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)

08 September

In the first 25 years of my life, I had been to three funerals: my Poppops, Tio Paco’s, and the boyfriend of a college friend who overdosed on heroin. In the 2.5 weeks that I have been in Georgia, I have been to 3 funerals. Today’s event was by far the strangest one I have been to, which includes the time that I did not even know I was at a funeral for the first hour I was there (after my first few glasses of wine I went to the bathroom and nearly tripped over the casket). The funeral today was the grandest as far as scale goes, attended by some 400 or 500 people. It felt as though things were going to go as usual as a Georgian funeral goes, standing around awkwardly with a bunch of people who don’t know what to do with the presence of a foreigner, walking through the grieving line with somber handshakes and small head nods, and then a glass of wine and depart. I should have known otherwise, especially when my host parents left without telling me, abandoning me in a city 45 minutes away from our village with a couple of grieving women in black and burly men smoking cigarettes and staring at my wondering why I was there.

Finally my ride reappeared, and 5 people climbed into the backseat of my car to push off, something that I have become increasingly accustomed to. However, we did not point in the direction of home, but instead drove down the worst road I have ever seen, jockeying for position with 100 other cars as we bobbed and weaved 6 or 7 wide trying to avoid the potholes and craters that littered the road, presumably ditches that had not been fixed since being bombed by Soviet forces. It took a few tenths of a mile until I noticed the lead car, the hearse that was winding as much as everyone else, hatchback propped open and the casket uncovered, giving the trail cars a clear glimpse of the dead body as it bumped and jumped against the 3 pole bearers riding alongside. The chaos of Georgian roads increased when it became clear that the road was not a one way as it had appeared, and slowly the 6 lanes that were constantly being created and then ignored had to shrink to make room for the opposing onslaught of traffic, bobbing and weaving equally in the opposite direction. In all, it felt like that scene in 2 Fast 2Furious when Paul Walker and Vin Diesel take shelter in a garage and then pour out amongst hundreds of other drag racers going in every direction to confuse the FBI and police that had been monitoring the criminals. I am not sure if that made me Paul Walker or Ludacris, if the police that were waving on the funeral procession were the FBI, and if that all made the dead woman in the hearse (the one everyone was chasing) Vin Diesel. Perhaps my metaphor is starting to fall apart.

I have always found wakes and funerals very uncomfortable and ceremonial occasions, archaic traditions meant to force everyone into an awkward social scene save for the person who has passed, the only person to escape the palpable tension. It is even worse going to the funeral of someone whom you’ve never met, in a land 4000 miles away where nobody speaks the same language and can tell you don’t belong here. The sadness and grief that has clutched the hearts of everyone in attendance is not something that can be faked, and the forced somber look that I feel is appropriate to bestow on myself only solidifies my role as an outsider. As people begin to come up and try to talk to me, word quickly spreads that I am an American teacher living with my host family, who is in attendance. As has become typical, this immediately becomes a big deal, and even the husband and children of the dead women are honored that such a ‘distinguished guest’ would take time out of his day to come so far to pay his respects to the deceased. I curse my host brother for opting for his friends house and a day on the river instead of coming along, the absence of my usual translator rendering my hand motions and exaggerated speech completely useless. I am soon dragged over the well maintained gravel spots that are other family members’ final resting places, and to the front of the crowd of 400, staring down at the weathered and plastic corpse so many feet below, looking comfortable and ready for eternity. People have tossed a few handfuls of dirt on top of the woman’s face and dress (where the hell is the lid to this casket?!), and soon the aggrieved husband hands me a shovel, offering me the honor of burying his dead wife. My hands go insta-clammy as I stare at this incredibly intimate scene of everyone’s last goodbye to wife, sister, mother, aunt, or friend, and try my best to hand the shovel to anyone that might take it, babbling in broken English and hurried Spanish (the only foreign language I know) that I cannot be the one to bury a woman I have never met.

