tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28537350768222780102024-03-13T20:17:25.370-07:00E. Louise's Wanderlust Adventures into the UnknownLoiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-81041902600157864252013-06-01T06:36:00.000-07:002013-06-01T06:36:05.212-07:00Soviet Slim Down: An Introduction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Weight, it’s something we don’t openly talk about how we struggle with it, in most of the world. After spending a year in Georgia, my views on food, fitness, and health were changed. We, fellow teachers, talked about it a lot, almost as much as our bathroom issues. I adopted an “I don’t give a shit about what you think,” attitude. I started doing things my way and on a budget. This is an introduction to my Soviet Slim Down that I started in Georgia and am now carrying on during my vacation in Ukraine and will conical from here on out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It started off as a joke. I was sitting in a Georgian restaurant in February 2012 with a newly formed friend, enjoying our snow day of freedom from our students, laughing about how my host parents put me on a scale a few days earlier, shocked that I weighed a whopping 107kg (236lbs). He said that they had to use the industrial scale, that they used for making Cha Cha, because I would have broken a normal one. I had known this guy for all of three weeks, barley spoken to him, but here we sat, making fun of my predicament and eating habits. For some reason I was ok with him making fun of me, anyone else I would have burst into tears and told them to fuck off. Maybe it was because we were in Georgia and had to laugh at our lives or we would have lost our minds or maybe it was because I knew in my heart that early on in our friendship that he cared and this was his way of showing it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve always been fat, not chubby, plump, slightly overweight, or any other nicety phrase you want to throw at me. Something clicked, hard, in Georgia during my time there. I would sit in the teachers room, watching my co-workers, not so much older than me take each others blood pressure, talk about medications for controllable health conditions that were the product of unhealthy eating, and sip coffee that was mostly sugar, thinking that something had to change. It was like a PSA for what you didn’t want your health to end up as that just played over and over. One day I drew a food pyramid on the chalk board and they all started laughing at me, the silly America who thought she was teaching them something they didn’t know. They knew alright, but didn’t care, just like millions of people in America alone. I continued to bitch for a few months about how this country was making me fat, until my outspoken friend told me to shut up and stop blaming my wealthy host family with their sweets and fried chicken and take some control and loose weight. If I couldn’t do it in a country like Georgia, where every kind of produce was coming into season, that cost next to nothing, and I only worked 15 hours a week, was I really expecting that I could do it in America? Because my friend, who I love dearly, is an asshole and I am stubborn, we formed a bet. I had to loose a kilo a week or he got my prized food bag, normally a Kit-Kat, pear soda and some other horrible food, that I would eat on my journey back to my village every weekend from Tbilisi. I didn’t care if I would have to give him this food, because it didn’t matter I could have bought it in my village anyways, I wanted to win and shove it in his face.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me on my way home to my village with a kit-kat in one hand and a pear soda in the other (Georgia March 2012)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibgoyuvEqOIwhWQ2brzpXEDhaXEJ6bpG9i-xTXNhqgl4SZt7-dxmPZAEiJqASowKUAHqrk6CMndf3Kypqt15VQYKi8sSuLJ41D91pEVBgD7VuUAfGSy0J6BJ27MIYQ_sWrwkBxVAX8dmsz/s1600/IMG_8548_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I explained to my host family that money was on the line for me to get skinny. They laid off force feeding me, my well meaning host mother even tried to get me up at 7am to do ‘sport’ with my host brother, and my family would come running when they would hear me dragging the scale out to monitor their American daughter’s progress. Everyone in the village knew what was going on, everyone. My weight was no longer a secret. People openly commented on my figure like I was a livestock animal they were getting ready for the fair. My friend regaled our friends at dinner in the city with my struggles, making them guess my weight. No one could believe that I was above 100kg (220lbs). The odd thing was that after a while I didn’t care that people knew what my weight was. It was a fact of life that I was fat. No matter what I wear it does not hide the fact that I am not a size 2. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The talks with my weight out in the open, not backstabbing whispers, were more productive then the years I spent as an adolescent in Weight Watchers or trying some quick weight loss diet, which clearly didn’t work in the long run. After that spring, when I went back into western culture I put on weight again, and fast. After getting down to around 100kg (220lbs) I was back up to around the 107kg (236lbs) that I had started at. it was a mix of traveling a lot, eating food that I hadn’t eating in while (years in the case of Denmark), drinking, and generally not caring until it had caught up with me yet again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When I got back to the States that summer I had to buy new pants and I squeezed myself into a pair of size 16 jeans that had no right to be stretched that far and have me say that they “fit.” Six weeks later when I went home to Georgia I couldn’t even get them on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Arriving in Georgia, I was going to be living on my own, in an apartment, for an extended period of time for the first time in my life. After paying my rent I only had about $135 to last me the month on food. I quickly discovered that almost all western brands of prepackaged food wasn’t an option and local produce was cheap. I gave up on any meat I would have to cook at home and almost all forms of dairy, to avoid explosive bathroom issues that semester. I couldn’t eat out of boredom anymore, because it wasn’t in the budget, but I never went hungry. I drank water, flavored with minimal amounts of my valuable Chrystal Light, to add variety, gone were the sugary drinks, again not in the budget. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got myself weighed on the street by old women, and their scales who would question if 103kg (227lbs) was really something to be proud about. I had women at a bazaar flat out tell me that they didn’t have pants big enough for me. The friend that I was with, another American, asked if I was ok emotionally after having all of them basically tell me that I was too fat. I said I was use to it. They didn’t need to be any less honest. I knew that I was the one who had to change, not them. I was the one who was screwing with my health, being stupid, and staying depressed because I had decided to eat a whole cake, not just a piece.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Every visit back home to my Georgian village to see my family that fall, I was greeted by them telling me that I was still getting skinny slowly, but surly. They had faith that their America could do it, even if they couldn’t. My host mum set my goal weight at 85kg (187.3lbs). She had no past background history on me, she hadn’t seen the struggles. She was blissfully unaware and thought that I had never thought about loosing weight before. There was something refreshing about this and her blind faith that I could do this. When I came back from a summer away, she blamed my weight gain on America.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I left Georgia, I got myself weighed on the street by an old woman for the last time in December and I was back down to 100kg (220lbs) after an extremely inactive semester. When I landed back in the States food was over processed and I felt like a freak for complaining. I struggled with eating what my family ate and what I ate. Not a lot was matching up. My mother started calling me her vegan daughter, I still didn’t trust meat and dairy for the fear of toilet explosions. I again had to battle against that American stereotypes of weight and how it was talked about. A few weeks ago my boss spoke with me, right before I felt for Ukraine that when I got back from Georgia I was the “tiny,” the smallest he had ever seen me and then again I put a little back on, but slowly it was coming off again. He spoke honestly about my plans and goals, nothing was hushed. I talked numbers. I don’t know where I want to end up, because I can’t remember the last time I was ever this skinny. Yesterday I got myself weighed on the streets of Lviv by an old woman and I was at 90kg (198.5lbs). I got off the scale and went on my way to the market to buy some more produce and didn’t think much of it until this morning. My license that I have had since I was 18, that says 200lbs (90.7kg) is no longer a lie and for the first time has even come close to being true. I don’t want a medal or a party. I just want to keep going on with my journey, slowly chipping away enjoying throwing out old clothes, because they are too big. Most of all I can’t wait to see my friend from Georgia further down the road, healthier, and being able to say, “I told you I could do it, you ass!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Breakdown of the numbers:</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">February 2012: 107kg (236lbs)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">June 2012: 100kg (220lbs)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">August 2012: 108kg (238lbs)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">December 2012: 100kg (220lbs)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">May 2012: 90kg (198.5lbs)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">February 2012: Barley squeezing into a size 18 in Gap</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">May 2012: Comfortably a size 14 in Gap </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Break down in photos:</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">January 2012 (Georgia)<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-oly5_omTOlWjQvYjSz771u4m5hykiLdN6dJYfWDWEwqj2XJgZqeIbs3_rRG6YIYwJECpSiUFfMRQCtFqKaVpB4RcODWubR12oQrsWgSWoEtqgdjtqv5ZmgUmy4eV-lqdNGI0xUIgu4o/s1600/IMG_0291_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-oly5_omTOlWjQvYjSz771u4m5hykiLdN6dJYfWDWEwqj2XJgZqeIbs3_rRG6YIYwJECpSiUFfMRQCtFqKaVpB4RcODWubR12oQrsWgSWoEtqgdjtqv5ZmgUmy4eV-lqdNGI0xUIgu4o/s640/IMG_0291_2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 2012 (Armenia)<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">November 2012 (Ukraine)<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbcGk_jkpQrgZAYkI8loW16pzkDQB80PCZkdW83bYxuBtKZYxf8UMr1wfagXsFD8x8RGsNoh7cjE_x0y8TtvX_hKcmsC_0ZBh52wisJ6aeuLkbPWVVE0vFhFoV9ffN8eWSuII3DxX1YwB/s1600/401159_10200145490019509_998709566_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbcGk_jkpQrgZAYkI8loW16pzkDQB80PCZkdW83bYxuBtKZYxf8UMr1wfagXsFD8x8RGsNoh7cjE_x0y8TtvX_hKcmsC_0ZBh52wisJ6aeuLkbPWVVE0vFhFoV9ffN8eWSuII3DxX1YwB/s640/401159_10200145490019509_998709566_n.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">May 2013 (Ukraine)</td></tr>
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<br />Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-25318326235852560152013-05-27T07:50:00.002-07:002013-05-27T07:52:35.395-07:00Pro Tips for Surviving a Long Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">’m not sure how many of you kind folks reading this will be aware of any of my current travel adventures so I’ll fill you in. I left for Lviv, Ukraine on May 20th and will arrive back in the States on July 10th, unless there is some unforeseen delay, like the National Ballet of Ukraine offers me the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Nutcracker and I have to stay and train, or I get really drunk one night in Lviv and somehow wonder in Chernobyl and get attacked by a radio active bear. But as both of those are highly unlike as I would settle for no less then the Bolshoi Ballet company in Moscow or the fact that I never drink we should have nothing to worry about, preventing me to make it back to the States. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What I would like to talk about today is how I’m getting to Ukraine without loosing my mind and without loosing a bunch of cash. To get to Lviv I had to wake up at 1am Maine time (MET for short) on Monday May 20th, to be showered, make sure everything was packed, and make it to the airport in time for my 6am flight. My first flight would take me from Portland International Jetport, to JFK where I would arrive a little after 7am MET (Maine time, trying to keep it simple so you don’t have to do time zone math) My next flight from JFK to Moscow didn’t leave until 2:20pm MET. Upon flying into Moscow around midnight MET, I didn’t catch my next flight to Kiev, Ukraine for a few hours after that. When I got to Kiev it was 4am MET on Tuesday the 21st. I then had to wait around another 4 hours for my train to Lviv which won’t get me there until about 5:30pm MET. Over all about 36 hours of pure travel, in planes, trains, and automobiles, with a whole lot of time to kill. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-<b>Hydrate</b>. I cannot emphasize this enough. A few days before your flight, especially if it’s a long one, up the water intake and cut back on everything else. Don’t drink the booze before or during a flight, I know it’s free sometimes, but seriously just go out to a bar when you get where ever you are going and find a man to buy you a free drink. You’ll feel so much better emotionally and physically with this strategy. Day of flight continue to drink stupid amounts of water. If you don’t want to pay for water in an airport, like myself, take an empty bottle with you through security and fill it up after. Try to say no to or at least limit soda and juice intake. The carbonation from soda can leave you bloated and the juice is a lot of sugar. I’ve also been told that you shouldn’t have caffein on flight days, but I’m not a doctor and I normally drink about three to five cups of coffee a day so for me cutting it out completely would leave a non-functioning me. Keep drinking water after you land, but make sure to check out the bathroom situation before hand. I once found myself trapped on an Italian train with no working bathrooms for 2 hours after downing 1.5 liters of water. I hated life. Drink water, you get the point.