“Can’t tell North from South, but no split hairs gonna get me down. I’m stayin above the flat line, I’m ahead of the curve, take a piece of the sunshine with me on a redeye flight to another world” ~ Monsters of Folk: My first week in Kyiv*

I subscribe to the Ferris Bueller maxim that due to the speed of life, if you don’t look around sometimes, you might miss it. Unfortunately, often as I try its remains hard to convince myself the necessity of writing things down. After all-if it’s fresh now surely it’ll be there forever…or at least I think that’s what I thought yesterday.

My first week in Kyiv has gone incredibly fast. I’ll do my best now to recapture some of the highlights thus not only for my sake, but for the people interested as well. Of course, all others are welcome to read. Some sections may be a bit dry-especially now as I’m rushing to post this-but feel free to skip to a section that pertains to your interest…or you know-just don’t read this.

Internship at ICPS

This summer I am interning at ICPS or the International Centre for Policy Studies in Kyiv. Coming in I wasn’t really sure what to expect; after a week I have more of an idea that it will definitely be more of a collection of projects with my overarching policy analysis paper as the main project.

The people there are from various backgrounds and specialties. I’m not going to delve too deeply into personal backgrounds as I’d fear that’d lead to gossip but I can give you some quick highlights. There are two helpful and kind Fulbright scholars at the moment. I’ve had the opportunity to talk with one a bit more and been blown away by his knowledge on Ukraine as well as Kazakhstan & Belarus (show of support, visit the site he co-edits: www.belarusdigest.com). The general staff are made up of Ukrainians-almost all from Kyiv or the western city of Lvov.** They are well-intentioned people, have a good hold of the English language and speak mainly Ukrainian in the office (normally, Russian would be a bit more common). It’s a bit ironic that they are quite okay with me me speaking Polish (as apparently it now seems that I ‘speak’ Polish since they really do understand…still shaking my head in disbelief) as they all more or less understand that as well.
The director is a woman who has been involved in ?every? important Ukrainian event since 1991 it seems. Have had a few chances to speak with her and enjoyed her insight and the background she offered on Ukrainian bureaucracy and that connection to foreign affairs.

ICPS has a very strong connections to most sectors of government. I’ve been told that when working on my research we can go through a very large list of contacts throughout the government and in other factions. This is ICPS’s strength and I can’t wait to see what opportunities it entails.

What have I been doing: a hodgepodge of different things including a bit of research on my main project. That project is my primary task for the whole summer from my own perspective and making/including an analytical research paper relating to Ukrainian foreign policy will be intense. However, a lot of other stuff also sprung up not really related to what I thought I’d be doing. For example, ICPS needed to prepare a new overall plan so I’m working a bit on that. Additionally, the website is going to be redesigned including the creation of a new news site that will include analysis and a blog. Thus our articles we’ll be publishing and writing. Then, most of this past week has been about writing a proposal for funding on land reform in one regions. In other words, typing this funding proposal along with two of the other general staff, working out ideas on the outputs, indicators of success and steps needed to be taken made me feel like I was doing an SA project (that’s lingo for any Bushies who may be reading this; for everyone else it made me feel that I was doing public management-not international affairs). However, since it was in Ukraine it was a bit of international affairs…I don’t know. I was confused, but I actually really enjoyed it as we finished the completed proposal on Friday.

So basically, a lot of different things relating to domestic and international issues and the enjoyable aspects of making sure its my own responsibility to do more. That, with good people, has been work at ICPS through the first week.

<Picture to come of ICPS>

Thoughts on the City

When I arrived it was 1 am on Saturday and I had no real idea where my hostel was. I thought I was clever by taking a bus to the city and not a cab but unfortunately as I’ve still had problems with cyrillic, and was tired from my trip; I had to take a horrible cab from the bus station to my hostel. He left me a bit randomly in one spot but thankfully I flagged down a nice Ukrainian on his way home and we worked out where I was staying. Since then, navigating the city has been much easier.***

I don’t have any real deep insights into Ukrainian life as of yet-it has only been a week. I will say, somewhat unexpectedly, that there are lot more comparisons here between Polish and Ukrainian culture then say Georgian culture. Except for architecture. Walking through Kyiv is a bit like walking through Tbilisi (other than the truly historic buildings e.g. St. Michael’s Golden-Domed Monastery or in Ukranian: Михайлівський золотоверхий монастир or in Russian: Михайловский златоверхий монастырь…yep…no problems with the language here {picture below}). A great example are the metros which have the eerily similar soviet facades. One random thing I’ve noticed: a lot of flies. I don’t know, just saying: there are a lot of flies. Hmmm…re-reading this, I don’t seem to mention that…it’s really, really a fun city to walk around with a lot of interesting sights, neat people, blah blah positive/enjoying it. The things I did mention are just the more intriguing things I didn’t expect. More thoughts to come later.