Finally the shovel is taken from my hands, whether the grim look on the faces of family members is anger at my refusal, understanding at my discomfort, or merely continued grief as to the woman’s passing, I have no idea nor desire to stick around and discover. I start to walk over to my host family, taking a second to pour wine on the grave that I had been standing on in what I hoped was a respectful gesture, and was led back to the car trying to walk quickly while still avoiding the piles of cow shit that has been strewn all over the cemetery. Praying the day was over, I  was instead driven to supra, a surpisingly timid affair, the 400 people who were in attendance for the plates of foods and gallons of wine indicative of the money the family clearly had. The food was good, even despite the plastic looking bone in some pink beef that cut the roof of my mouth, and the wine went down smoothly enough, which is an important characteristic of wine when chugged 6 ounces at a time every few minutes. There was a lot more action at this supra than my last, the tamara forcing the men present to constantly stand for each toast, the exchange of hugs and kisses on the cheek a flurry of confusion and near sexual advances as I still do not have to procedure down to a science (some people handshake first, others bend in awkwardly making it look like they’re trying to kiss one cheek before switching to the other at the last second, and kisses occasionally nearly miss their mark).

The other big development on the day was the changing of my room. After two weeks of falling asleep to sneezes, hives in my throat, and runny eyes and nose, my family finally decided something was amiss with the bedding I was sleeping on, and I was moved next door. The windows do not face the Eastern mountains, which means I am not awoken at 6 am by the glaring morning. It also means my room is about 15 degrees cooler, allowing the impending fall air to rush in and tighten my grip on my blanket. Dreams of travel to Greece and Tbilisi swirl in my head, and I drift off to the fullest night sleep since the allergies began.

07 September

Georgia has the capacity to be the most threatening military power in the modern world. I do not mean to attest to their military strength in numbers, which is relatively small, nor in their prowess in military technology and strategy, both of which are negligible. However, if they are able to launch an attack on any country with the same level of surprise with which they launch a supra on a foreign teacher, every attack would reverberate with a magnitude similar to Pearl Harbor.

September 7 is the anniversary of my neighbor’s grandfather’s late wife’s murder, an event that is still cause for a supra 24 years into the future. Complete with the grandfather’s new life. I suppose this is life in Georgia. I had been a bit envious of my other TLG volunteers whose Georgian experiences already included the famed drinking and feasting rituals, but the neighbor’s gave it their all in making my first supra  worth the wait. I was ushered into the dining room and introduced to a table of 30 unsmiling Georgian mine and a few women who had exempted themselves from the hassles of cooking and cleaning. After I was introduced as the American teacher who does not speak English but lives next door and is a nice person, everyone stood for the first toast to the dead wife, lead by the tamada, or toast master. By the time I went from the shot to my chair, I was presented with a glass of red wine, a glass of white wine, a bottle of beer, and another shot of tchacha. The games had certainly begun, and people were not messing around with their descriptions of the sheer aggression that is Georgian hospitality.

The number of different plates heaped with food was almost more disarming than the constant toasts and steady flow of alcohol. The kitchen for this house is a separate building just outside the main door, and the only thing slowing down the women in their constant wind sprints between leaving the dining room with empty plates and returning from the kitchen with refills was the mass of bodies they had managed to cram into the tight room. The food in Georgia has become a problem, but only because all of it is so fresh and everything tastes so good. I cannot help but load my plate with everything with in reach, and then everything out of reach is forced upon me by the elders who want to make sure the foreign guest does not go hungry but instead experiences every piece of culture Georgia has to offer. That one thought sounds innocent enough, but in Georgia food and wine are the currency of culture, and the families here are very wealthy. The only thing that I have yet to shake off is my habit of eating everything as quickly as humanly possible. I do not know if it came from growing up with 3 other brothers who share a similar appetite or the time I spent in the Army when we were given so little time to eat that lunch was measure in seconds rather than minutes, but I have always cleared my plate as though food was going out of style, which, in Georgia, is not the case. The problem with this is that once anyone at the table sees that my plate is empty, they are back to forcing more food onto my plate with screams of Chame! Chame! (eat! Eat!). To further complicate the matter, since no one can understand what I’m saying and since they know I can’t understand what they say, no one takes the time to ask if I am hungry, if I want more, or if there is anything I would like or would not like. Instead, everything is foisted upon me and the stares linger until I start eating.