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ukraine Train Toilet</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-<b>Food</b>. Pack a food bag. This is the one thing you will never regret over packing. For this epic journey my bag consisted of three apples, three bananas, a sandwich bag of strawberry and another one of grapes, and another of raw almonds. I also somehow managed to get fresh almond butter through TSA. All very healthy foods, because I knew that airplane food isn’t that healthy (still ate some of it. They gave massive chunks of cheese and walnuts out as PART of a snack. Massive shout out to Transaero airlines and their food that exceeded my expectations!) Also while waiting in multiple airports or train stations, I didn’t want to have to pay to $2 for that, same banana I could have packed myself and a hungry me isn’t a happy me. Also ditch Burger King or some place like that before you fly. No one and I mean no one wants to get the shits on international flight with a limited amount of bathrooms and limited times you can use them. (Yes, I always think and talk about the bathrooms.)</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My travel companion and our airport picnic</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can always pick up local food once you land.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-<b>Sleep</b>. Try to sleep at the time you would be on at your destination on travel day. This can be tricky. I’m a big fan of popping a sleeping pill on the flight over the Atlantic and drooling all over myself and my newly aquatinted seat mate. Sometimes, even this isn’t fool proof. Mine knocked me out for about 2 hours and than I slept badly on and off after that. I’m going to blame it on the fact that we were flying far north, over Iceland, Norway, Sweden and such, so the sun never set for the whole trip. Also, don’t beat yourself up over not concurring jet lag in the first day. I’m not a master. I will say that for the first part of your day, no matter how shitty you are feeling get a small americano into you and be exposed to natural light. If you don’t drink coffee, forget I said that. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee, the elixir of life!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iceland, way later then the sun should be up</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">-<b>Planing</b> your journey in the best way for you. I could have spent another few hundred dollars and have flown directly to Lviv, but in my never ending quest to save money and my love of Ukrainian trains I chose not to. All my friends in Lviv think I am crazy for insisting on this path of travel, but thankfully my best friend has stopped fighting me on this, still thinks I’m crazy, but ended up booking probably the perfect ticket for me. He threw out the idea of the fast train, which limits luggage (I have way to much as always) and the fact that it doesn’t have beds. The beds are a key factor, as I will be traveling from 3:20pm Lviv time till a little after midnight. I needed the option to be able to lay down, and have been dozing on and off for the past 4 hours of my ride. He also smartly bumped me up to second class where I could get a cabin with a closing door, to block noise, a bottom bed and when he booked my ticket I was the only one staying in my room, so it’s been me sitting around in my leggings and a tank top, drooling on my pillow, and eating out of my food bag without anyone watching. This upgrade was only about $5 more and so worth it. I also have the potential to get some awesome cabin mates who will, most likely feed me if they ever appear.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-<b>Staying fresh</b>. On journeys like this it can be hard. My hair has turned into a grease ball, so I’ve given up on that front. I did pack an extra change of cloths in my carry on. From America to Moscow I had sport leggings on with a tank top, sweatshirt and sneakers. As soon as I hit Moscow I changed into a black maxi dress with a jean jacket, and nice flip flops. It was a new day, so time for a new outfit and one that was more socially expectable. You don’t go out looking like a slob in Europe. The key to the second outfit is something that looks more dressed up, but still feels like cozy clothes and are easy to move in. I also like to look like the local population as much as I can, which backfired and people kept speaking to me in Russian and Ukrainian and asking me for directions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-<b>Keeping entertained</b>. I travel with my laptop and iPhone, for electronics, both of which on long journeys will die, no matter how hard I try to charge them when I find an available outlet. I limit myself to just music and audiobooks on my iPhone. I know the audiobooks can sound a little nerdy, but I like to be able to close my eyes and listen to a story I either already know well or something that is easy to fallow. Most public libraries have e-libraries that you can download audio books and e-books for free for a set amount of time. Since my electronics always die I try to take one paperback (less weight than a hardcover) with me that isn’t too taxing to read. There is nothing worse then lacking sleep and trying to get through As I Lay Dying by Faulkner. My brain implodes and I want to cry because of how stupid I feel. Trash magazines are also a decent investment, especially if you can find a fellow traveler to swap with. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The best possible entertainment source is to find someone to flirt with. Here is my logic, you are in transit, you will never have to see or talk to this person again if you really don’t want to. I lucked out, or my airline was trying to play match maker, on my flight from NYC to Moscow and ended up sitting next to a guy a few years older then me and decently attractive looking. Our introduction was me telling him that he was in my window seat and to get up and move, now this could have made for an awkward flight, but I started small talk and by the end of the flight we were talking about things that I can’t write here because my parents read this blog. (E-mail me if you want to know the details.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Even better then finding someone to flirt with is when they find you. When I was transferring terminals in JFK, dragging my 2 fifty pound suitcases and a guy commented on how much I had with me. He continued to tell me about his work and how he traveled every week. We got on to the topic of iphones and how they make life so easy and I admitted that I will hate to go without it in Ukraine and as we parted ways, he handed me his card and told me to e-mail him about my travels if I ever found wifi. Sneaky, sneaky man, but admire his delivery. A for effort! He may get a consolation e-mail.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I think I’ve covered all the bases, but feel free to add your own tips on how not to die on massively long journeys. I am going to drool more on my train pillow and hope for the best! </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting...</td></tr>
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Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-44900594899689461872012-12-05T05:58:00.004-08:002012-12-05T06:00:01.019-08:00One Year...<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">A year. That is how long I have called Georgia home, and in a week it will all be over. One part of my life, that is so uniquely mine and forever will be mine. Bits and pieces will be told, but the whole story will never be heard by one person, and it’s not intended to. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>None of this would have ever been possible without my family, my Georgian family, Tamariani, and all my friend scattered around the world, esp. those who took me in, fed, and entertained me. Without all of you I would forever be the child sitting alone, in a corner with a balloon tied to her wrist. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ok, so maybe I was that child the other weekend...</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for helping me have the most amazing year of my life, even if I just met you for a brief moment. I have nothing but radiating love for <i><b>all</b></i> of you!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Emily</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Years Eve (Lviv, Ukraine)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas (Lviv, Ukraine)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first Georgian dance (Mid- January 2012 Tamariani, Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first Georgian drinking horn (Early February 2012, Lagodekhi, Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My host dad's birthday supra with Simon, my Georgian husband, if I would only say yes. (March 7th, 2012 Tamariani Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Azerbaijan Border with J. (Late March 2012 Lagodekhi, Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Armenia (mid-June 2012)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Volunteering as Roskilde Music Festival (Roskilde Denmark, Late June/ early July 2012)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mumford and Sons with my sister cousin (August 4, 2012, Portland, Maine)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam thought it would be funny to get me wasted on my birthday. Enjoy this picture Sam. (September 28th, 2012 Tbilisi, Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davit Gareja Monastary (Early October 2012, Georgia)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving 2012 (Lviv, Ukraine)</td></tr>
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Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-76758007793984632932012-12-03T09:14:00.000-08:002012-12-03T09:14:39.163-08:00It's Turkey Lurkey Time!... Almost.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12px;">Traveling long distances is as much apart of Thanksgiving for a lot of people, as turkey, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and football. The longest I ever was in a car to see family was an hour tops. This year took a little bit more time, involved multiple modes of transportation, and my cunning.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Wednesday before Thanksgiving I impatiently taught, until 12:20 and raced out of school to my apartment to finish packing, change my clothes and then set off from Tbilisi, Georgia to Lviv, Ukraine. I road a public bus, where people tsked my big backpacking backpack to Station Square where I found a marshookah (a van that holds about 15 people) that could take me to Kutaisi. The guy collecting money was very impressed that I could speak Georgian, blushing I told him I could only a little bit and that I was an English teacher here. He sat me next to an older woman who seemed a little unsure about having her seat mate be this odd American in her sports clothes. I was jonesing to leave, but a debate started about a flower arrangement that woman didn’t want to hold for the whole trip and the guy collecting money said that she would have to pay for another seat if she wanted to take up a seat with it. Her excuse was that there was no one sitting there anyway so she shouldn’t have to pay. This debate raged for a good ten minutes. I kept saying, ‘Oh my God’ under my breath in Georgian and the woman next to me exchanged looks with me that we were under mutual agreement that this vehicle needed to move pronto.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We drove for four and a half hours, with one stop, picturesque Soviet towns, and lots of muttering from the woman next to me, until we reached Kutaisi. I had no idea where the airport was and when the driver told us that, this was the Kutaisi stop, two girls in Russian said that they were looking for the airport. I asked a Georgian girl who was sitting near me, who spoke English, what exactly they had said about the airport and she said that they were going and I told her that I needed to too. We left the city and drove through farm land, it was dusk and we seemed to be driving far past where I thought the airport should be. The Georgian girl told me that we would be there in a few minutes and I relaxed a little. The woman sitting next to me helped me into my coat. I’m sure she just was worried I was going to accidentally smack her in the face, trying to get my arm in the sleeve. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Low and behold we did reach the newly constructed airport, and by newly constructed I mean still being built. I was there three hours before my flight and there was no wi-fi, shops, or outlets to charge my laptop that was at 63% battery power, so I crossed watching the Hunger Games, again, off the to do list again. That left me with eating, calling people, and watching Georgians check in and go threw security. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I, myself had to get checked in and pray to God that they would except my backpack as a carry on. I got one checked bag for free, but my plane would land a little after 10pm in Kiev and I would have an hour to go through passport control, get my bag, get to the train station, get my ticket that I had bought online, and find my train and get on it. I needed this bag not to be checked so I could make it, otherwise the chances of me pulling this off looked dismal and would also mean I would be stuck in Kiev for the night. Upon check in, they informed me that it would have to be checked. I tried to explain my situation and they told me that I would have my bag shortly after we landed and not to worry. I reluctantly gave it to them, after they interrogated me about the liquid contents of it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Do you have liquids in your bag?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Yes, I just told you that I did and that they were small, like lipgloss small.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So you have no more then five liters of liquid in your bag?</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No? </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was super confused as to why they were so concerned with my capacity in my bag. I travel a lot, and not even the TSA agents have cared. Hell, I’ve gotten a small bottle of hand sanatizer, through multiple international airport securities, not in it’s plastic bag. Tbilisi airport let me bring 200 milliliters of vodka in my carryon once and now I was getting shit in a half built airport in the middle of no where about liquids? (I also saw an hour later someone get approval for two full size bottles of Georgian wine to be brought on the plane. I guess I was just carrying the wrong liquids, because they weren’t Georgian.) The woman who was checking me in also called over her supervisor when she saw I was traveling on an American passport. With the airport only being open for about two months, about 3 flights a day, I’m willing to bet I could have been one of the first Americans traveling through. The supervisor asked me where my visa for Ukraine was, when she couldn’t find one. I politely stated that I’m American and don’t need one. I also explained that it was my fifth time going, so I was probably right. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stood in line waiting to go through security, passing the time playing with an obese baby. The woman checking everyone’s tickets and passports looked at them a little longer then I thought necessary and I chalked it up to her wanting to do a good job, as she had probably only had it for a few months. After security, I almost went past passport control, as it was these random cubes in the middle of the floor with people sitting inside of them and no sign or anything. I handed my passport over to a girl who looked like she was eighteen and asked me how I was, after a much too long pause after the hello’s. Sure she had practiced this in her Border Control English 101. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went and took a seat after this and called some of my friends to pass the time and just people watched. I eventually got bored with that and decided that I should use the bathroom, before I got on my plane. The fact that there was even a bathroom in this half done airport was a miracle, even if it didn’t have soap or toilet paper. Lucky for me, after living in Georgia for almost a year, I just bring my own. The last thing you want is explosive diarrhea, courtesy of Georgia, and no toilet paper.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweOL3iqVSPjmFPOpapEE7uBceOmDBqVKs3jhGDil1BfiJzy3AEtQZC-QchDFXBOPZjzDfHmAuCipqt1ij05sao-a64Q9AzY06Fibr11iqJiRffM90zUCFeoAvVIBxAXTrCp-wuAmBicqb/s1600/IMG_1305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweOL3iqVSPjmFPOpapEE7uBceOmDBqVKs3jhGDil1BfiJzy3AEtQZC-QchDFXBOPZjzDfHmAuCipqt1ij05sao-a64Q9AzY06Fibr11iqJiRffM90zUCFeoAvVIBxAXTrCp-wuAmBicqb/s640/IMG_1305.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"King David The Builder" I guess they are trying to keep with the theme.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhuA7Ti9k_xEh-qKBuvccihxIaKXhE4I5jHoGbwG5u7lkkSYw6gpEl2Gbrnx03C5JNfu6P57wSafgbbquI3YjrkSREedoUsC7AQdkeAVrW4k8QUBFg7piHnzUftyae8lWgz43J8SZ1z-H/s1600/IMG_1306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhuA7Ti9k_xEh-qKBuvccihxIaKXhE4I5jHoGbwG5u7lkkSYw6gpEl2Gbrnx03C5JNfu6P57wSafgbbquI3YjrkSREedoUsC7AQdkeAVrW4k8QUBFg7piHnzUftyae8lWgz43J8SZ1z-H/s640/IMG_1306.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NpbV5SuP3hyphenhyphenJKMehfBXLwtthQ7au3rb1f-YdY5Ah-ye-Ubr5lNd1BO5hsIoh8mYLbcRXlzsQdDJNhda5ZwH5msBCJu9j-nwHs0gAdivUYq04mrPzSwUvBOt2JzJ48c3oolvy4hEyFpvO/s1600/IMG_1307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NpbV5SuP3hyphenhyphenJKMehfBXLwtthQ7au3rb1f-YdY5Ah-ye-Ubr5lNd1BO5hsIoh8mYLbcRXlzsQdDJNhda5ZwH5msBCJu9j-nwHs0gAdivUYq04mrPzSwUvBOt2JzJ48c3oolvy4hEyFpvO/s640/IMG_1307.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is were you wait to get on your plane.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzBvq6ABZK28-Caahs1cMTBIlLxbtrlW9IVrTrZt6h6vG9k8NSArk08sEVgG8p6OX9L8AckemhT1dQENYw1AEnCCNxrZQKaYWqQwKkjjI18R7YyBo6aWKVtJqNoe2MRYWuZiK92T74dHz/s1600/IMG_1308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzBvq6ABZK28-Caahs1cMTBIlLxbtrlW9IVrTrZt6h6vG9k8NSArk08sEVgG8p6OX9L8AckemhT1dQENYw1AEnCCNxrZQKaYWqQwKkjjI18R7YyBo6aWKVtJqNoe2MRYWuZiK92T74dHz/s640/IMG_1308.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe one day there will be shops and a restaurant? </td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When it was time to bored the plane we were separated into two groups, after the people who paid to reserve their tickets got on, so like 10 people. Wizz Air, a budget European Airline, think South West, loads it’s passengers from the front and the back to speed up the process. I stood impatiently, not caring which seat I got, as long as I got one and made my train. I got to go in through the front of the plane and the airline attendants told me, in English, you could start picking your seat from the third row. The plane was filling up and there was only one girl sitting in the third row. They didn’t have the ‘reserved’ head rest sign on it. I went for it, praying that the other flyers on the plane didn’t understand that I we could sit <i>in</i> the third row, not <i>after</i>. I’m going to assume that this was the case, because no one told me to move. This old man, with his wife and daughter sat across the isle from me. The fight attendants gave the safety information in Russian and then they started giving it in English. The old man started speaking to me in Georgian, laughing and saying something along the lines of, <i>why are they speaking English? No one on this flight speaks it! People who speak English fly in planes out of Tbilisi, not Kutasi!</i> I laughed at this point. Partly because I agreed, I mean really, this airport was a shit show, and partly because he thought I was Georgian. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The flight was a quick and painless two hours that I spent praying to God that I wouldn’t miss my train and listening to the Hunger Games on audio book to take my mind off missing my train, which didn’t really help, because I was listening to book two, where they are on a train touring Panem for the first bit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The plane landed safely at Kiev Zhulyany International airport and we were loaded on two buses to take us from the tarmac to the airport door. I stood on the bus looking at some lady’s nails, that were shaped like claws, eyeing the other bus. They got to the doors first. By the time I got in line for passport control there were 15 people in front of me. I stood there watching and calculating the time it would take for it to be my turn and looked at my watch. I started muttering to myself that I would never make it. I then gave myself a mental slap and told myself to grow some balls. I tapped on the shoulder of the couple in front of me and explained that I had to get to a train in 40 minuets and asked if I could go ahead of them. They said yes. I asked the next guy if he spoke English, and he didn’t. I morally couldn’t just cut him, but the couple behind me asked me to explain again what I needed. The man took me to the front of the line and explained to everyone in Russian what I was doing. It didn’t look like anyone could have cared either way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I went up to the window I gave the woman my passport and said, “Privet!” She looked a little startled, but flipped through my passport, stamped it and handed it back. I said, “spasibo!” and rushed off to the baggage clam before she had a chance to change her mind about letting me into Ukraine. I not so patently scanned the carousel for my bag. it was no where to be seen, so I went out to where they were coming out and tried to look through the black things, to see if I could see my bag. People weren’t taking bags off the carousel, so they the guys in the back couldn’t easily put more on. I thought of throwing them on ground, in an attempt to get mine sooner, but didn’t want to act too crazy. I also thought about just climbing to the other side and getting my bag off the luggage cart myself and was just about to put this plan into action when they put in on the carousel. I grabbed it and ran to the nearest ATM and got money out and ran outside to the taxi stand. I told the person in charge of it that I needed to get to the central station as soon as possible and he pointed me at a taxi and shouted to the driver where we needed to go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I explained to him, by doing what was probably the most insane looking motions ever that I needed to get to the train station NOW. He took that to mean that we were filming The Fast and the Furious: Kiev, driving at 130km/h (80mph) through the city. He honked and dodged cars trying to get me there. I crossed myself when we passed a church, just like the good little Georgian Orthodox Christian I have become, also because I needed as much help as I could get from God to make this train. I crossed myself seeing a second church, and then thought, <i>wait, wait I’ve seen this church before, and I’ve only been in Kiev once before, and that was to get a train!</i> I had made it to the train station 20 minuets before it was suppose to leave. I wanted to kiss my taxi driver, instead I stuffed an extra 30UAH ($3.50) in his hand and ran off to the ticket counter.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No, I had not been dumb enough to not buy my ticket before hand, but I still had to go to a window and get in printed. I stood in line at one of them, knowing that the lines can be painfully long, looking around in exasperation and saw a window that said, “online reservations” and there was only one person standing in line. Convinced that God truly loved me at this point in time, I went over and waited until it was my turn where I gave the lady, my iPod with the e-mail of the reservation on the screen and she printed out my ticket. I was so happy I didn’t have try to speak to her and I got what I wanted. I walked quickly down the hall, to my platform and found my train car. I gave my ticket to the man outside who asked me something in Russian and I stared blankly at him, so he just waved me in. (I later found out he wanted my ID, but the chances of me stealing another foreigners ticket were probably so small, that he didn’t care. After all I only paid $8 for it. That’s right, an overnight train ride, with a bed was only $8! Слава Україні!) </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I found my bed in the open compartment, which seemed to be filled mostly with university students and looked to see that I had about 10 minuets before the train left. I threw my backpack under a seat, not caring if someone wanted to steal my worn clothes and lipgloss from it, as they would be doing me a favor at this point, and went outside to buy water from a kiosk.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went up to the window and stopped to think what the word for water was in Ukrainian, thinking it was ‘wasser,’ I asked for it. The woman looked at me like I was crazy. Wrong language I guess. I then tried explaining myself and asking again, this time in Georgian. Know what, Georgian is as useless to know in Ukraine as it is in America. She looked really confused at this point and maybe a little annoyed. I walked away thinking maybe she just didn’t have water, so I circled around the building and found a whole window full of water. I went back to the woman, still speaking to her in Georgian, rather then being a mute, and tapped to the window that had the water in it. She stuck her head out of a little door, to see what I was going on about and gave me a bottle. I paid her, and as an after thought I asked “gas?” “Da, gas.” “Nyet, gas.” I said sheepishly, trying to act sweet. She traded out the bottles for me and I went back to the train to get settled, glowing in my glory of making it and getting water, even though I made an ass out of myself speaking Georgian.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I made my bed, which was a top bunk on the isle, at the end of the train and stripped down to my tank top and leggings and climbed into bed. My friend hadn’t added money to my Ukrainian SIM card yet, so I had no way of being able to tell him that I had arrived safely. (I also still don’t know my number after having it for a year, so there is no possible way I could add money to it myself.) I put my headphones in and put Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, <i>Home</i> on and started to drift off to sleep, when my phone went off. My friend was naturally amazing that I had actually made the train. I suspect, he had friends on stand by waiting to take me in for the night in Kiev, if this was the case. He clearly forgot who he was dealing with. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After I got off the phone with my friend, I passed out, despite people walking up and down the corridor and the train stopping at different stations in the night, until the next morning when I woke up in a pile of enough drool, that I’m surprised that I didn’t drown in the night. I got up, got dressed, tidied everything up and tried to use the bathroom. It was flooded and in poor condition, I thanked God that I had been smart enough to purposely keep myself dehydrated and out of this situation. I went and sat down across from a Ukrainian women, with too much makeup on and felt like a bum. I looked out the window at the little villages going passed, none of them really looked familiar. The train moved gradually into a city, not being sure if it was Lviv or someplace else, as things are more apt to be late in Ukraine, I had my face pressed to the window looking for something that looked familiar. When I knew it was Lviv and raced to put my backpack on go to the door of the train. I resisted the urge to knock the train porter over in an attempt to get out first. When I got out onto the platform I found my best friend after looking for a few moments and we threw out arms around each other and I yelled HAPPY THANKSGIVING, and everyone just looked at us. I just shrugged. I didn’t care. I had made it home for Thanksgiving with my best friend, who would have to fill in for the rest of my family thousands of miles away. We didn’t have turkey or pie that day. There was no football. No strategies for shopping at midnight, just two best friends catching up, being thankful that we could be together.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank goodness for best friends who feel the need to take your picture, just after you've got to town!<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<i>Home</i> by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros</div>