Living Arrangement

Since Saturday night I’ve been staying with Kostia and his wife Natasha (although she only arrived Wednesday…part of me was a bit concerned as it seemed every day he was saying “tomorrow Natasha…tomorrow Natasha {in Russian…which then had me thinking that tomorrow Natasha meant something completely else that I didn’t understand}. Then she did arrive!). Anyway, they are good people though full honesty if I saw Kostia on the street I’d probably think he was a hooligan-gold tooth included. Another reason why you should never judge people by appearances I suppose. Natasha is a nice woman who has already made me a meal or two and is very stringent on the policy of shoes off at the door which I now follow strictly. Oh, and the one thing I should mention-they don’t speak any English. As in when they speak English it’s at the, “Hello, goodbye” level. I think this is good though because it’s a great opportunity for my Russian to grow..I think. Or I’ll just get increasingly confused as the other thing is it seems Ukrainians in Kyiv are happy to switch between Ukranian and Russian frequently. Frequently defined here as mid-sentence. By the time I leave I’ll probably speak neither Polish, Ukrainian, Russian or English. I’ll just say “tomorrow Natasha” while nodding.

(The above is Kreschatik Street which they close on Saturdays so people can walk on…I was going to make a snarky comment how then no one walks on it, but as I was walking away like 75 bikers came flying by for some race. Stuff is going on in Kyiv!)

Random Thoughts

It’s great to be back in Europe. There is something that I really enjoy about this old continent. I realized this before I even got to Kyiv when I was still en route and in Frankfurt (hmmm I’m not sure how this is going to sound with a slight hint of alcoholism) when I was drinking a beer at 3:00 pm. It was in a beautiful square that, even with overcast weather, had a certain feel of relaxation mixed with summer friendliness underlined by business.

Probably a mile away (or 1-2 kilometers) was an occupy Frankfurt movement right next to the European Central Bank and yet the square and its inhabitants were peacefully serene. I had been missing that tranquility.

That’s all for now. More to come later.

*It’s Kyiv to Ukrainians, not Kiev. Respect the locals.

** Likewise, it’s Lvov not Lviv. Living in Poland I learned of this semi-large and beautiful city called “Lviv” in Western Ukraine that used to be part of Poland. Of course, when it changed hands (read the history on your own) it changed names…if speaking to a Ukranian, I recommend you call it Lvov. But if speaking to a Pole, I recommend you call it Lviv. Anyway, having visited it in 2010 I visited its-this is a bit morose if you haven’t been there-splendidly beautiful cemetery…Hmmm, I guess just don’t call it Lv-alive.

***Apart from day 1 at my internship where I couldn’t find my building and was 30 minutes late but I’ll tell you this: no one could find that building easily. Anyway, it all worked out.

Better than State Farm will ever be.

Neighbors are a funny thing. They are often people we rely on who impact our lives and yet we have very little control over who they are. Other than a common taste for a locale, realistically neighbors can be as random as a stranger on the street. I know my parents have been very lucky as some of the most important people in my time in Chicago were neighbors or people in the neighborhood. On moving to Milwaukee, the same was true.

Personally, no neighbor meant more to me once I moved to Wisconsin in 1994 than Mr. James Love. That summer I met some local kids who immediately became friends. Yet, as my mother has reminded me, it was often me yelling, “Can I go ask if Mr. Love can play” that she heard more than anything else. In recent years she told me she had some concerns that a then 68 year-old might not have had the same energy or desire to run around Menomonee River as a 9 year-old. Yet, that never crossed my mind: I had a new best friend.

That summer and after Mr. Love and I learned how to design football plays through low-hanging lawn branches. After one or two outings on a mini-golf course, he taught me how to play and appreciate golf (then came caddying…). There were multiple games of h-o-r-s-e on the basketball hoop. And in the summer, we had several competitive seasons of wiffle ball home run derby in our connected backyards. By the way, I am not ashamed to admit that he most certainly remains ahead in total home runs.

Sometimes getting older means that you lose that common ground with someone. It becomes difficult to understand why you were friends or what you shared. With Mr. Love, I found that as I matured, I was only realizing what a fantastic man he was.

When I left Wisconsin first for university, I tried to keep up by regularly having breakfast with him and my father whenever I was in town. It was at these breakfasts that I realized Mr. Love’s wit was sharper than mine could ever be. A prime example is just a few months ago when I spoke with him on the phone. I had been apologizing for my mom cooking him too much banana bread. His immediate response was that: “Yes, she’s gone bananas.” He soon after mentioned how his cat had gained 40 lbs.

Wit alone cannot capture a man with a rich and diverse personal history. I was extremely grateful in recent years to have the chance to listen to how he served in the Pacific in World War II and his various anecdotes. I regret I will never be able to accompany him now on an Honor Flight Network trip to Washington. After my time in Poland, I was shocked that when I returned Mr. Love knew some Polish from his time growing up in Stevens Point. I was also saddened at the man’s unlucky road in life having lost his brother in a plane accident, and then having to be a widower twice.

But, believing poor luck could detrimentally affect this man’s innate kindness would be as daft as to overlook the truth in his own surname: Mr. Love was as goodhearted and thoughtful as anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t have any real memories of my grandfathers. To quite a large degree, Mr. Love filled that role and I will accordingly remain grateful to the end of my days. Thank you for everything, sir. May the links in heaven always be open for you.