The same is true with the consumption of alcohol, and today was the first time that I was glad every cup in Georgia is absurdly small. Typically, it gets exhausting to constantly stand up while reading to fill the glass that only handles 6 ounces of water at a time, but it was a true life saver at supra. As it turns out, tchacha is not the only thing that is thrown back as a shot. Wine is not casually sipped as a matter of food pairing, but is chugged until empty after every toast. Yes, once the toast is through and the wine is finished, the glass is immediately refilled, but if the glasses were larger than each toast would be more of a detriment, and no one wants to spend four hours chugging 12 ounces of wine at a pop.

In the end, I survived my supra not much worse for wear, even if I was haunted by the image of an unrecognizable 250 pound Tom waddling through the airport in Connecticut once I got home to Connecticut. My only hope is that morning runs and excursions into the mountains will be enough to keep my body small enough to fit into the few pairs of pants I was able to pack into my luggage. The food and alcohol came and went, and my host family whisked me off to the next family gathering while the old men stayed behind to drink further, kiss each other constantly on the cheek, and argue loudly about whatever event came up in conversation. The dishes disappeared before I had the chance to thank anyone or offer to help, and the supra surprise attack was over just as quickly as it had begun.

06 September

I could have sworn ‘Garachette” (something along those lines at least, just read phonetically) meant stop, but the startled faces of the marshutka driver and women in front of Ollie were something more that I would have expected had I shouted that the bus was on fire or Ollie’s water had just broken. Either way, it was only another quarter of a mile down the road that we had to walk, and at least we had survived the hapless scheduling that drives Georgian transportation. We said our goodbyes at the bridge and I plugged myself to my iPod for the 2 kilometers back to my house, sighing in completion of my first trip away from my village. For the past two days, I had gone to Batumi, a city on the coast of the Black Sea, to see some other TLG volunteers and make sure I can still speak English without flailing madly and speaking slowly as though to a 4 year old. The reality of being a foreigner in an isolated village that does not get many visitors from the cities let alone another country had begun to take its toll, and it was an exciting prospect to lose myself in a city, blend in at least a little better than in a village where I am constantly being watched and greeted, pulled into houses to meet the locals despite our inability to communicate.

During training, many people offered what seemed like sage advice when it came to the ever flowing alcohol – “Don’t shit where you sleep.” Past volunteers and training staff alike urged us to be on our best behavior as educators, representatives of the Georgian government, and foreign diplomats, and cautioned us that if we wanted to get drunk, do it in another village where our students’ parents won’t watch us make asses out of ourselves. Georgians are nothing if not pragmatic. It was under this influence that I ventured out to Batumi, ready to be a typical American tourist, not some stranger to which mothers were entrusting their kids.

It felt as though the trip was destined to fail before it even started, Ollie texting from the marshutka 5 kilometers away informing me the last seat had been filled. Luckily, Georgians had never been fettered with nonsensical regulations like ‘number of seats in a vehicle,’ and there was plenty of room for me to stand as long as I was OK smashing into an 85 year old hazelnut farmer on every 60 m.p.h. curve. It was hard to argue with the efficiency of the taxi-like bus, and soon we found ourselves 40 miles away at a station in Senake, ready to catch the connector to our end goal. Round two went just as smoothly, with the possible exception of the 24 inches of leg room that Ollie and I were allotted, although I at least had room for the bounce that came with the back seat, unlike Ollie and his overhead storage.