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Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-84959164197241567042012-09-13T10:56:00.000-07:002012-09-13T10:56:03.266-07:00Roskilde Music Festival 2012<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My parents never sent me away to sleep away camp during the summer when I was growing up. I am sure if you asked them they would say that they were looking out for my best interests and my mother claims that only parents who don’t love their children send them away. At the age of twenty-three I finally broke free and got to go to summer camp! Well sort of. I volunteered at the Roskilde Music Festival in Denmark for two glorious weeks at the end of June and beginning of July. It was insanity at it’s best.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Most of you reading my blog will have no idea what Roskilde is, so here is a basic breakdown. It is the biggest music festival in norther Europe and over 100,000 people attend every year and it is almost entirely run by volunteers. There is an overwhelming feeling of community and caring for those around you, although when a drunk Danish teenage girl who was sitting next to me one night told me that she had just gone pee sitting down and I didn’t even notice, I wasn’t feeling so communal. Over 200 musical acts performed this year, so I quickly forgot about the peeing drunk.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I arrived to the festival grounds the morning of June 25, dragging my suitcase through the mud, feeling relief when I saw my Danish friend Nina, that I had met a year earlier when I was working at the Wiz-Art Short Film Festival. (She was the one who also scored me the job at Roskilde and I am forever grateful to her for it.) I was assigned to help build The Urban Zone at the festival. I did my best to work with power tools and not cut any appendages off my body, but it is safe to say that I was better at just painting things.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mhahaha someone gave me power tools!" Photo credit: Marianne Falck</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgF92A3XeDNQCidHLMNcA5TywuHlHnIqt4RuArgVPC-KdLI64o0yK1RbV-5krvi3BYAYxdN4VkCKo3VkjaiwapWoMvyCiB_ki8aYRWL3a3z_iO8a13hvEfbpwZKsUxRHGh6x8WJGQ85cwq/s1600/391339_10151094139918735_2140687210_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgF92A3XeDNQCidHLMNcA5TywuHlHnIqt4RuArgVPC-KdLI64o0yK1RbV-5krvi3BYAYxdN4VkCKo3VkjaiwapWoMvyCiB_ki8aYRWL3a3z_iO8a13hvEfbpwZKsUxRHGh6x8WJGQ85cwq/s640/391339_10151094139918735_2140687210_n.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly I was having too much fun painting. Photo credit: Marianne Falck</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Our work days were from nine in the morning until close to ten at night, with long breaks for lunch and dinner. In exchange for work we got to sleep in little wagons with bunk beds, three meals a day, snacks, hot showers, free entry to the festival and most importantly five beers a day.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1FVoQ1D2mwABXSAIS6UDtpbt34tfvjbDLnGtc_vscjvU3SOVW12ErRH3wv84HAwmYEtUzva28sGGST1QV2aI6bIyxmdd2CTIpowcTNnjmeT7Lj-qZkr8FH_yDty0K7wTUnLuf5FoHYl_/s1600/IMG_0516_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1FVoQ1D2mwABXSAIS6UDtpbt34tfvjbDLnGtc_vscjvU3SOVW12ErRH3wv84HAwmYEtUzva28sGGST1QV2aI6bIyxmdd2CTIpowcTNnjmeT7Lj-qZkr8FH_yDty0K7wTUnLuf5FoHYl_/s640/IMG_0516_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working Hard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RYeSquaXGqW3G_hzhjpsQmVFEylqR2p-l7lOdCahpNvOQjUmtDgaaTFik5AqJlUPZFt60Ar34QQ6U36aJbqgSKgapvkXhPCq_FNLiIVzjiJ2h66oOH04CAeLvVWzAaXVb6tfQUo-OMF-/s1600/IMG_0517_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RYeSquaXGqW3G_hzhjpsQmVFEylqR2p-l7lOdCahpNvOQjUmtDgaaTFik5AqJlUPZFt60Ar34QQ6U36aJbqgSKgapvkXhPCq_FNLiIVzjiJ2h66oOH04CAeLvVWzAaXVb6tfQUo-OMF-/s640/IMG_0517_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Break Time on the Plaits</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8thDXymqydIckvrAp63K__bDqBL9HTxTXhbyUoUNI5jBgDty03hIRPEmerMkgtq04tHDi9ma8EqBF85mhLVdSsiFXLZb6hgx5a-Gxaq7ZlicCbjw7NbayhPPZbb38vkyk1ayX6P6sIUs/s1600/IMG_0514_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8thDXymqydIckvrAp63K__bDqBL9HTxTXhbyUoUNI5jBgDty03hIRPEmerMkgtq04tHDi9ma8EqBF85mhLVdSsiFXLZb6hgx5a-Gxaq7ZlicCbjw7NbayhPPZbb38vkyk1ayX6P6sIUs/s640/IMG_0514_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgMlzGezlac0T9-HX6l45iLuIF7ULJINXYGe6wSRb4aojVLqb9r4xRiW36kiixCaBOZp87IlfLQYs3IqsGr_lGDm0HekikZUnPplutVe1tkOeiXBdJ64tl_upGUmd2d2SIDxUvhLj6uaV/s1600/IMG_0519_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgMlzGezlac0T9-HX6l45iLuIF7ULJINXYGe6wSRb4aojVLqb9r4xRiW36kiixCaBOZp87IlfLQYs3IqsGr_lGDm0HekikZUnPplutVe1tkOeiXBdJ64tl_upGUmd2d2SIDxUvhLj6uaV/s640/IMG_0519_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSYCUvQY8bg32J7N8AXNKWoQrGNWg5foN2JZmVmnDxfEPz_uMviiUICvsI1SBtGxjGsemPHD2TlvlrUBRrXQVNKoUREHe81YL1tFUBsHP2MNfGwIQbnfOuzj4PjV0N9J31v-L6BE3ehcXP/s1600/IMG_0568_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSYCUvQY8bg32J7N8AXNKWoQrGNWg5foN2JZmVmnDxfEPz_uMviiUICvsI1SBtGxjGsemPHD2TlvlrUBRrXQVNKoUREHe81YL1tFUBsHP2MNfGwIQbnfOuzj4PjV0N9J31v-L6BE3ehcXP/s640/IMG_0568_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNp8raxuxYiUEf0JtJh3vKTUJW3VMrI2uRfljfr1OXsLop23tEd2cfga9F8lJ__1jZgMcGqHBfe9NCFnw00NV29fpm6Oiza-VGDchwcyTRVx2cuVeYF8sOC8TMYkEMHhMGdACdzC9uYr3/s1600/IMG_0536_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNp8raxuxYiUEf0JtJh3vKTUJW3VMrI2uRfljfr1OXsLop23tEd2cfga9F8lJ__1jZgMcGqHBfe9NCFnw00NV29fpm6Oiza-VGDchwcyTRVx2cuVeYF8sOC8TMYkEMHhMGdACdzC9uYr3/s640/IMG_0536_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russian Graffiti Artist <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18fEFAOQSwXUe-U-IYef9JvpzfZo3tAfa6St1epXv6qs5OU9nvJrX8Q67o_SF-7VWz0RSSuj7cE9_YGNTS9J8_HIEJwq2Xk7EUPaHTocPqJJ41MTDW50y4B0qYxh_MMpOF8d6HAoxGjG5/s1600/IMG_0543_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18fEFAOQSwXUe-U-IYef9JvpzfZo3tAfa6St1epXv6qs5OU9nvJrX8Q67o_SF-7VWz0RSSuj7cE9_YGNTS9J8_HIEJwq2Xk7EUPaHTocPqJJ41MTDW50y4B0qYxh_MMpOF8d6HAoxGjG5/s640/IMG_0543_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Russian Graffiti Artist Painting the Urban Zone</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the first week it safe to say that I gladly made an ass of myself in front other volunteers with my bicycle riding skills that normally meant I had to stand on something to mount a borrowed bike due to my short legs. (People took pictures of it. I told them it wasn’t my fault, we don’t ride bikes in America.)</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwGlYn4w6VDhMwupDLxho_PeJSBj9ixKdcbAMSStsUGag840Dp9KidjWTqAZagK0u1NW1E6DortqQ2v9ayizDFs38gvRq0Sz44TvIWRNppZ1sHrZsSveVJKQesRr5PzQero7utv2UqzdN/s1600/555998_10150923413060671_1742768873_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwGlYn4w6VDhMwupDLxho_PeJSBj9ixKdcbAMSStsUGag840Dp9KidjWTqAZagK0u1NW1E6DortqQ2v9ayizDFs38gvRq0Sz44TvIWRNppZ1sHrZsSveVJKQesRr5PzQero7utv2UqzdN/s640/555998_10150923413060671_1742768873_n.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me looking slightly retarded, riding a bike in the rain. Photo credit: Nina Bischoff</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> My teammates were slightly impressed with how much Danish culture I knew, but were horrified when I mentioned Nik and Jay and how much I love them. I regaled them with my stories of adventure, that involved Norwegians dressed as a penguin and crap super heros, like Robin and hippies that kissed me for no reason in front of the mess hall. This was all before the festival had even started.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Warm up was from July 1 through July 4, which featured Nordic bands. I went to a show by Copenhagen DJs on the third night that was at the skate park that we had at the festival. It was amazing to be surrounded by thousands of people dancing to the same music, there was an electric energy there that you couldn’t help be a part of.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One the first day of the festival The Cure was the headliner at the Orange stage and I was beyond excited. I went with some of my Danish friends and unfortunately they sounded great, but lacked enthusiasm, so I wondered off and did something else. The next day I had a slight break down about my hair and went into town to get it cut, as the last time I had more done to it then the sides shaved was when I was in Ukraine over winter break. I asked the lady cutting my hair to do something trendy and that wouldn’t be popular in the States. I then went and got dark brown hair dye and dyed it in one of the bathrooms in the festival, keeping check on the time to make sure that I didn’t miss Jack White.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGX1oG8-96HrxebrbN-U-lsnd_OhXpLKPzlS0HDaLJzjwBLX_5XVLLZboKvueDb_KWuwYKVV704UvUMki-bDwFGuHwFeaNvH8UNk-noV72iigK2eBVqWCy4VdX1bzu5sHaB4nHY_8H3GS/s1600/582067_10151094146073735_146898371_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGX1oG8-96HrxebrbN-U-lsnd_OhXpLKPzlS0HDaLJzjwBLX_5XVLLZboKvueDb_KWuwYKVV704UvUMki-bDwFGuHwFeaNvH8UNk-noV72iigK2eBVqWCy4VdX1bzu5sHaB4nHY_8H3GS/s640/582067_10151094146073735_146898371_n.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Hair. Photo credit: Marianne Falck</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> I again went with friends to see him and the whole time I danced and sang along, but when he started playing Seven Nation Army the fourteen year old inside of me died in sheer bliss. The Saturday night of the festival posed some massive scheduling conflicts with Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver playing at the same time. Bruce started first so I watched him and he became the new love of my life. I don’t care if he is older then my father. I ran over fifteen minuets before Bon Iver started playing and the arena that could hold over 17,000 people was over crowded with drunk and high pushing teenagers, so I gave up and went back to Bruce. I was not going to have my feelings on Bon Iver tainted. Sunday I decided it was to be a day of rest like any good Christian, just perhaps not in the way that most people think of it.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBpX4Ev3H2kF3fMCk5WYcnoI9cRgWHyPTuR6kyeYx6UJz0i-KmDBNaZyMYgP2uHpKUKbNxlrlLbiCtxH5NafgU4hYmM-plXgNUveX4SMYiodKlYVCh-_5lNOCR5LxO6Ba5sA6iY2IoN3T/s1600/523795_10151094144338735_467426801_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBpX4Ev3H2kF3fMCk5WYcnoI9cRgWHyPTuR6kyeYx6UJz0i-KmDBNaZyMYgP2uHpKUKbNxlrlLbiCtxH5NafgU4hYmM-plXgNUveX4SMYiodKlYVCh-_5lNOCR5LxO6Ba5sA6iY2IoN3T/s640/523795_10151094144338735_467426801_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ok so this photo was taken at an earlier time then that Sunday, but it looked similar. Photo credit: Marianne Falck</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Monday and Tuesday after consisted of us cleaning up, breaking down what we had built and goodbyes. Tuesday night we also had an end of festival gala for the volunteers. It was refreshing and odd to see everyone showered and in their genteel attire. Everyone was asking everyone else if they would see each other next year and when I was asked I just shrugged, smiled, and said, “who knows where in the world I’ll be next year.”</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGk0bxavKSTJjBBF-V_C02J-OnePV0of2zctSBIlbs-F2JO7uo_8P5bMPdy4JtIICl-FqyYWCPHSCY8eJLyuYa5TrNJuoHrSGrc_rpD7EcYn3bJyzsAeysNrynRYOKYayQOv9TkXRgIxb8/s1600/IMG_0574_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGk0bxavKSTJjBBF-V_C02J-OnePV0of2zctSBIlbs-F2JO7uo_8P5bMPdy4JtIICl-FqyYWCPHSCY8eJLyuYa5TrNJuoHrSGrc_rpD7EcYn3bJyzsAeysNrynRYOKYayQOv9TkXRgIxb8/s640/IMG_0574_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People Carting in Beer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsccTL81KyXW9weG271YnsIOrEE3rojyP__LljKXoCAhFqQDPMaHvT3y2EOxvIMinqJ_Ic52NF_8HsdzXZSq3AybrBXCDwdqgelGZekJNR70VZOk6EnkpsEcYWd_AmopL3sVNke9_8TxAj/s1600/IMG_0583_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsccTL81KyXW9weG271YnsIOrEE3rojyP__LljKXoCAhFqQDPMaHvT3y2EOxvIMinqJ_Ic52NF_8HsdzXZSq3AybrBXCDwdqgelGZekJNR70VZOk6EnkpsEcYWd_AmopL3sVNke9_8TxAj/s640/IMG_0583_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resting In Between Shows</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAwgi8CopTZqjEwd5IwPhyphenhyphenUA3phP6QlIQu8Lg88jDnmZ2lxFxyD6cyGB1nOjAXad2Uni02JxGylEr0Cz8hg_7i7tsWHlhF4TvSzMRRPBuL7ml6N3H3CWOllckHibjKFyZDn96cAwwATuf/s1600/IMG_0586_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAwgi8CopTZqjEwd5IwPhyphenhyphenUA3phP6QlIQu8Lg88jDnmZ2lxFxyD6cyGB1nOjAXad2Uni02JxGylEr0Cz8hg_7i7tsWHlhF4TvSzMRRPBuL7ml6N3H3CWOllckHibjKFyZDn96cAwwATuf/s640/IMG_0586_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peeing Drunk Into A Trash Can</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqa1cC4wVOKWFYyDz4AjTDKlqvNjzguJyaNdPtzARfqBUbkL7M-8fhyUERHo-0tRFXPbrhYdqKXLVqBkIu-Fj_d1N6sk8yD0noOfZ_6mR1Y4j1n27-CbrxJn-ftK8Z2ISnKN44LZjHbzO/s1600/IMG_0637_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqa1cC4wVOKWFYyDz4AjTDKlqvNjzguJyaNdPtzARfqBUbkL7M-8fhyUERHo-0tRFXPbrhYdqKXLVqBkIu-Fj_d1N6sk8yD0noOfZ_6mR1Y4j1n27-CbrxJn-ftK8Z2ISnKN44LZjHbzO/s640/IMG_0637_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schedule </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-cQSewy03D6V8SvCUnQ7oLRAfanC_yGENwYyTAJkfwAqjNdvNKNjdpdY7kgcQJ3-3KlKUJZchjDePwMAhmqlw6sz6H8Uth4wJedbQ4qOq8NgSiGklkOT3IunPmX-a1PoX_Wrjq9J7_UAN/s1600/IMG_0658_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-cQSewy03D6V8SvCUnQ7oLRAfanC_yGENwYyTAJkfwAqjNdvNKNjdpdY7kgcQJ3-3KlKUJZchjDePwMAhmqlw6sz6H8Uth4wJedbQ4qOq8NgSiGklkOT3IunPmX-a1PoX_Wrjq9J7_UAN/s640/IMG_0658_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feel Free To Be Who You Want To Be</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I would like to sincerely thank everyone I worked with at Roskilde and for letting me be the token American on your team. It is an experience that I will never forget and I am sure I will see all of you again at another festival. Again a massive thank you to Nina! </span></span></div>
Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-4047815626148142372012-09-11T09:41:00.000-07:002012-09-11T09:42:57.519-07:00Born In The U.S.A.! <br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Being an American living abroad on an anniversary of September 11th is an odd experience and perhaps has given me a broader perspective of the events. It’s a day that to sound totally cliche, but every American remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am no exception. I was 12 years old and our grade was spilt into our respected two groups that had all of our meetings together. The morning had a strange feel to it as kids were randomly getting pulled out of school, so we knew that something was going on. A little before noon they put us in to the two 7th grade science classes and told us what had happened. I didn’t even know what the Twin Towers were before this, but I knew it was bad. The one question I had that day was, why?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This morning in Tbilisi I woke up to my alarm going off on my iPod to and the date came up. September 11, 2012. This feeling of just wanting to be alone came over me and in America where it’s “safe.” It is a day that I don’t like to talk about, mostly because I think if I had to pin point where my childhood might have ended this day would be as close as I could get. When I was getting ready to go to a meeting I tried deciding on to wear I was going to go with my red cowboy boots, navy cardigan and light grey dress (I try not to own white clothes. I destroy them) to show support for America. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I read an article the other day about how Americans often lie when they are traveling about where they are from out of fear and how we need to reclaim pride of our nation. So when I was on the metro coming home this evening Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The U.S.A.” came on and I rocked out to it mouthing the words and dancing a little. I didn’t care who starred at me, if there was one day to say “I am an American and proud of it” today was the day. Maybe signing the Star Spangled Banner would have been more appropriate, but this is me and I will reclaim my Americanness in anyway I see fit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Also the events of that day have made me push my boundaries. Horrible over generalizations were made because of it, like “all Muslims are terrorists,” “the world hates America,” and so on. My parents taught me to think for myself and I started to question this almost right away, unfortunately, maybe, for them this had fueled my desire to travel. When I first started traveling solo I was careful for a little bit to “hide” my Americanness, lying and telling people I was from Canada. Now I’m completely open and honest because I have never gotten a negative response from anyone, beside maybe someone from England or Australia. Generally I find most people, especially in Eastern Europe where I’ve traveled the most lately, to be curious, over welcoming, and wanting to know everything. I also am compelled to visit countries that people generally cross off their travel lists because of miss conceptions. Being surrounded by two Muslim countries and Muslim territories in Russia may put some people on edge. When I walk by a Mosque I look at it with curiosity and wonder about the unknown of them to me, but I never see a training ground for killing or hate.