“Every morning is a constant struggle, but when I’m with you, my life it makes perfect sense. Rock crowd throw your arms around me, I feel glad when you surround me, it’s you it’s you who grounds me, when you’re done put me back where you found me.” ~ PYorn; An Ode To Teaching

N.B. This was more or less written my last few days in Poland and is only being posted now as it is painfully clear to me that I won’t be returning to teaching anytime soon. Around that time I was thinking about finishing teaching and, as usual, the above lyrics coalesced around my feelings. Enjoy.

I can be pretty lax about a lot of things. A good example is this blog. I mean, yes it was specifically supposed to be about Georgia, so perhaps as I left Georgia in January its moribund status makes sense. But, in actuality the state it is in (B&S reference) is more due to this lax quality.

That quality (really a euphemism for laziness) has impressed itself upon my life in so many ways: my Polish language abilities, my basketball skills, some relationships, even my musical talents. You see good reader, while I was pretty convinced that I had no abilities after messing up my one note at a Christmas handbell concert in the 4^th grade, any later attempt to play an instrument has been half-hearted and temporary at best. Listening to and deconstructing music, a far more passive activity, is more conducive to a lax lifestyle. Now I have refined my skills about as much as I can in this area and may even be a tone-deaf expert (oxymoron?). Yet, just like any Hollywood actor-working-as-a-waiter glaring at a TV thinking why not me, an intrinsic desire to be able to create always remains an uncomfortable parasite in my mind.

How does all of that relate to teaching?

Well (this really isn’t supposed to sound pretentious), in the past four years the strongly positive feeling I’ve had mentoring students, working in a classroom, managing time and using ingenuity to educate is something I did not expect to come from teaching.  Is it the same bond a musician has with an audience? Of course not. But, not everyone is meant to be a rock star.

No other job I have experienced, or considered following university, has ever offered this choice, this opportunity to lead and interact while inciting learning. As a teacher, I’ve meandered through subjects as variegated as celebrities and history to student’s fears and dreams (I’ve also delved into debates on the inner workings of the English language!). I’ve learned so much-not all of it factual-simply by being in a position of provoking thought. To borrow from Hans Rosling, pretty neat, huh?

The good teachers that inspired me, that I worked with, and simply have met have more than shattered the many maxims about teaching e.g. those who can, teach. I find that example as antiquated as the notion of apples and doctors. Specificity and detail-something students love-add so much more to the educational soup. Thus, as an update, those that know there are as many atoms in one apple as there would be apples in the world if you hollowed the world and filled it with apples, teach. Those who genuinely do prefer to ask questions and listen to answers, teach. Those who never cease compiling new methods and ways to engage, teach. Those who lend-or arguably steal-moments in their own lives to do something great and unintentionally leave a momentous impact, teach.

I only hope in the past four years I’ve fit a bit into the above. Now as an ex-teacher, I am still unsure if I’ve learned more teaching abroad than my students have gotten from me-and that’s a definite concern. Yet, one thing that comforts me is the friendship and appreciation that I’ve received. In both Poland and Georgia, I remain awed by the gratitude my former students have shown me whether it was a meeting in the pub, random encounters on the street, when I returned to Georgia in June, or even in that classroom place. There, in the classroom, the culmination of all the hard work and dedication never seemed so sweet as when I could truly witness progress or a lesson when perfectly as planned. And when hiccups occurred, as they most assuredly did, never did they feel so, for lack of a better word, educational.

So, not all musicians play Madison Square Garden and heaven knows not all teachers are superheroes. Being king or queen of a classroom can give people a false impression of who they are; what happens in front of them is what makes them what they are. Thankfully, my students never asked me to play the handbells, and the best teachers I’ve encountered never went on tour.

Teachers aren’t rock stars-and my presumption is students around the world couldn’t be happier about that.*

 

*It should be noted that I’m talking about good teachers.

“Happiness, coming and going, I watch you live with me, watch my fever growing, but I know just where I am. But how many corners do I have to turn, how many times do I have to learn, all the love I have is in my mind. But I’m a lucky man.” ~ The Verve; A farewell toast to Georgia & its people

FYI: This was written periodically between the end of December, when I left Georgia in early January, and the date of its posting from Poland.

I’ve written about it before but it is worth repeating: the hospitality and communal nature in Georgian culture surpass anything this blogger has ever come across and likely will ever experience again. These traits present themselves in a variety of avenues, but one way that noticeably stood out-especially in my final days in Georgia-was in the mandatory toasting one finds at a Georgian supra.

Now a supra may be as large as a wedding or as informal as three friends drinking on a boat in the Mtkvari (The river which flows through Tbilisi [see my photo of one painting of this, there are many many more of renditions of this event]). The point is if Georgian wine is the blood of the people, these toasts are the heart.

Look closely...and you see a supra!

Started by the tamada (Toast master or თამადა…yeah, that’s Qartuli/Georgian script for you), they cover a set-list of categories. In Samegrelo it starts with peace (a must in a country with Georgia’s history) but continues to parents, mothers, women, the dead and so on (not including dead pets…sorry Nipper-tried once but was rebuked). Depending on the tamada, and on the amount of wine consumed, these can be witty, educational with sprinklings of Georgian poets (see: Rustaveli), and often emotive.

My farewell Supra...me to the 9s in Georgian dress

Toasting is perhaps my favorite Georgian tradition as its the right mixture of demagoguery and respect; I see no better way to write a final blog about Sakartvelo then by making a toast to this splendid country. First, some ground rules about Georgian toasts.