We have arrived at the beach, albeit a beach like none I’ve ever seen. Regardless of the presence of a large body of water, I refuse to acknowledge a beach that does not have sand. The rocks that lead into the water make for a ridiculously uncomfortable walk, and I have never been less tempted to lay out and tan (burn). But, regardless of the quality of sand castles to be made, we were in beach weather, which meant beach bars. Clearly Ollie and I brought our highly refined taste, as we were able to find the only place I could ever find a 7 Lari Corona. Luckily Max and James, 2 other volunteers, had learn their way around the city, and we soon traded for a 1.5 Lari beer with a view of the bustling city. Unfortunately, it was there that the four of us parted ways, as Max and James were off to scale the mountains of Sveneti, which my flip flops were ill-prepared to handle. Instead Ollie and I stuck to the safety of the boardwalk, marveling at the expanse of building proects proposed to take the city out of post-soviet squalor into upper class splendor. Where everyone who was living in the Tiawana-esque section of this city would live when their rents quadrupled or more, no one had seemed to ask. The proposed transition from ghetto to post-modern chique left both of us hungry, and Georgian pizza was calling our name.

Georgians put mayonnaise on their pizza. Savages.

Batumi was to be my first hostel experience, an opportunity that I was overly excited for. I had been spoiled so far with my living experiences (western toilets, constant electricity, clean and unlimited water, etc), and it was going to be exciting to rough it for a few days. It was even better as there were no scantily clad females lying all over the door, ready to feed us beverages and satisfy our more carnal pleasures before selling us to sadistic American businessmen with a penchant for cutting up American tourists, so my worries about being in an awful early-2000’s horror film were nullified. Instead, I was instantly surrounded with people from all around the world venturing to many other corners of the world, and the stories and the experiences flowed like tchacha in a rural Georgian village. Before anyone realized what had happened to the sun, early morning snuck up from behind the clouds and it was time to say goodbye to day 1.

Day two was a blur of travelling, a group of 5 following Ollie through the streets of Batumi in search of the Stalin museum, with about as much success and urgency as the Jews following Moses through the dessert in search of the Promised Land. After forty days and forty nights and guiding advice from the voice of God (well, 2 hours and navigational sympathy from a Georgian fruit stand owner), we found the Stalin museum, locked up and inaccessible as it had been for God knows how long, the trash piled across the pathway not enough to blemish or dull the resolute mustache adorning Stalin’s upper lip, which was perfectly visible all the way from the sidewalk. And people wonder why the Jewish people are stereotyped as complainers.

It had been a few weeks since I had been able to feel domestic between the hotel restaurant and the overly hospitable way of the Georgian housewife, and Kelsey leaped at the chance to cook dinner with me. Even though the grocery store didn’t carry any chicken (why would they, when you can just hack at the neck of passing roosters on the road), dinner was a simple pasta dish with sautéed tomatoes, onions, garlic, basil, and olive oil, and it was perfectly buoyed by Georgian bread, Georgian wine, and a group of people from America, England, Turkey, and Australia sitting around entertaining each other. Unfortunately for most of the onlookers, conversation centered mainly on terrible puns and degenerative humor, but the opportunities to talk about travels in common brought everyone a little closer to home, especially the verbal tour through east coast microbreweries.

Dinner came to a slow close as everyone procrastinated going to the city ferris wheel, alcohol lubricating conversation and not urging anyone to begin dishes. Finally everyone got moving, and the trip to the top of the wheel was over as soon as it begin, with a general underwhelming sense. Luckily night swimming ensued, which slowly devolved to throwing rocks at each other and sharing a few bottles of beer on the rocks. I mean beach. As Wednesday night began to approach Thursday morning, everyone was convinced to go to the local dance club to keep the energy up, fooled by the false advertising of thumping bass and strobe lights and walking in on 6 Lari beer and an empty dance floor. Despite the setback, the dance floor was inundated with more uncoordinated white kids than anyone had bargained for, complete with wildly successful brek dancing by yours truly (apparently the night was the perfect blend of alcohol and strobe light to make tripping over myself in a circular pattern look like a B-boy back up dancer).

