodynamic the human body must be,
gliding gracefully downward – twisting,
tumbling – speeding to examine the
sidewalk crack in greater detail.
They ought to splinter like glass, fathers,
into a thousand irreparable shards.
When a balding store owner slams the
concrete from 2500 feet you should hear
everything he has ever touched
shatter –
every appliance in his home, each and
every pen he’s signed with, TV remotes, half
a dozen women’s thighs, phone receivers, every
single
glass case in his store,
in addition to ten ribs, his pelvis,
collarbone and spine.
But no.
Only silence as he
drops – like water from a faucet –
then a thud
(maybe a crash if he lands on a
bus or sports utility vehicle).
that’s all.
The world shrinks a bit and an
entire home is broken with one
jolt.
No one hears the whisper of a
body imploding,
they just count the bodies as they
fall:
2,973
(and no drain to swallow them up)