1. Generally in serious Georgian toasts, the men stand and the women are given the treat of being allowed to sit. This is true even if the toast is in honor of them (or, as I have seen, they are making the toast). Well, for this ‘toast,’ unless you prefer to read while standing, everyone may sit down.

2. You can almost always count on a side conversation breaking out during the toast. This bothers me to no end. Respect the tamada! That’s my rule….though obviously reading at home I don’t care what you do.

3. Drink to the end, or bolonde (spelling?)! Whatever you have in your glass-or sometimes if you are passing around a wooden bowl-if they say this word it means finish it up. Though this is not required on every toast, on important and serious toasts it is considered proper. The rest of the time, as much as you wish…though most men will say it’s best to leave just a little in your glass whatever the toast. Go ahead, get some wine ready to have after this blog. I’ll wait…okay.

4. So there are many rules…but the first rule I’ve learned however is that as a guest in Georgia, you are exempt from pretty much any breach of etiquette. Trust me. I’ve tried to win points by not toasting beer (some Georgians say that is a definite no-no, and some Georgians toast with beer). Fact is, with me it would have never been a problem. Me var stumari (I am a guest!). So, with no further ado, a farewell Gaumarjos (cheers) to Georgia:

Drink til the end...glass or wooden bowl! (From the Salkhino Monastery-possibly my favorite wine in Georgia)

First, to peace. This country deserves it now and in the future. May antagonists on all sides stop and envision what Georgia can become, what it has already achieved, and what would be lost…Okay, got peace out of the way. To women. Specifically, to my host mother Lali & my host grandmother Nanuli. If this blog were perfect, there would would have been more entries and they would have appeared much earlier-they certainly deserve it.

Lali & I in Kutaisi at a student's birthday party

I have often told people that my mother is a saint; my host maternal figures are perhaps saints in the Orthodox church. Lali is the epitome of compassion, understanding, and never caused anything but ease for me in my transition to Georgia. While all adjectives of kindness could be thrown her way, perhaps most telling is a recent scary event when my neighbor Gogita was in a car accident on New Years Eve (sober, avoiding a dog on the road, wore his seatbelt, eventually we learned he was okay!). Panic initially ensued and my host father Dato was on the road to get to Gogita in the regional hospital. Many neighbors-including Gogita’s mother-gathered around Lali for her calm, coolness, and again compassion. She is an independent woman with a tremendous Georgian heart.

Giorgia, myself & Nanuli

In terms of Nanuli, she is a bit of an enigma who is always concerned with my well-being but rarely says that she is ever better than “so-so.” It remains a bit funny to me that I heard Dato once say she’s never happy because Dato’s brother isn’t married (I think he was kidding…scratch that, I think he was serious). Anyway, I think I endeared myself to Nanuli one day when she was complaining about her knee and I gave her an advil. Dato later told me she yelled at him because her son, the doctor, didn’t help her but the American guest did. Since then she was always anxious to offer me food whenever possible. And, while I have to admit that I was never overly enamored with Georgian cuisine (sorry), she is probably the best Georgian cook I have come across (and fittingly she was an excellent English student in remembering fruits & vegetables). To everything Georgian transport. To those marshrutka memories like engineered wine jugs, the road of death with our melodramatic driver Z to Svaneti, worst case scenario traveling tips (Carry clothing in a duffel or trash bag), and the countless animals I have shared a ride with (favorite: a duck quacking below my seat). To being ostracized for wearing a seatbelt in every car I got in (that had one)…and for being vindicated with the December 1st law that now all (front seat) passengers must ride with them. And, yes, to the many dogs, cows, pigs, and all other livestock that make their home on the road.

Safe for Georgian roads because it's rich in vitamins and tastes delicious

To Tbilisi. A city I promised to write about and profile but never got around to. Perhaps that’s fitting. Tbilisi, while a buzzing metropolis, never grabbed me like a Krakow or even, say a Dresden. Its history is rich and has plenty of sights (Samebra Cathedral, the Peace Bridge, Turkish Baths and more); but just as everyone has a favorite Beatles song for an undefinable reason, Tbilisi was always more of my Doctor Robert. It’s a bit funny how strongly before I arrived, and even in my first week, I longed to be placed there. Now, there is no doubt that where I ended up was the right place…

View of the Presidential Palace aka Misha's Crib from the Peace Bridge

To both Martvili and the Georgian customs I learned there. There is not a smaller town I have spent so long in, nor a smaller town I have ever felt so comfortable in; I appreciated Martvili for what I came to understand as an aspect of Georgia with Samegrelo flavor. This flavor was, to use the Georgian word, gamerli (tasty/delicious). The excitement in my eyes, and the flattery I’ve put forth when I’ve told people who have asked about Georgia since I left all stems from my time in Martvili. Not too big, not too too small, it is just right.

Martvili...from the Monastery

The people. A place and often the opinion you form is made more by other individuals than or anything else-this held true in Georgia. It’d be inane to now list individual names or memories; you know who you are. I’d rather toast you all {again} in person-but for the moment let me just say thank you for enriching my experience. To Georgian progress. My biggest concern for Georgia is too rapid an expansion. A nice example was on my pleasant venture to The Sataplia National Park. Georgia’s natural beauty is breath taking. The park guides you through both the really really old dinosaur prints in the ground and also the awe-inspiring cave.