The night was to be finished with a few people sitting around the backgammon table and a last before before calling it a night, but plans were suddenly and aggressively derailed by other guests at the hostel who were not interested in having as much fun our group. Complaints about calling the manager quieted us down a few notches, the sudden realization that it was 4 am and the sun was due back around in a few short hours sheepishly reminding us of our communal living. The damage was already done, however, and a particularly agitated French female came around for a second assault, sitting down and referring to us as American pigs who fulfilled the stereotypes of not caring about anyone else. Ironically, I was seated next to a Brit, Turk, 2 Germans, a Turk, a South African, an Aussie and a Kiwi, and I was the quietest of all. Diplomatic hands were extended, and soon the woman was embarrassed by her harsh comments and overreaction, beers were poured, and proper introductions were issued (I made sure to go last and announce myself as the only proper Capitalistic pig).

Batumi is now over and the walk back to my house finished. It is weird to spend a quick two days and fully acclimate back to city life, the sudden stillness and lock of honking, blaring music, and beggar children a comforting dip back into culture shock. The entire village stopped me on my way home, 100 people somehow fully aware of my trip to Batumi without even a Facebook post. Mark Zuckerberg has got nothing on village living.

03 September

Although I set my alarm for 6:30 to get an early jump on the day, to catch the sunrise by surprise and witness its gradual ascent as it shyly popped over the mountain ridge I hiked part of the way into, my unconsciousness did not even make it to that point of the morning. The first waves of sun creeping through my eyelids had done just enough to pull me from my dreams and make the bugs landing on my arm noticeable to the point of being unbearable. I suppose that’s my fault for sleeping outside. There is one knot tied into the body of the hammock that demands to make itself known, effectively imitating the bed-like comfort of a small boulder or a rather blunt knife. In that flash of awakening that one experiences when they are sleeping in a new place and momentarily forget where they are or how they got there, my hammock cedes itself of its duty and drops me face-first onto the morning dew, the grass happy to relive itself of its aquatic charges and my face all too willingly accepts the water and dirt and hay strands that come with it. While it is a blessing to be rid of mosquitoes that had feasted on my legs, the sudden dampness of skin and shirt do not offer enough distraction to minimize the itch beginning to spread from the angry pinkish lumps covering everything from ankle to knee.

Shaking off the suddenness that is morning, I glance out into the world around me and again process the mountain bluff that I decided to make my camp. The spread out world that typically serves as the landscape of my morning is thousands of feet below me, my perch on top of the world the mountains that, until yesterday evening, seemed like the unattainable boundaries that dictated my life for the next couple of months. The full extent of the villages below have not come into full view, the ambling clouds and fog not fully burnt off by the rising  sun, the river that serves to connect foreign cities to each other seems to run south and slowly fizzle out, obscured from view for the time being as the world slows to rise. Sleep finally lessens its grip on my consciousness as I rub it from my eyes, and I take a seat in the soft dew to stir the embers remaining in the fire pit back into a blaze. Coffee comes next, a pot of Turkish espresso that has become the staple experience of my trip to Georgia (incredibly good coffee until the end, when the grounds mix in with the last few sips – no one in Georgia has thought to develop coffee filters or drip coffee). The cold water pulled straight from the river that trickles through camp is fresh and clear, clean enough to be bottled and sold, and infinity feels as though it will arrive before the small fire licks the muddy glob into something palpable.

