27 August 2012

It might have taken two weeks, but I finally had my first awkward experience on account of being in a different country. I realize many of you assumed I would wind up in such a situation far earlier, between such drastically different linguistic and culture ideals between the United States and Georgia, as well as the simple fact that awkward is who I am. In Goergia it is customary for men, upon arrival or departure, to shake hands and kiss each other on the cheek, something that I am not at all unnerved by, but takes a bit of social awareness to remember to include the kiss instead of just the hand shake. Getting into the car to go to a concert at the town center (a car we waved over while hitch hiking, by the way), the 14 year old boy that was leaving our company shook my hand, and only when I noticed that he was holding my hand for far too long did I realize that he had expected a kiss, and was almost insulted that I had not partaken in the ritual. Panicking, I went in for the kiss far too late, after he had rescinded his cheek in social defeat. In the end, it was basically me awkwardly kissing the cheek of a 14 year old boy on the side of the road.

It was a good enough day in the town center. There was some sort of trivia night competition between each village’s school where students answered who what where and why questions in hopes to win 500 Lari for their school (I typically do much better than I did, but typically I am at a bar with a beer in my hand and the questions in English. This led to a concert right by the town statue, some horrific depiction of a ridiculously jacked man standing on top of a two-headed serpent, his abs and spear claiming victory (over two-headed serpents, Communism, or pets who are allowed to wander off their leashes, no one seems to know for certain). The concert was a bit lackluster, GMT forcing everyone to stand around for two hours of set up for a 45 minute concert, but my host cousin performed Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” admirably, as well as her older female counterpart who decided that Daughtry was an appropriate selection. I decided not to ruin the moment by wondering aloud if either actually understood the lyrics they were singing. The night was beginning to wear on so I elected to walk home, a 45 minute jaunt through the near-pitch black, a rare opportunity to seclude myself by proximity rather than merely language comprehension.

Tonight is apparently the beginning of celebrations for St. Miriam’s day, who, as far as I can tell, is the patron saint of lighting tires on fire. I can feel my brother Bobby and his other ecologically-minded colleagues grimacing through the plumes of thick black smoke pouring into the sky. I don’t know what everyone complains about, the smoke seems thick enough to float all the way to the stratosphere and clog all of the holes our aerosol cans and microwave emissions have blasted through the O-Zone layer. I am not positive that’s how science works, but Bill Nye is dead and with him so died scientific theory, as far as I’m concerned. It feels as though I am part of a rebellious militia attempting to pollute the sky and obfuscate the vision of black hawk helicopter pilots rather than a confusingly pious outsider somberly playing his role in a foreign religious ceremony in hopes for returns of free alcohol. When in Rome…