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One of my roommates this semester is from Iran and without a doubt is one of the most interesting people I have ever met. I sit like a child listening to him talk about his travels around the world and most of all about Iran. It is such a misinformed subject in America and people tend to write it off as every citizen from there hates us. For the most part they don’t hate us, just our governments don’t like each other to put it simply. It is not as restrictive and primitive as the media makes it out to be. There is Facebook, sex out of wedlock, drinking alcohol, free thinking, consumerism, and more similarities then differences between the people of the two nations. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This isn’t a day for hate, but remembrance and understanding, because without exposure to experiences and ideas we will never know what we are missing. Not so long ago people were not so fond of the Irish and Italians, but without them there would be no Guinness or any Italian food that most of us love. I just want to ask one thing of you on this day of remembrance, go and talk to someone from a different culture that you normally never would. It doesn’t have to a conversation filled with politics, just things you would talk to a friend about. You’ll probably be surprised. If you aren’t motivated by what I’ve said, think about me in Georgia and how when I first got here I knew no one.It always makes things a little bit easier when a Georgia wants to know more about my culture and share some of theres with me. There are probably thousands of Emilys out there right now who are away from their friends and families and that one person could make all the difference and change their perspective.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">And Bruce Springsteen for your listening pleasure.</span></div>
Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-63938441904555439682012-09-10T06:43:00.001-07:002012-09-10T06:45:07.534-07:00Is This The Line?<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Physical abuse is something that I do not agree with, especially when it involves a child and disguised by calling it discipline. I’ve never been a parent, but I’ve grown up living in a house where a day care is run and I have a brother who is 11 years younger then me, and I’ve never felt the need to hit a child. In Georgia, unfortunately not everyone feels this way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>According to Unicef <i>79.8%</i> of children under the age of <b>eleven</b> and in the <b>eleven</b><i> </i>to <b>eighteen</b> year age range that number drops to <b>44%</b>, but that is still alarmingly high. <b>19%</b> of children in the report, were physically disciplined <i>before</i> their <b>first</b> birthday and <b>90%</b> of <b>four</b> to <b>seven</b> year olds were. The most common punishments were reported to be shaking, pulling hair, twisting ears, and smacking on the bottom with a hand. “Just over a <b>fifth</b> of respondents (to the survey) 21.5% reported that they had repeatedly hit their child ( beat him/ her up). Eight respondents admitted to trying to choke or suffocate the child and 6 burning him/ her.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">(You can read the whole report here: <a href="http://www.unicef.org/georgia/Violence_Study_ENG_final.pdf"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #2100ad; text-decoration: underline;">http://www.unicef.org/georgia/Violence_Study_ENG_final.pdf</span></a> and the article which is a little easier to read and takes less time to understand here: <a href="http://www.unicef.org/georgia/media_11332.html"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #2100ad; text-decoration: underline;">http://www.unicef.org/georgia/media_11332.html</span></a> )</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was back in my village this weekend to visit with my host family and to deliver four backpacks with school supplies and some clothes to one of my old students’ family, who are very poor. I walked to their house, paying close attention to make sure that I didn’t drag any of the straps in the mud, as it had down poured the night before. I reached the house and I heard screaming by the mother at one of her daughters and what was the mother hitting the daughter and she cried out after every hit. I only stood there for a few seconds before I went in the gate. The youngest daughter came out of the house and was over joyed to see me standing there and yelled to her mother that I was there. The screaming by her stopped and there was sounds of shuffling inside. All the adults put on a happy face to see me, but I also noticed that the bedroom door was shut. I wanted to be out of this situation as soon as possible. Teach and Learn with Georgia told us during orientation that we are never to directly intervene with domestic violence, for obvious reasons. I handed out the backpacks to the two children who were in the room and the youngest daughter was the most over joyed about it. The middle daughter was pleased and modest. I was offered coffee and juice and I refused both. I didn’t want to take anything from this family who had so little. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The oldest daughter came out of the bedroom after she had regained composure, but her face was still red and she was wiping away tears. I should also mention that she is about fourteen. She looked ashamed when I looked at her, because she knew that I knew what had happened. I however did not know what caused her mother to hit her, but I highly doubt it justified her actions. When I was there the mother also got mad at the middle daughter (age 11) for doing something minuscule wrong and angrily took her in the kitchen and I saw her rase her hand threateningly before closing the door behind her. Coffee did appear for me at one point and I didn’t drink it. It was the one rebellion I could perform against her for treating her children in such a way and I told her harshly that I didn’t want it when I left.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wanted to take her children with me, but there are currently no laws to my knowledge against corporal punishment in the home. Sadly his isn’t a secret in the village by any means. My co-teacher last semester would tell me what students had a “hard life,” which she sometimes went into detail about, but always meant they were being physically abused. No one speaks out because they are too ashamed and they have to live in such a close knit community for most likely their whole life, where they would be shunned for reporting such actions to the authorities. Out of the four children in the family, the three that I taught last year all showed signs of abuse and neglect. It is easier then I want to admit, to write off things, as they are extremely poor, like their unkept appearance at times. I had even witnessed the mother swat at the children before. The question is what to do with this knowledge, being a foreigner in a country with nonexistent child protective services. How long is one suppose to wait, until there is a visible bruise, a broken bone, or a dead child? </span></span></div>
Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-7647983162257002132012-06-24T10:22:00.000-07:002012-06-24T10:22:04.939-07:00Armenia: Day One: Art Over Load<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the morning of June 14th, I arrived in Yerevan, Armenia by night train from Tbilisi, Georgia. I made my way out of the train station and started to look around for the metro so I could get to my hostel. When I got there, the Greek and Italian from the border crossing were waiting to get on and the Italian was staying at the same hostel as me. I let him take control and guide us, I was too tired to navigate. When we got to the hostel I took a shower and went to get a cup of coffee. Right as I finished said cup of coffee, I decided that maybe I should try to sleep a little bit more before going out and exploring. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went up to my dorm room and tried to sleep, but due to the caffeine intake I couldn’t, so I sat and made a plan of attack for the day and how to execute it. I started off going to the Sergei Paradjanov Museum. I didn’t know much about him going in, but along the way I found out that he was born to Armenian parents in Tbilisi, Georgia in 1924. From there things started clicking. This winter I saw some of one his films on TV with my host parents, who could not stop raving about how he was such an amazing director. To be honest it was more me, sitting reading a book on my laptop, trying to ignore it. I don’t care for watching movies that aren’t in English without subtitles for the first time. (I’m currently downloading three of his films to watch, I was so inspired by the museum I <b><i>need</i></b> to see them now.) I also questioned my host families taste in entertainment ever since the first week I was there and they made me watch a Candid Camera Russian type show, except the whole point was girls surprising people by exposing parts of their nude bodies and thinking it was the best things ever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His artwork took the form of mostly collage, photomontage, assemblage, and readymades that were amazing examples of Dadaism. The subject matter used a lot of children's toys, photos of loved ones, and political objects. I loved wandering through the small building, waiting to see what was around the next corner, however it is also a place that I would not want to be if I was on psychotropic drugs. I admire Paradjanov, for still pursing his art, even though the Soviet Union did not look kindly upon him for it and imprisoning him numerous times, because he did not conform to the socialist realism style that was acceptable for that time period. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I spent about an hour and a half there and admission was only 700AMD (about $1.70) Super score for a budget traveler. I also couldn’t help myself and had to buy a magnet for 1000AMD ($2.41) and five pictures for 200AMD each ($.48) that I am going to put around my room and look at when I am lacking artistic motivation to create something.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I left the museum and decided that it was too hot, close to 100ºF, to eat a heavy lunch so I stopped and bought a half pound of cherries($.35, thats right I spent 35 cents on them) and a diet coke. I walked to a park near the opera house and people watched while I ate. I also pulled out my camera and did some stealth photography of people waiting to cross the road. (I know I am a creep sometimes.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After I was doing having my lunch time fun I went to the Cafesjian Museum of Contemporary Art. The outside building its self is impressive and a work of art, made to look like a cascade. I made my way inside and bought my ticket for 1000AMD ($2.41) and was told that I could take picture of certain exhibits. I road about seven escalators to the top, to Star Landing, for the Swarovski Crystal Palace exhibition. All of the art installations were beautiful and showed a range of things that could be done with the material, which of course was Swarovski Crystals.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I then went down to the Eagle Gallery, which currently has ‘Yerevan Collectors’ Choice’ on display. I was really struck by some of the artwork in this gallery. All of it was by Armenian artists that I had never heard of before, and even googling them now, it is hard to find more information on them. I was really pleased that the only other person in the room with me was the guard, so I could stay lost in though, gazing, while he silently strolled around playing on his phone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next gallery I went to was the Eagle Garden Gallery, with ‘In the Mind of the Collector’ on display. Mr. Cafesjian, collected things that one may not normally call art, but when taking a different view point it is easy to see that some could argue they are. I had a slightly giddy feeling in this portion of the museum, as they had a 1906 Model N Ford Runabout, a Wabash steam locomotive, and an electric advertising automaton of a baton twirling girl who was dressed in red, white, and blue. It made me nostalgic for America and proud at the same time to see this items so far away from where they had come from on display. (I did, however, find the automaton very creepy.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The museum also has a beautiful three panel mural, painted by Grigor Khanjyan, that tells the story of Armenia’s history. I found it made me want to learn more about the history of the country, as there are famous people throughout the ages painted into it. This is clearly a nation of people who are extremely proud to be who they are, even through all the invasions and hardships.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over all I thought it was a great collection of Armenian art and art from around the world. It is well worth a visit, if you ever find yourself in Yerevan, but between my art intake and the heat, it was time for me to take a break and go to a cafe. I went to one that was still in sight of the museum and had Turkish coffee and something that I don’t know what it is called, but I have a picture of it for your viewing pleasure. I can tell you that it was delicious and well worth the $3 I spent.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That night I went to the main square to have dinner at a roof top restaurant. (yes I was living the high life.) It was nice to be a little above the city to get a breeze and a little relief from the heat. I ordered chicken with orange sauce and I had completely forgotten that meat doesn’t always have bones in it. (If you’ve lived in Georgia you know what I am talking about.) After dinner was done I went down to the fountain in the main square, where they put on a show from 10-11pm every night in the summer months. I stood and looked up as water sprayed up into the sky along to classical music and changing color. It looked like upside down fireworks. I stayed for a few songs, but I was ready to go to bed after my full and eventful day in Yerevan.