The early morning has always been one of my favorite times of the day, the brief moments of silent stillness after the creatures of the night have nestled into bed yet before the birds and cows have announced the dawning of morning. So high up in the mountain, even the winds have stilled, unable to rise as quickly up the mountain as my hike the night before. The air is crisp and cold, cleaner than I am able to get even in the ‘country’ of Connecticut, although my sojourn to this part of the world has certainly redefined the middle of nowhere that I perceived Tolland all through high school. I slowly begin to rip the day old bread into manageable bits, although at this point the starch is basically something to quell the growling that has erupted in my stomach and serve as a vehicle for the salty homemade cheese that I cannot seem to stop eating. My breath escapes in a small swirl of vapor, exhales that only exist in the tangible world for a few seconds before dissipating into the warm September morning. It is a little colder climbing so high into the mountains, but between the visible breath and the chilly dew that has fully soaked through my shorts, it is hard to deny summer has begun slipping, losing its grasp to the impending fall. Even the leaves have begun to droop, the green beginning to give off a multitude of shades ranging from the light yellow to a dying brown, affectations of light that will soon give way to the reds, yellows, and dried browns reminiscent of New England.

The bubbles in my coffee, once slowly rolling along the bottom of my pan, snap and burst across the top of the water, sprinkling my foot with coffee grounds and reminding me that breakfast is far from over. The brown liquid is almost a syrupy consistency; the fact that the coffee is so strong furthered by the grounds that I cannot prevent from slipping into my cup, a coffee that my Uncle Brian could stand a spoon in and be proud. I curse myself for not bringing a coffee mug, opting instead for a regular glass as it was the only thing clean, and my fingers are forced to take a quick burn rather than drop the cup and start the process all over. On the plus side, my inability to hold the glass long enough to take a sip prevents me from burning my mouth, and I wait impatiently with music playing in the background, Zac Brown emoting a mixture of feelings while I survey the landscape putting me somewhere between nostalgia for the United States and completely complacent with my current position in life.  Thoughts of family and friends cross my mind, but I am slowly able to push them away and merely observe the slow awakening of the rest of the world, this opportunity that has been thrust upon me and forced into reality. The coffee is still too hot, but I take my first sip anyhow, a rush of warmth and caffeine rushing down my throat and snapping me out of my reverie just as the first crow makes his presence known a few feet behind me. The suddenness of his arrival forces me to jump and spill the last few sips of my coffee, and I begrudgingly stand to allow space for another living thing in the world.

Slowly camp is packed up, and I focus my gaze on the next mountain ridge. My laces are drawn and pack secured snuggly to my shoulders, the soreness and rawness of yesterday’s climb also awakening as the coffee takes full effect to start my morning. With one last furtive glance to the crow that reminded me I can only have these mountains to share, I set off at a quick jog, burning through the light clouds that have settled lightly on the hill, hiding the day’s hike from my current view. My first fall had settled on Georgia.

02 September

A quick blink and another weekend has fizzled away. Something about the lack of anything to do does funny things to time, at least the difference between experiencing and perceiving it. At times it felt as though the back patio was the summation of my Georgian experience over the past 48 hours, the rain not lending the countryside to further traversing and exploration, and the only interruptions from reading and writing coming in the form of my host family or neighbors, the screeches and yells of the surrounding 6-14 year olds not always the best escape from my literary world. Last night was one of my favorite nights with my host parents and their friends however, the air crackling with post-funeral excitement, those who went to pay (and drink) their respects have survived the requisite gloom that pervades such gatherings, and have come to relish their standing in the world of the living. The rest of the night will saluted with another toast, and the realization of good company enjoyed more than another typical night as, for a brief window, everyone is in a higher stage of appreciation of the life that lies before them. Tomorrow such exuberance will be replaced by a lazy sluggishness as a hangover takes the place of such excitement, and the doldrums of their daily tasks will be looked at with more apprehension than the appreciation of today, at least until the next tragedy reaffirms perspective.