Sataplia Caves

However, the cave, as magnificent as it is, has the feel of an underground Vegas casino. Lights, music, and were they able I feared there might even be fireworks. I’m not an artisan, and it’s not my park: they are entitled to make their own magic kingdom. However, even ignoring that I felt the natural beauty was a bit compromised by a feeling that I was entering Disney’s vault, a concern is that the road connecting the park and the large nearby city of Kutaisi seemed an afterthought, or even forgotten. The government, while steamrolling ahead with multiple successful and commendable projects, seems to have heard the concept of building from the ground up but is taking it a level further/deeper. This, yes wait for it, tunnel vision has me worried that not everything in Georgia is progressing at the same rate as it normally would or, perhaps, should.

Sataplia's natural beauty

Perhaps I am nitpicking; but, the reason I do so is my desire, however unrealistic, for a purely positive Georgian future. The Georgian people deserve it. And frankly, I shouldn’t be overly worried that they cannot handle whatever does arise. Whatever the country’s shape may take, whatever happens within its borders or outside of them, Georgians are of a remarkable and genuine make who possess such a desire to revel in the positive characteristics of life that their hospitality seems an extension of their soul. I am so thankful to have experienced the culture, and only hope my words did it justice…That’s a weak ending for a meaningful toast…this is better: Fire my mind and tongue with skill and power for utterance

Which I need, Oh Lord, for the making of majestic and praiseworthy verses; . . . Generous deeds adorn a monarch as does a cypress Eden;

Even the traitor is won when the hand of the ruler is generous.

Spending on feasting and wine is better than hoarding our substance.

That which we give makes us richer, that which is hoarded is lost. ~Shota Rustaveli Gaumarjos, nakhvamdis and didi madloba Sakartvelo.

Me saying thank you to Martvili on the school

Cheers, goodbye and thank you very much Georgia.

“I found a way to live forever, I found a place where no one cares.” – Pete Yorn; The Legends of T’Serteli Street

Forgive the absence of time. I would like to suggest that this entry has been being prepared all the while. Or, perhaps as absence makes the heart grow fonder, readers have anxiously been checking back repeatedly awaiting this. Well, I can assure you one is not the case and presume the other isn’t either. Simply, I made an oath to myself that I would not make another blog post until I was done with all of my graduate school essays.

While November passed with me coming up with a series of excuses to avoid writing the essays (Thanksgiving Feast in Martvili anyone?), they have thankfully been completed. More or less. To be accurate, they are in the final stages. This entry is just a cathartic break used by someone who needs to type something that does not answer a question about his future, his goals, his future goals, the goals he held when thinking about the future, and goals he scored when he was seven playing for a football team called “The Futures.” . . .Having a great time with these really.

This entry’s purpose has been in my mind for quite some time however. That is, this is about the legends of T’sereteli street (I assure you I am not upsetting privacy advocates by stating the name. As mentioned in previous posts, I firmly believe most residents/post workers do not know the names of streets but simply the names of everyone else in the village and where they live). This boulevard is home to some of the greatest people not simply in Martvili, but in all of Georgia. I am convinced of it.

That is no disrespect to anyone else in Martvili. Some of my Martvili favorites are people I work with, a taxi driver I say hello to every day, the owner and workers of Boom, the list goes on. But, this is my street. With my time winding down in Georgia I think have to get my home right before I proselytize on or, dare I pun, address anything else. So, with no further ado, the legends of T’sereteli.

Velody-the biggest legend on Tsereteli street in some respects-& I. The guy is hysterical.

Velody is the most convival, humorous, and by popular belief fattest man in Martvili. I am allowed to say the last thing because I truly believe he is one of my better friends in the community (Also, Georgian’s really don’t seem to take it as an insult based on what I’ve seen). A man whose humor transcends language, our conversation tends to revolve around one thing: a planned trip the next day to Chicago where Velody will get a 2^nd (or 3^rd or 4^th depending on his mood) wife with me helping to pick her out (she requires certain qualities I would rather not type out). The trip is usually planned for around 6 am, the plans conducted entirely in Georgian or Megruli, and done in front of Velody’s most understanding wife. V, as I call him, is also the only person outside of a college roommate to call me by the nickname: E. What can I say, with him it somehow works.

Who is V’s son? Zaza who for some reason is more popularly known to everyone as Buska (which translates to bull). I prefer Zaza. Now, he may have been mentioned in this blog before so I won’t expound into too great of detail…though it’s hard not too. Zaza’s English isn’t the greatest but he can get a multitude of points across in the ten words he commands with expertise (“by foot” a favorite expression). It’s a great shame he studies in Tbilisi as anytime he is around there is a dynamic which only his goodhearted nature can bring.

Zaza in red at a block party with other T'Serteli legends

Two short anecdotes. Zaza saw me on facebook and we went through the process of setting up an account for him. Right at a crucial moment…well actually it took me 15 minutes at that crucial moment…I realized Zaza was trying to explain he didn’t have an email account. Why? No need. My mother would love this kid.