</span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-40824684469342779452012-06-14T13:45:00.000-07:002012-06-14T13:45:09.519-07:00Midnight Train to Georgia!... I Mean From Georgia to Yerevan<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Yesterday afternoon I left my village, crying a sea of tears with my co-teachers and villagers. My host mother dropped me off at the bus stopped and wished me well and told to call when I come back in September. I road an empty, over heated marshookah to Tbilisi and dragged my massive suitcase up four flights of stairs in 95º humid heat to my apartment. I sat in my kitchen making myself drink as much water as possible to stay hydrated. I took a shower, packed my backpack, and headed to the train station to catch my 20:20 overnight train from Georgia to Yerevan, Armenia. I decided to fit a trip in to here at the end of the semester and before I leave for Denmark a few months ago. Other volunteers have raved about it and I have been sent to explore the country, by a friend from back in Maine who has roots here and yes I am talking about Kim Kardashian. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I decided to take this trip alone, as a lot of my friends in Georgia had already been, most of them when I was enjoying Christmas holidays in Ukraine and galavanting around the Baltic during Easter holidays. Armenia is one of those countries that most Americans wouldn't even know where it is on the map, let alone have been too. (It is surrounded by Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Iran.) I have also been told about Armenia’s rich Christian past, the genocide that it’s neighboring country Turkey still calls an “unfortunate accident while trying to relocate some Armenians” (right into a desert), and culture in general. I cannot comment on any of this yet, because in my blog world I am just getting onto a train in Tbilisi.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had the choice of 1st, 2nd, or 3rd class accommodations on the train and I went with 3rd “for the adventure” as I put it when I was buying my ticket. My moron of a friend said that sounded like something a rich person would say and I just glared. 3rd class comprises of the train car to have open sleeping compartments. It is also how most of the population travels, as it is the cheapest. I also find it the most fun and authentic and I am cheap. I had traveled in it, almost three years ago in Ukraine and it was terrifying, mostly because I was hungover, cold, and very confused as to why I was given a bed, when I was suppose to make it to Lviv before midnight. I later met some Peace Corps volunteers who could not believe that I was sold a ticket for it, even them who spoke the langue had a hard time managing to wrangle one as they where foreign. I had to go to two ticket counters to be offered it in Georgia. It is also generally safer as a woman traveling alone, because it’s less likely that someone will attack you in a train full of nosey grandmothers, rather then a small compartment like in 1st or 2nd class. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got to the train platform I was greeted by my train car captain, if you will who, I quickly learned only spoke Russian, no Georgian, which I continued to use when speaking to him for the whole ride. I didn't care if he didn't know what I was saying by speaking Georgian, someone around my would and translate. He showed me to my bed and asked to see my passport. He was so pleased to see that I was an American he pinched my cheek and came back a short while later with some warm pear Fanta to share with me. (Yummy! nothing like warm soda!) I suspected he was a little drunk, but I could have been wrong. My cabin partner was a 21 year-old Georgian boy who scoffed when I told him I was from the Lagodekhi region. Apparently he had, had a bad football (soccer) match with them a while back. In spite of that we got along quite well, talking a little in Georgian and he even tried to share his hotdogs with me that he dipped in sour cream. I declined those, oddly enough some ended up on the floor. We also shared a huge dislike for the fact that our window could not open, due to the massive boxes of apples on the bunks above our beds that were blocking them. Apparently to offset the fact that not many people travel from Georgia to Armenia, they pack the train full of produce and other things like bricks of sugar. (Or at least I believe it was sugar and not cocaine.) We also made fun of our captain in Georgian because he couldn't understand!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We road for a few hours, me talking on the phone and watching the newest Nurse Jackie and some Portlandia, until our lovely captain told us to get out our passports. My Georgian friend took mine when I put it on the table and examined all of my stamps. I told him of my love of Lviv when he saw all of the ones for Ukraine. He told me that he would like to have an American passport. Well, yes, wouldn’t we all Georgie? The Georgian border guards came and collected them all and gave them back about an hour later with fresh stamps. We rode on for about another 45 minuets, until we got to the Armenian border crossing. (Why it takes that long, we may never know.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before the train stopped the captain came to collect me, because I had to leave the train to get off and get a visa, being American. We stood by the door, waiting for the train to stop. He smoked a cigarette, while asking where I was from and touching my color tattoo. (I’ve gotten use to that this past six months. No female here has a tattoo, let alone a color one.) When we stopped a solider escorted me the length of the train, where we met up with a few other travelers from Italy, Greece, and Holland who had opted to the 1st and 2nd class accommodations. We were taken into a small brightly lit, room where I tried to fight off sleep as it was close to midnight. I filled out a form about where I was going in Armenia and for how long. All the usual paper work. I did make a few mistakes that I crossed out, hoping they wouldn’t make me start all over again. I just wanted to sleep. They processed the people from Netherlands and the Greek. When it was my turn the guard started trying in my information and the captain showed up. He started yelling in Russian about me having a Georgian passport and they shouldn’t be holding me this long. I should have been done by now. I looked at the guard shocked, and told him that I live in Georgia, working as a teacher, but under no circumstances do I have a Georgian passport. I was an American and that was the only passport I have ever had. They understood that my dear captain was mistaken, and shuffled him out of the room. The Italian just looked at me and asked what the hell had just happened. I shrugged and said he was crazy or drunk. I was then asked to pay 3000 dram ($8) and I asked if I could pay in American. The bored guard then decided to have some fun with me and tell me that I could only pay in Armenian money. I am sure I looked like I was going to cry, because then he told me that I could pay with it. I only had $20, so I paid for the Italian too and he gave me Armenian money back. I was given a visa sticker, that was printed out on a computer printer and lead into a second room, that apparently no one else had to go to, where due to my bad eye sight I could not see what was being done on the computer. I am going to thank the captain for this. I am sure they were checking that there was no way I had ever had another passport. (If anyone wants to give me an EU one I wouldn’t say no, but seriously, <i>seriously</i> Georgian? What would I ever use that for?) </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mhaha! They gave it to me!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was escorted from the room and told I could go back on the train. When I got on, it looked like a war zone. The customs agents had torn the place up looking for contraband. When I got back to my compartment, I found my counter part with his empty duffle bag, stuffing all of his football gear back into it. (He was on his way to Armenia to play.) Panicking I looked to see if they had touched my bag, my friend shook his head, they hadn’t. All they would have found anyways was some clothes, my laptop, make up, and some odds and ends. I just don’t like people touching my stuff without me present. They did however go into my carryon food bag and they touched my crackers. Bastards. (Still going to eat them!) Everyone in the train looked a little shaken and annoyed. I decided to go to bed. I didn’t care if they were still on the train, I wanted to go to bed and they could wake me up if they had any questions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I tossed and turned all night on the hard bed. I woke up at sometime near dawn to a woman crouched down by my bag. I started to freakout, but then she pulled out what I think was a pack of diapers, that she had hidden from the customs agents in a corner for whatever reason. I didn’t care about her illegal activities, I just wanted to get some more sleep. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was happy when the train ride ended a few hours later, finally in Yerevan and very ready to start my summer vacation. Even though it was another crazy night train ride, they always seem to be the most memorable. Whether it be one from Hamburg to Amsterdam where I trick a Swede into thinking that I had never had salt licorice before so he gives me some to see my reaction, or from Lviv to Budapest crying my eyes out in between border checks (did I really need to show you my pack and a half of cigarettes? Not going to let that go.), or having my best friend wake up to find me drunk off of six shots of vodka for breakfast and thinking we should skip putting me on my plane back to America and go fishing with a man in his village in Ukraine instead, on a ride from Lviv to Kiev. My life is far from conventional, but it is highly enjoyable. The real question is how I will fare during my time in Armenia and for that you will have to wait to find out...</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1hT4N5ZOzIBb5tk31T8MioaQSViteFDQTwC9-p8Vy4AOUeIThsNHNL0I4zO_MQuIRTnIA_crcwrAFAaI1bNNirtbqWIrScGRlOPorGyD-HoeENxsnkJNC38V7N5YFcrvsH6xkTvkn-UA/s1600/IMG_5664_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1hT4N5ZOzIBb5tk31T8MioaQSViteFDQTwC9-p8Vy4AOUeIThsNHNL0I4zO_MQuIRTnIA_crcwrAFAaI1bNNirtbqWIrScGRlOPorGyD-HoeENxsnkJNC38V7N5YFcrvsH6xkTvkn-UA/s640/IMG_5664_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I looked so happy with my Ukrainian friend who wanted to take me fishing!</span></td></tr>
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<br /></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-39940424512908868762012-06-12T10:26:00.001-07:002012-06-12T10:28:46.543-07:00Goodbye Shadow<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is sometimes easy for me to forget that Georgia is a developing nation. My host house has all the comforts of my house in America, minus good water pressure and being cold in the winter, but it hasn’t been cold for months now. I spend my weekends in Tbilisi with the ability to get whatever I want, besides good Chinese food. It also comes down to the fact that I have adjusted and adapted to Georgia and nothing seems to be too out of my spectrum of normal. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yesterday I was going through my things, trying to cut down on everything I would have to lug to my apartment in Tbilisi. I decided to part with a box of markers that I had used maybe once to color with and other wise they were keeping my window propped open. I also had some construction paper, nail polish, half a bottle of lotion that I didn’t care for the scent anymore, and a Little Mermaid coloring book that I never got bored enough to color in. I put it in a blue plastic bag and set off to give it to one of my fourth grade students. My co-teacher had told me that her family was very poor, but in the semester that I had known her and her three siblings I had still yet to go inside her house. The children sometimes came to school a little dirty, but what kids aren’t? There clothing was a little warn and they are on the smaller side, but I just attributed it to genetics and nothing else.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I found the her house and no one was outside so I asked the next door neighbor, who yelled and got my students mother outside. I explained that I was looking for one of her daughters. She happily ushered me inside and told me that she would be home shortly. She gave me a small stool to sit on and offered me coffee. I declined and she took a seat on the floor next to an older women, who it was explained to me that she was my students grandmother. A toddler came over and immediately wanted me to hold her and play with her. I scooped her right up in my arms and held her while talking with my students mother about them, my summer and autumn plans, and our families. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had forgotten that I was a curiosity to people, but I was reminded of this. There was a very good chance that I was the first foreigner that they had ever had in their house. They touched my color tattoo and my newly permed hair. I let the toddler wear my nock off Ray Ban sunglasses and she screamed when they were taken away. They all wanted me to take their pictures with my camera.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I looked around the small house that was made up of four rooms. The wallpaper had come off in large chunks. There were cracks all over the walls and even a hole in the corner by the floor that I could see out of. The TV was partially melted on the side, with wires coming out, but it was still functional. In this hot weather the deterioration was not a massive issue, but I could only imagine the how cold the house got in the winter when the wind blew through the cracks. I did not count enough beds for every family member. There wasn’t that many possessions. A few old toys scattered around the house. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My student came home with her two older sisters, the eldest questioned her mother why I didn’t not have coffee and I said I didn’t want any. I gave my student the bag of things I had brought and she way beyond excited looking at everything. I explained that I was going away for the summer and I didn’t want these things anymore. She put everything back in the bag and kept a death grip on it, politely stating that it was hers. She told her mother though that she could have the lotion, which I had to explain what it was and how to use it. They loved the smell of it. I felt bad thinking of all the Bath and Body Works products that I have back in the States that if I had here I would give them, not just a half bottle of lotion. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My student then decided that she wanted to paint my nails with a bottle of nail polish I had also given her. She did one pinky and got half on my finger, which her mother fixed and then asked me to do the rest. I sat painting my nails while the whole family watched and they all told me how pretty they looked when I had finished. The mother disappeared and came back with a bar of soap that she tried to give to me and I explained to her that my bag that I was taking to Australia this summer was really small. She came back with a pair of silver hoop earrings, telling me that these could fit into my bag. I didn’t want to take anything away from them because of how little they have, but I couldn’t keep saying no. I also was given a cup of coffee around the same time. I let my student put my new earrings on me, which was a little painful at one point, but I kept a smile plastered to my face. I didn’t want her to get in trouble for “hurting” the American teacher. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My student’s sister who is in fifth grade and super smart sat translating between her mother and I. She is easily one of the best, if not the best student I have. She always finds time to do her homework and study, even though she has to help her mother around the house and I don’t mean choirs that a child is given. I’ve been told she takes care of the cows, which is amazing to me that this small 12 year old girl could handle not just one cow, but numerous ones. She also watches her younger siblings. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Their mother excuses herself, because she had to go tend to the eggplant, which is their source of income. My student and I went for a walk around her part of the village. I live on one of the two main streets and she lives further out, by the border of Azerbaijan. She held my hand with one of her hands and in the other her blue bag. She took me around, showing me where her grandmother lived, which looked like a house even smaller then her own. She said hello to everyone that we passed, happy to show that she was with me. She slipped on mud at one point and almost went down, but we just started laughing. During our walk tears came out of my eyes a little bit, knowing that I was leaving this week and thinking back on the semester spent with her and all of our misadventures. I love being her friend, but being her teacher drives me nuts. She can’t sit still and doesn’t do any of the work, then again she also is lacking books and other supplies. Despite that she has still picked up some English, not nearly as much as her sister though. We started to walk one way, but there was a goose and when she saw it she decided to turn around and go back towards her house. I didn’t blame her, those things can be horribly mean. There is one I pass everyday on my way to school that chased me a few months back and I look at it and think <i>if you try anything again, so help me God, I am going to kill you and cook you for dinner</i>. I pretend to not notice her fear and she ignored my tears. We were even. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We went back to her house and broke in the Little Mermaid coloring book. I got one page, she got the opposite. She asked me what color she should use on everything, never once questioning my choice. We did this for a bit and then I announced that I should go home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On my walk back to my house I thought about the difference I had made in some of my students lives this semester and even though I will be in Tbilisi teaching next autumn it doesn’t mean that I will forget about this school or stop trying to give back to my former students and their families. I am already planing a list of things to purchase over my summer holidays to bring back to them when I visit. I feel that just because my fellow volunteers and I move on to do new things, that we should not sever our ties with our old schools. We could assume that another volunteer will eventually come along to fill our place and pick up where we left off, or we can continue to make a difference, even from afar, not leaving things to chance. </span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-66492399688993176642012-06-07T11:56:00.001-07:002012-06-07T11:56:19.002-07:00Six Months: I was Feeling Sad, Can't Help Looking Back<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I came to Georgia six months ago I kept reminding myself that anything was possible here, I just had to give things a chance. My grandfather told me right before I left, that if I didn’t like it over here, then I come right back home and no one would think less of me. I’ve used that advice this whole time, but I’ve modified it to if I don’t like a situation, then get out of it or change it. I have grown in my time spent over here so far. Physically I am still pretty much the same, but I have a different outlook on life that will probably only be intensified when I return to the western world. I will be leaving my village and Georgia next Friday and won’t return until late August, except for about 48 hours in late June when I get home from Armenia and then go to Denmark and less then 24 hours in mid-July when I go from Denmark to Australia. It is safe to say I don’t want to leave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Georgia has become this cozy crazy little bubble, that I am in love with. Last Saturday morning I was sitting around the breakfast table in my new apartment in Tbilisi, talking to a guy who had slept over and one of my roommates about the ‘bath salts’ drug in the States and all the zombie cannibal people. They hadn’t heard much about it and I explained it to them, after some Googling, and the guy started talking about how he was glad that if stuff like this was going on in Ohio, he could always come back to Georgia where he knew what to expect. I agree with him on that front. Sure Georgians aren’t the healthiest people, they like to drink, smoke cigarets, and eat food that gives them diabetes and makes their teeth fallout, but you won’t find a nation of pill popping addicts for every little hick-up. They value family and children more then any nation I have ever been to. You can have a million dollars, but if you are single with no children your life is not complete. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This country is also really confusing sometimes. My host family will comment on the size of my butt and say that it’s gotten a little big lately and maybe I should do some sport to get rid of it in the morning. At lunch they will be shoving food and sweets down my throat. The best thing I remember when I told my host mother that I was on a diet, she would even put me on the scale every few days to make sure I was loosing weight, and one day she asked if I wanted strawberries and came back with some covered in heaps of sugar and ice cream. I just shook my head and ate them, and promptly got a sugar headache. I also was told not to drink at school because my host mother did not want my director to think less of me, well it’s a little hard to say no when he is the one pouring you shots of liquor. Drinking in school, while working is also another conundrum, but when it Georgia, do as the Georgians, right?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve had my moments where I broke down crying over silly things, like squat toilets. I’ve also had my moments of breaking down crying over thinking that I was a I was a bad teacher because I couldn’t make students care or learn English. In that moment I had to remember that I was not just there to teach English, but teach about my culture. One of my best teaching moments so far was when my co-teacher had to leave early one day and I watched Katy Perry’s “Firework” music video with my fourth graders. A student who never speaks, because of how shy she is in class started using her limited English to talk to me about the video and share her personality with me. I also have a third grade boy who two months ago wouldn’t even look at post cards of Maine that I was showing him, but again my co-teacher was absent one day, and I had him participate in all of our activities that day. (My co-teacher normally ignores him. It’s common to do this with “slow” children in post Soviet countries.) He now looks at me and says hello and goodbye when he sees me. It may not seem like much, but it is huge for him. Now in school I want to stop and give all my students hugs, as I only have a week left with them, most still don’t know I will be teaching two hours away in Tbilisi this fall.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This morning at breakfast my host mum wanted to get my schedule for the last week here straight and I started crying and have found myself crying all day at random times. Just like any family I have had my issues with them, but I can safely say that when I came back this April from two weeks away in the Baltic it was fantastic to see them, despite all the jet leg and just wanting to sleep. I even let my host dad drunkly stroke my hair and tell me how I was his “American girl,” in a completely drunk proud dad kind of way. I have had my moments where my host mom opens the door for drunk me at midnight after a night of beers with the village guys my age, and just like my mother back in America, she tells me to go to bed and then makes fun of me for it for the next week. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve fallen in love with someone that was completely off my radar, until it had happened. Relationships aren’t meant to last in the long term here in my eyes. They are meant to be savored and relished in every way in the long moment we have shared. I find myself enjoying small things with him. A day gone awry can be fixed with a bad joke or an immatation. The first weekend spent in a new apartment is made a little less lonely, even when getting nudged awake for have fallen asleep, because I was sick the day before, and had started snoring. Through him, I have gotten a deeper look into who I am, what I want in life, and I am able to laugh at myself. I know next semester without him will be hard, not being a free phone call away, but everything works out the way God, or the flying spaghetti monster, wants it to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I know this next week will be filled with hard goodbyes and tears, but I am ready for it. I have already cried in the rain at 3am, in the middle of a street closed for construction in Tbilisi to one of my friends about how I didn’t want this semester to end and it is true. I do not want this semester to end. I know I have at least one more here, but this is an end to an epic chapter in my story. I also know that if I don’t continue to take chances, like coming to Georgia, experiences like this would not be possible and I can’t let the past hold me back from enjoying my future.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For the past six months I have had people continually telling me how proud they are of me and everything I am doing, but in all honestly I am proud of my family and close friends for caring enough about me to let me go and support me during this time. I’ve gotten enough Facebook messages and texts demanding that I come back to Maine to know that I am not only missed, but loved. I also know that anywhere in the world I have a friend singing Snow Patrol’s <i>You Could Be Happy</i> to me and I am happy, despite all the tears and goodbyes. Life is about living, and you can’t know how happy you truly are unless you have some sadness to measure it against.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Do the things</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">That you always wanted to</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Without me there to hold you back</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Don't think, just do</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">More than anything</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I want to see you go</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Take a glorious bite</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Out of the whole world</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-73582031894834375242012-05-28T11:22:00.000-07:002012-05-28T11:22:05.609-07:00Georgia's Independence Day<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="color: #58595b; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">This past Saturday (May 26th) was Georgia’s Independence Day. I was in Tbilisi for the weekend, surprise, surprise right? That morning I woke up really early around 7:30 and sat in bed being productive and downloading all the TV shows from the past week that I hadn’t seen and taking a shower. I packed all my stuff and got moved from the hostel that I normally stay at, to across the hall to an apartment that an exceptionally nice older lady lives in and rents out a mini flat to guests. (Massive bedroom, balcony, and bathroom.) I was stoked about this as it reminded me of flats that I had been in, in Lviv, Ukraine and it was all mine for a night, lumpy bed and all!</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Bathroom<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTTpE1r5Vgiy8gNKgS6Z6sTP4eB3WYx7P4_ioFqyTuGVqQ05JeZbi8yEHTm0inxPlLasLYaCU04jpxDIaVWuq078QGUZMB8CGnhoOXr_prfjy6pxD6T2KZvfZw31gl0ovqNTLtXIWyDXC/s1600/IMG_9654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTTpE1r5Vgiy8gNKgS6Z6sTP4eB3WYx7P4_ioFqyTuGVqQ05JeZbi8yEHTm0inxPlLasLYaCU04jpxDIaVWuq078QGUZMB8CGnhoOXr_prfjy6pxD6T2KZvfZw31gl0ovqNTLtXIWyDXC/s640/IMG_9654.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Tbilisi from my Balcony</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I dropped my bag and went off to get coffee and write a letter to a friend in a cafe. I sat there for a few hours doing that, waiting for one of my friends to get into the city. After I left I walked to McDonlds so I could use the bathroom and get some more coffee, I was feeling exceptionally tired that day and I wanted an excuse to sit on the patio outside and watch a stage that was being put up in the Marjanishvili Square. I sat and took a few pictures and looked at the sky praying that it would not rain yet again. I could not take another wet weekend. (Someone send me a raincoat!) I got a call from my friend saying that he had just gotten into town and that it was hailing where he was. I cursed we made a plan to find our friend, who was phone less, because he was leaving that weekend to go back home and Teach and Learn with Georgia wanted the phone that they had given him back.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I headed to go check the bookstore that he is at a lot and found Rustaveli to be swamped with people as a street carnival was going on. I pushed my way to the bookstore and he was not there so I called my friend and told him to locate him and call me when he did so, until then I would be up here taking pictures. I made my way down the street past booths advertising all sorts of Georgian products, toilet paper, washing powder, amazing strength glass, and water heaters. It was almost like a home show but there was also Borjomi water, Natakhtari beer, and face painting!