The Georgian tradition is something that I have had a hard time coming to grips with. The original culture shock of walking into a society that has not developed as the world I have existed in for the past 25 years has worn off, unfamiliarity giving why to exploration and the wondering of why, and eventually an appreciation for the change that has already occurred since Georgia has separated from the old Communist regime. The history of the village that I have come able to call home seems as though it was caught in a cyclical nature, generations of people named similar names or named after deceased relatives, kids and grandkids assuming control of an elders house or farm or both after a death in the family, the 2010 version of Giorgi or Annano ready to become version 3.0 of the 1930 Giorgi, ready to till the same farm land and clean the same house for another 60 year tenure. As though that repetition was not enough, the grandfathers and grandmothers, great great aunts and uncles are all buried within walking distance from the property line. The cemeteries are cared for and visited once a week, properly watered and wined (poured to form a cross) so the dead do not go thirsty, and a candle lit so they can read when the sun goes down. The reverence that has been driven into a new generation of Georgians is astounding, although the glass ceiling of their future is troubling. The concept of foreign travel has only begun to come as a spark to the locals, and I am using foreign to mean travelling out of this town, this village. Khabume has bred a new generation of caretakers and lawn maintenance workers, farmhands learning the trade of their fathers who learned it from their fathers and many fathers before, and in their off time memorized the rituals of caring for the gravestones of ancestors never met and abstractly known, the ‘what to do’ not fully incorporated with a ‘why we do,’ and my questions of rituals “why do you light a candle?” Why do you pour wine on the headstone?” Why do you plant basil plants at the cemetery entrance?”) go largely unanswered, met with an almost disdain of my ignorant question of what drives so much of their day to day motions.

I am not claiming that the traditions are backwards or the people a backwards farming community lost in tradition and unexplained ancestor worship. The mentality of caring for elders and remembering the family line that brought them here is admirable, and something that is not as valued in America. Funeral homes do not have the lucrative funeral business that exist in the states, no creepy men in black suits smelling like formaldehyde and using a moment of personal and familial grief to extort egregious sums of money for a dingy viewing room and hyper-expensive wooden box. Even more telling, retirement communities and nursing homes are nonexistent, younger generations seeing it as a duty and almost honor to care for aging family members, the happy and reverent second half of a cycle of care that brought these youngsters into the world now gracefully and respectfully usher another generation out.

The culture of death (or, perhaps euphemistically, the celebration of lives past?) is an unnerving one, and not one I have always been very comfortable with. The last time I went to a wake for a family member, everyone was left with the morose after taste of everyone else’s funeral wishes, aunts, uncles, and even parents thinking about their own mortality, and expressing to their loved ones how they wish to be remembered and mourned (very uncomfortable except for my dad, who “can’t stand this awkward standing around for a wake bullshit. Have everyone file through and take a couple of seconds to say their goodbye, and have an open tab running at the Irish pub next door.”). Luckily, many people seemed to have similar thoughts, and what started as groups of two or three people sneaking away to the pub (and Kristin and I thought we were being such rebels) turned into a mass exodus, partly spurred on by a shout from the ‘great-‘ generation (great aunt, uncle, or cousin, I am not sure) of “well this has been fun, see everyone in a couple of years for my turn.” In truth, I have allowed myself to drift so far away from the culture and idea of death, that the only time I have been to my grandfather’s gravesite was when it was still an unfilled hole. I carried the casket to the center of the mourning family members and friends, and left an hour later, the 21 gun salute still ringing in my ears.

31 August 2012

It is my earliest shower since I have been in Georgia, 6:30 in the morning and water has already run over my entire body. Summer has disappeared as quickly as the last of the sleep in my eyes, Georgians operating on some sort of mentality that the seasons are capable of changing as quickly as one might flip a calendar page. August is officially on its way out, and so eschews in with it not only September, but the beginning of Fall. The rivers are officially too cold to swim in, jeans have taken the place of shorts (or less), and the excess dew that covers the windshield and slips into fog is only temporary in the sense that it will soon be removed by a snow scraper, not just the vent function in the air conditioning.