Second story-friends were recently leaving for a week in Istanbul. I got a message from one of them at 3 am. “We’are at the airport and guess who is here-ZAZA!” Oh Buska…

Gugesha in what I believe to be his corn shucking outfit...100 points if you can read the hat.

So I am still running quite often (current temperature in Martvili: 10 C, 50 F…Needless I may not have a white Christmas) and as I run down the street I usually pass a small little house at the end. At first, had no idea who lived there. Then, one day I saw a man with a pitchfork start running next to me. This didn’t really frighten me as I’ve had cars (at least three times) slow down next to me while running to talk/high five me while I continue to run. I recognized the pitchfork carrying man, Gugesha, as the one who occasionally vermicularly crawled round my neighbor Lela’s (the musical legend) home. Needless to say, when he started running I couldn’t help but laugh. Despite being probably 65 with the appearance of someone 10-15 times that age (all love), this spry fella has no problem doing work that would make most 20 year olds cringe…yet his normal walking pace and stature may also make a 20 year old cringe at the thought of aging. The secret to his duality lies in his favorite habit which is to sneak into our home and whisper to me “ginda chacha?” (Do you want ridiculously strong alcohol?) in a naughty school boy voice with a glint in his eye to match. Good man that Gugesha.

I can’t write a legends of T’serteli without writing about my host father Dato. The doctor, the myth, the legend and most importantly the family man who I will be eternally thankful to for welcoming me into his home. His collection of impressionable gestures are contagious-though not exactly definable. His worldly intelligence constantly impresses me on subjects ranging from art to literature. I also can’t help but observe how his slightly childish nature and enthusiasm, in a positive sense, must make his position as a pediatrician all the more successful and apt. Additionally, the fact that more or less all of Western Georgia calls him their friend convinces me of these strong qualities in addition to others I am probably unaware of due to language.

The legendary Dato

Yet, what I may remember most about Dato will be his random moments of intentional humor which burst forth like a bull through your enemy’s china shop-pure destructive delight. You see, generally Dato possesses a serious demeanor aimed at things like learning English, having English lessons, making sure his sons are learning English, or making sure his sons aren’t killing each other. However, there have been moments where Dato has left me speechless in hysterics.

A recent gem was when my friend Max was up to Martvili to visit our local dinosaur discovery, which had made international headlines and a lot more national ones that I won’t link to. Well, we ended up not going but instead talking to my host family about a rumor friends of ours heard. It went that people in Martvili were called snitches in communist times by those in the nearby town Senaki. Dato was not happy having probably heard it before and went off into a tangent. While I obviously did not record it, I think it reads better if I try to paraphrase his response: “Martvili always has many professionals in Tbilisi. Doctors, teachers, government, Senaki has nothing. But, people in Martvili do not care if Senaki are jealous. <<pause…smirk comes to his face>>…Senaki no have dinosaurs! Martvili have!”

There are countless more legends in a numerable town. I am also doing a great disservice with no women on this list-but  rest assured that is nothing more than a product of little time. I have plans to address my other oh so important family members in my final and next post from Georgia as they are most deserving of my written respect. Yet, I wanted to declare that it’s bittersweet knowing my time on this street is concluding. I suppose the greatest way for me to cement everyone’s legendary status however is to leave.

I have often walked this street before...

“And I wish that I could state, my faith the way you do, as certainly as you. Clear skies going to fall on you.” – Keane; Personal connection & Georgian misdirection

A rare preface to a blog. I wrote this last week while in the midst of some heavy thinking; additionally I wrote it before the apparent monsoon season in my region. Maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration and actually today again is an example of what this blog talks a bit about-absurdly pristine skies. But, though some thoughts, like weather, are changeable I think it is more or less on target. As one good Georgian friend might tell me: the shape of what I’m looking at in Georgia may be consistently shifting, but the essence remains the same. Enjoy.

Recently while running I was pondering some heavy things; personal and as per normal Economist-related. Whilst this pondering took place, my mind moved to the fact that Georgia has not given me a song to remember it by. While I’ll always get a bit Martvili-misty-eyed when I hear K’Naan’s Wavin’ Flag or Shakira’s Wakaa Wakaa (see first post), they aren’t really personal (a new overplay addition is Driving Home For Christmas thanks to David aka The Happiest Man in the World…don’t ask). By almost being omnipresent in this country, they lack a personal connection.

To further explain, and this may sound silly to some, but certain songs can be more visceral than scents in reminding me of people, crystallized moments, emotions, and places. Three place-related examples for the sake of this entry – Life in Technicolor (part 1) by Coldplay never seemed to mean much to me until I rode a night train on my first ever visit to Berlin. The lack of lyrics suddenly made sense with the lights flashing by-the pulse of the city was captured by the simple rhythmic “Oh-ohhhhs.” Similarly, Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks was ingrained into my mind during my first months adjusting to life in Opole, Poland. I vividly remember gazing into what were probably pollution-enhanced sunsets from my balcony, content at whatever was in front of me so long as it was in front. Perhaps the most pertinent example: Jamie T’s The Man’s Machine gave me a realization of what a great life I was enjoying in Krakow. I noticed this while running along the Vistula (Wisla) river in the shadow of the Wawel Castle with the sun’s rays making a normally muddy river a dark blue. Additionally, the lyrics echoed my whole experience there-a hectic often confusing time which was far too ephemeral.

You’ll never match up every word or beat as you wish, but some songs capture everything a moment can offer, and the moment ends up staining the song for better or for worse. The point is I still had nothing for Georgia/Martvili until recently (this is one of those times my lyrics at the start match up directly with the post). During my quite introspective run, I noticed that the sky was completely empty and I was reminded how often here I’d seen a ridiculously blue sky void of anything. No clouds, no birds, no jets, no morning moon, no UFOs. In fact, even the sun seemed to just be radiating from some unknown location. Initially, it reminded me of how I heard that days after 9/11 the skies over America were more or less cloudless from a lack of air traffic. I guess this says something about the natural beauty found here. After all, the mountains are canvassed against what you’d want on an easel were you a painter (or something like that I imagine). But, it also says a lot about the lack of connection to the world. In fact, as I ran it hit me the sky almost seemed empty rather than clear…and that got me thinking even more.

Just the normal sky in Martvili.

Before I get accusations of pessimism, let me clarify and expound specifically about Georgian culture. One social more I have not discussed here includes the role of women in Georgian society. From an American view, it seems that women often hold a subservient role in social settings-though not as much in the workplace. Socially though, while they are honored and cherished above most anything, it is certainly not for being the independent type. Those who choose that route risk being ostracized for exhibiting such ‘provocative’ feelings.

Now, this is nothing people from, say, a Middle Eastern country would find shocking. In fact, I imagine (imagine, no personal experience) them to think that Georgian women would be quite liberated. However, European or American civilities would be ruffled were they treated as part of the official culture and not guests. After all, it’s one thing to continually toast to mothers out of respect-to proceed to ask her to clean up the table is where a typical European/American woman might do more than raise an eyebrow. That’s a believable though made-up example; the broader picture often paints the banishment of civil liberties applicable only to women. I’m not saying all Georgian women will follow this line of behavior or code-and I’ve been fortunate to meet a few women who refute these expectations-but again my experience (and even what those who do choose to go against the wave tell me) is that acceptance is practical and common.

Why this matters is not because I might think it’s wrong-that’d be quite a bit ethnocentric and rude from a well-treated guest. Rather I believe it matters on a greater level because one of the most important things I’ve noticed since I’ve been here is the consistent desire and continually repeated stance that Georgia is part of Europe (I may be partially responsible for hearing it repeated as I do often ask, “Hey, so is Georgia European?”…but I digress). Only those of a more than candid nature, or talking in private corners, will offer a ‘No.’ Sometimes people provide an answer along the lines of a mix e.g. Georgia is its own Eurasian thing, lacking a strictly Eastern/Western identity-and personally I believe this to be truer than anything else. But most steadfastly say, “Yes, Georgia is European.” Even my beloved Economist has them in that section.

My problem then stems from a few things. Geographically the European case is a bit tricky as, “Georgia and Azerbaijan both have most of their territory in Asia, although each has small parts of its northern territory in Europe.” Keep in mind now that two regions in northern Georgia are now semi-autonomous (see: Russian) as well, so even less of Georgia would be part of Europe. Historically, while Georgia was invaded by the Romans and the Greeks thousands of years ago…that was thousands of years ago. Much more recently were problems from Mongols, Turks, Persians, etc. Indeed, were anything gained from syncretism, Georgia would surely be less European-influenced but rather Eastern-influenced (Anything from Russia I’m not calling European). Yet, again most Georgians claim European roots and cherish this status not with identifiable traits, but by sheer blind will. In fact, I’ve even had several Georgians quote me Zurab Zhvania, a former Georgian politician, who stated, “I am Georgian, therefore I am European.”*

...I'm thinking of something blue...

Now, I fully understand this insistence from a national security aspect (see: NATO), economic (see: EU), and even perhaps a desire to simply move towards the perceived ‘rich world’ and the development that can come with ties to it. And yes, the council of Europe has recognized Georgia as part of Europe so perhaps one day it has the chance to be a member of the EU. . .

But, as all Georgians wish so much to be classified as European, they risk turning a blind eye on their own uniquely non-European culture. This is not a real, legitimate risk however as Georgians are happily having their cake and eating it to. I say that because losing their cultural traditions would be extremely distressing if it weren’t so blatantly obvious how proudly they still practice these Georgian customs. While this is most clearly seen in their devotion to things like Georgian dance and the orthodox religion, social mores like the above gender roles still exist because many Georgians do not seem willing to part with the past.

The most upsetting and confusing thing to me then is how this country, and its citizens, can be so convinced of a desirable destination when they pay no heed to the road they are coming from and moreover, happily continuing on. I know that a Pole is a Pole and a Scot a Scot. Diverse as they are, what makes them similar is much more than governing bodies and democratic institutions.

*My English co-teacher astutely informed me that he may have been speaking about the fact that perhaps, way way back, the first Europeans from Africa actually passed through Georgia. So, scientifically, I am Georgian, therefore I am European.