Either way, the morning brings with it the promise of exploration, and soon I am standing outside Ollie’s host family’s house ready to hike however many miles into the imposing mountains that serve as the background of my daily landscape. Breakfast at Ollie’s house is a pleasant affair, centered around the cereal version of rice pudding and Ollie’s 9 year old sister, who is not any sort of shy. I thought Turkish tea was enough of a beverage to prime my system and begin our 7:30 excursion, until Ollie’s host father brings out the bottle of vodka and shots begin, the ironic decimation of my coordination and reaction time bolstered by toasts of safe travel through the mountains that have apparently claimed the lives of local travelers. My concerned thoughts are not increased by the host father, who poured 6 shots (2 for Ollie, 2 for him, and the last 2 for me), and then the father opted not to partake because he had to drive us to the beginning of the hike, meaning Ollie and I are each allowed (forced to have) an extra drink to send us on our way. It’s a bit like that scene in Horrible Bosses when Jason Batemen is forced into a morning drink and accused of alcoholism. Either way, the third shot hits uncomfortably, shooting down my windpipe and flooding my lungs before being coughed back up through my nose and into my eyes. The laughter from Georgians and Brits alike make me feel as though I am not doing an adequate job representing my country.

The hike is not an easy one, but the view is incredible. After 4 or 5 kilometers walking straight up into an endless mountaintop, my legs are on fire; after repeatedly fooling myself into believing a break is coming just over the next ledge, my body realizes that there will always be another ridge hiding above the next tree line. I sit down for a splash of water, and while I’m burping up the nauseating taste of vodka Ollie’s host brother shows up in time to tell me that ridges will continue until I walked out of Georgia and TLG’s jurisdiction and right into communist and oppressive Russia. Luckily I have already ascended a few hundred (maybe thousand) meters above the villages that have limited my view for the past two weeks, and the sight before me remains uninterrupted as far as the horizon and the first corner of the Black Sea.  The world below that I have just ventured out of does not even seem real, as though I had a bird’s eye view of a landscape painting in a book laid across a library table.

The walk back down the mountain, as so many hikes go, is hardly as eventful as the beginning. The hill has been vanquished, the real challenge lay behind us. There is a mortality that descends upon us as the tree tops and houses slowly return to eye level, the clouds that had just been conscripted to serve as pillows under our heavy footsteps rise against the thermals coming off the mountain and are soon an opaque ceiling hovering above our heads and limiting the endless view we had just achieved. The straps of my backpack begin to cut in a bit deeper, the books and rocks I loaded myself down with to increase the feeling of a workout ride a bit lower on my back, and the last 5 kilometers drag on longer, a dusty road, white and one dimensional, not able to distract from the physicality of hiking like the ever improved view of climbing into the sky. Luckily conversation has turned to our next move, and plans for a swim and a cold beer offer the next goal, a glimmering view just as enchanting as sitting above our own existence. In a welcome back into the village, Georgia shows that it has something to offer at every altitude, and two old strangers sitting outside a shop notice the American flag velcroed to the outside of my pack, and invite us over for beers so they can chat with the foreigners.

It is 5 hours later, and I have finally made it back to my house. The fog of free beer and requisite shots of vodka has dimmed, long hours of translated conversation serving as a cool down exercise, meaning that my muscles have begun to groan in protest to a day’s worth of service. I totaled somewhere around 28-30 kilometers as the 40 pound pack finally slides off my shoulder for the first time, and even typing a conclusion to this entry is becoming taxing near the impossible. A quick flip through the pictures of the day qualify the excursion as a success, and the lights in my bedroom begin to dim as I fight off sleep and try to fill the last few inches of the screen with a flickering black scrawl. As the edges of this world begin to soften from their 90 degree angles into the fluid realm of dreams and imagination, the words run off the screen and spill onto the floor, and as the last words run from my fingertips, I realize…