“Your body may be gone, I’m going to carry you in, in my head, in my heart, in my soul. And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both live again, well I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t even think so” – Modest Mouse; Death in Georgia and another family profile.

If there is one holiday that should be immediately imported to Georgia, it is Halloween. While children everywhere in the world love the idea of costumes and candy, all of Georgia already seems to be caught in a moribund fever-so why not throw in the fun aspects? To clarify, while I would never describe Georgian culture or the people as morbid, there happens to be a morose tinge in the air. For example, one of the popular Georgian toasts is always to those who have past. Fine, sensible, commendable. Continuing, as I mentioned in an earlier blog post, the fashionable color is black. Again, fine, no problem with that. In fact, black goes with just about everything. Another example-the fact that, upon an informal poll of fellow volunteers, we can all name someone in our village who has recently died-or indeed, many volunteers have been to funerals. Well, that just could be a poor selection of people to ask I suppose.

Well how about this anecdote. This past Thursday, on yet another cloudless day (more on that to come next week), my host father & mother took me to a large supra (again, supra meaning large celebratory feast) that was honoring a woman who had died 40 days prior. I’ll let that sink for a few feet. Now, this was not the wake as that had been immediately after the funeral. Rather, it was to be a great gathering with plenty of food and drink in her honor.

At first, I thought that was all that was involved. However, while driving there Dato informed me we were going somewhere else first. In one of those entertaining lost in translation moments, I was told that we would be going to the ‘dead house.’ Now, before I could clarify that it was the cemetery, visions of a morgue with a woman simply placed there 40 days later had my stomach nearly pushing up flowers, and everything I had eaten. You see, one thing I learned about local Georgian funerals (I was sick and missed the only one I’ve been invited to…but yes I have been invited to one) is that there are no embalming fluids or anything cosmetic like that. O’Natural as it were. So the possibility that the body would be still hanging around…well I just didn’t know. On the positive side, a dead house sounded like a helluva lot more interesting than any haunted house I’d been to.

Anyway, we arrived to the ‘dead house’/cemetery and all my misgivings soon died (sorry). Anyway, some know that I’m no stranger to cemeteries-my father & I bond by driving across America in our attempt to see every dead president’s grave site (I suppose that this makes me an aficionado on what makes a place/person morbid). A Georgian cemetery is a bit different than your typical American one however. For one, the tradition of etching an accurate and detailed picture on a person’s grave is popular here as it is in other Eastern European countries. This can be a bit unsettling as you can turn a corner and be looking at a depressing  grave with a detailed rendering of a 6-year-old boy, but c’est la vie (sorry).

The cemetery was also a bit different in that I felt Dato wasn’t far off by calling it the ‘dead house.’ While he was proudly showing me some of the much older graves, most of the cemetery was crowded by four-posted cages which were almost synonymous with a large bed you would find in an 18^th English century hotel. It seems a newer Georgian tradition is, if like the Pharaohs of the past, dead Georgians come back to life they will at least have a nice porch to make themselves comfortable in. Or perhaps it just protects them from the rain.

Back to the tradition. As I walked up to the grave I followed what everyone else was doing: drink most of a glass of wine and then pour the rest in a cross on the earth above the recently deceased. I really liked this idea as it seemed dignified & honorable; kind of made me wish that my father and I had done something similar when we saw the dead U.S. Presidents. . .Especially Andrew Johnson & Ulysses S. Grant (A little presidential humor).

So this is where the supra was held...that and inside house too. No small thing.

So, after that we headed to the supra and well, it was super. Plenty, plenty, plenty of food. Dato remarked, but was not the first to tell me, that it’s almost a shame Georgians spend so much time, energy, and money on feasts when they might not always even have electricity inside their homes. Well, I can say that it was quite the honorable thought. However, with the tamada (toast master) we had, by the end of the day-and particularly the next day-I felt one step closer to the grave.

The Tamada in the blue shirt had a good time...me...yeah I had a good time.

That’s enough dark and gloom for one entry. I think it’s time to introduce you to my second host brother: Tsotne. This Harry Potter lookalike impressed me greatly during my first few months here with his intelligence, friendliness, and willingness to help. He also generally seems to be the yin to Luka’s yang in that he more or less is well-behaved. He consistently impresses my friends with his English, Georgian dancing/guitar playing, and general attitude. What can be most entertaining is how much, even at the age of 10, he resembles my host father Dato in everything from English mistakes to Georgian gestures.

Tsotne & I...he'll get taller.

Now, while Tsotne’s English is definitely the best of anyone in my host family, he tends to resort to speed over clarity with some of his favorite phrases being, “Ian, what you?” or “this what?” It seems these can mean anything from “What time is it?” to “Ian, how many lessons did you have today and will we have a lesson tonight; furthermore can you also tell me the capital of Australia?” . . .However, there are times Tsotne will unleash a pungent spate of Georgian words in a fit of rage. I’m sure these words would not be appropriate for any dining table, but I’ve come to realize that even for a 10 year old, Tsotne is an emotional kid. Perhaps the most enjoyable thing you feel being around him is when he knows something in English or does something right. Here, like Harry Potter winning a game of qudditch (I had to google that) his joy is completely boundless.

Okay, think that’s a good place to end. Happy Halloween, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM, & Kargad!