</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Vender<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Vender</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Vender </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Georgian Performers</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Vender</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I walked towards the Radisson Blu and there was a bunch of military equipment that children could get their picture taken with. I cannot began to tell you what the names of everything were. A tank, an airplane maybe? I found it a little odd that children could pose next to rocket launchers and there was a massive display of guns in glass cases, but I am sure somewhere in America does the same thing and if Tbilisi was going to be invaded on that day I think I would have been safe. I also enjoyed looking at the fit military men and then groups of over weight police officers, standing together smoking cigarettes. It was easy to pick which men in uniform I liked better. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was a small classical Georgian music concert being played and I stopped to listen and talk pictures, until my friend called to say that he had located the other friend. (He was at the hostel.) The afternoon was spent eating lobiani, sitting around drinking Georgian wine and enjoying each other’s company, until it was time to meet up with some other people for dinner.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tNFrDAvdsOvf_xDK1mS1HMK4dCb7DfCTfWSQm5sU1f9BgqAboPPFTn7q2HlH7zbJwEFesq0SRdefsBPjCcFTo-eU998PcMENUnHNUuicl6cdIzXrMvQaetHLw2glIVH7EHBCeL0g9ynO/s1600/IMG_9635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tNFrDAvdsOvf_xDK1mS1HMK4dCb7DfCTfWSQm5sU1f9BgqAboPPFTn7q2HlH7zbJwEFesq0SRdefsBPjCcFTo-eU998PcMENUnHNUuicl6cdIzXrMvQaetHLw2glIVH7EHBCeL0g9ynO/s640/IMG_9635.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Conductor </td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Since it was the end of the month, meaning we still hadn’t been paid, and our friend was leaving Georgia, and because of the holiday we decided that Georgian food would be the most appropriate for the occasion and the cheapest. We sat talking about future plans, for those of us who this was our last semester here and reminisced over times spent here. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After dinner, the rest of the group wanted to go for beers and I made a lame accuse that I didn’t feel well and wanted to go home. I really just wanted more Emily time. I walked down Marjanshvili and stopped at a store to get an ice cream and some water. I made my way eating my ice cream and suddenly realized in my wine haze that a massive concert was going on. It was around 11pm and I was sure it would be over by now. I was wrong. I stood and watched some Georgian dancing for a bit and made my way through the masses. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got back to my apartment and was greeted by the pleasant woman asking if I had seen the concert, which blared from her TV and could heard from an open window and I explained to her that I just came from there. She asked if I would like any coffee or tea and I told her no thank you. I got my PJ’s on and opened a window and laid down on my lumpy bed. I was awoken around midnight (15 minuets later or so) to the sound of fireworks. I went to my balcony and stood watching. I couldn’t remember the last time I watched them. I oohed and aahed over it, enjoying my privet moment alone soaking up the experience of the end of my first Georgian Independence Day, glade that I hadn’t stayed with my friends, drinking and missing out on this.</span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-63259595200133939242012-05-21T10:43:00.000-07:002012-05-21T10:43:18.419-07:00Super Supra: My Host Father's Birthday<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">This past March my host dad had a birthday on the 7th. The preparations started on the Sunday (the 4th) and continued up until the last minuet. There was a small army of people who came to help. They tried to put me to work, but I ended up being one of the worst Georgian cooks ever and banished myself to my room. Animals were slaughtered, vegetables were peeled and chopped, and bread was baked. Women gossiped in hush tons as they worked and men drank and did the heavy lifting.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As the sun started to set on the day of the supra, everyone showered and changed into their party clothes. The videographer and the DJ showed up. I greeted people that I knew as they came in and took photos. People commented on the grandness of the whole thing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I took my seat with the teachers from my school on one side of me and my host parent’s granddaughter on the other, as I was her favorite American at the party. My host mother had given me instructions to not drink, because the director of my school was present. The people I teach with, thought I should do other wise, and I did. I was told to eat, and eat, and eat. I seat hopped all night visiting with everyone I had come to know in the past six weeks. A woman handed me what I thought was a glass of wine and I downed it like a good little Georgian, it was liquor. I made a face and everyone laughed. Emily the entertainer had showed up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was told to Georgian dance multiple times and stupidly agreed. There is video of it that I still have to burn. I got asked to dance with the village’s most eligible bachelor, while his mom and most people who live here watched. I felt like I was at a middle school dance again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The supra had started around 7pm and I finally excused myself to pass out around midnight. The next few days were spent having smaller supras to use up the left over mounds of food and cleaning up. Even having spent a couple of years catering I think this beats any $200,000 weddings I have been to. That night I really felt like I was a part of my village community and it’s nights like that, that make me love Georgia and everything about it.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Hundreds and Hundreds of Plates</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mushrooms<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Host Dad With his Favorite Village Baby, Saba, on the Morning of his Birthday</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Setting a Table</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neighbors Waiting for the Supra to Start</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My School Director</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Host Dad's Daughter (left) and her Friend</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Videographer </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Hhyphenhyphen4w9gz8qqJB2KSwmds4UTQDEzBiXQZ272agWK6cI-AGT-EjflI3kXy7FOY_xX34PNa67pHb8qbtTpGrtvtNxZWIO8Kq2YkyG9blFvMKnasWjI8uAUKJkFqZB2QKdm26zL1d6sdgW1U/s1600/IMG_8505_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Hhyphenhyphen4w9gz8qqJB2KSwmds4UTQDEzBiXQZ272agWK6cI-AGT-EjflI3kXy7FOY_xX34PNa67pHb8qbtTpGrtvtNxZWIO8Kq2YkyG9blFvMKnasWjI8uAUKJkFqZB2QKdm26zL1d6sdgW1U/s640/IMG_8505_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gem of the Woman Who Gave me Liquor, Not Wine. (Adopting Her and She is Moving to America with Me.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and My Future Georgian Husband ♥</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-28153909262068420022012-05-20T05:38:00.000-07:002012-05-20T05:38:12.442-07:00Because This Problem Is Going To Last More Than The Weekend: Part Three<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Last Sunday morning (May 13th) I woke up around 7:30am and looked out the window to blue sky and I thought about the night before when I was sure Tbilisi was going to explode. I got on my laptop and spent some time downloading movies, music, and random TV shows that I will probably never get to watching or listening to, but the thought of having over 250GB of entertainment comforts me. I dealt with some of my friends back home and their drunk Saturday night issues that made me wish that I could be there with them, but I’m half a world away and it’s going to be like this for quite some time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I started to feel a little sad over this and the fact that I was missing Mother’s Day, again. Last year my mother had been mad at me over buying a last minuet ticket to go to Ukraine to see a guy that I missed. My grandfather gave me his blessing so I won that fight and proved my point, but I still felt like shit that she was fuming at me. The year before that I spent working all day at Gap then Bath and Body Works, which spurred me to quit the latter of the jobs. (What store that is dedicated to women makes their employees work after store hours to move bottles of lotion from one tower to another?) I know I was just missing another brunch were, ok food was being served, but being away from Maine for so long now has put in perspective just how important spending time with family is. I was also still a little upset about a stupid fight I had, had the night before.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sat in my bed for the whole morning, trying to save the world back in Maine and write a Mother’s Day blog for Mama Otter. I got a text a little after noon, from the <i>moron</i> Jamie, saying that him and George were heading to one of the main streets in Tbilisi. I read it and threw my phone on to my bed and stayed there typing away, not wanting to be near him. I eventually took a shower and packed all my stuff up as the internet at the hostel was acting up and not wanting to upload my pictures and set off in the direction that the guys were. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got another text asking were the hell I was, as when both of us are in Tbilisi on Sunday mornings we have brunch together and then take the marshookah back to our villages together. I told him that I was on my way. I stopped in my favorite cafe to get a large coffee to go (It tastes like American coffee) and took it to the cafe where they were eating. When I walked in Jamie verbally assaulted me for having a drink from another establishment with me. I just looked at him and said “It’s Georgia, no one gives a fuck.” George just sat on his MacBook doing what ever he was doing, and sided with me that no one probably cared. (No one does. I sat at a bar last night drink vodka from a bottle that I had bought and chasing it with my juice from my “Adult” juice box. It’s half a liter, that’s what makes it adult.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In this cafe you can see into the kitchen where they are making pastries and I spotted their massive meringues that they have. I declared that I was going to get one in honor of Mother’s Day, because Mama Otter loves them and ran as fast as I could to order. I came back to the table with it and started to giggle at it’s sheer size and being over caffeinated. Jamie looked at me in horror as I started to eat and said, “Well there goes your diet!” (I bet him that I can loose a kilo a week for my last six weeks here to shut him up for always making fun of me for being fat.) He kept going on and on about all the sugar in it and how I was basically asking for diabetes at that point. We had a fight over how bad it was and I googled it and declared myself the winner, on what I’m not really sure. I started to feel really sick about a third of the way through and had to put it away and started cursing getting it. Mama Otter would not want me to feel this ill for her, but then again she may have laughed over this and found it funny.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">"Oh haha, so funny! Look at this massive meringue!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">"OM NOM NOM!" </span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We finished up at the cafe and walked George to catch the metro, so he could get his marshookah home. Jamie and I walked to a market to get some food for him and water to wash the sugar out of my mouth. I wasn’t my usual self, joking with him and making fun of everything in sight. I was too nackered and I felt the odd rage coming back again. He confronted me about it and I tried to brush it off and just said that I was tired and didn’t feel well after that stupid Mother’s Day meringue, which was also true, just not the real issue. We were mostly silent on the way to get our marshookah and stayed quite for the first bit of the ride, until I started in again about my friends back home and being sent texts and Facebook messages, asking me to come back to Maine and stay there. Jamie just turned and looked at me and said, “Oh waaaaa! People miss you and want you to come back home. That is just so <i>horrible</i>!” He turned away and looked out the window, leaving me there to think for a moment and wanting to ask wasn’t it the same for him, but I knew the answer. It donned on me that not everyone came to Georgia, for the same reasons as me. Some people left where they were from, because they had nothing left there and when they leave here, some won’t go back to families that missed them, friends that missed drinking with them, or jobs that missed them showing up not matter how hung over they were. I get to go back to all three, whenever I decide that I’ve had enough and want to call Maine my place of residence again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The landscape passed by me in a blur, the marshookah driver seemed to be doing his best to go the fastest he could, which I wasn’t too comfortable with as there had been torrential rains the night before and there had been flooding and roads partially washed out. I did not want to die. I just sat listening to my “girl” music and thinking. I thought about the advice that I had given Jamie earlier in the week, about us all only having five more weeks together until school ends and then we go our separate ways and trying to make the most of it, and enjoy what little time we have left, because even for those of us who come back in the autumn it won’t be the same.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I remember taking my headphones out and looking up and smiling at him. He asked what I was smiling at. I don’t blame him, I usually am up to something, and I told him nothing. It was a quite marshookah ride home that day, no one told us to shut up like they normally do. He read his book and I listened to my music. I caught myself smiling in his direction a few times. I couldn’t be mad at him, just because it felt right to be for some odd reason. I didn’t know how many more rides I would have with him. Saturday morning ones, where he has always saved a seat for me when I get picked up in my village, spent eating peanut M&Ms and Bounty bars and talking and laughing endlessly about our weeks until we get to Tbilisi. Sunday afternoon ones where we are much more silent, tired from Saturday night spent out, dreading the week we will have to spend in our villages, and for me a little bit of dread that I have to say goodbye again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When the marshookah stopped to let me off this weekend I let go of any pointless, meaningless anger that I felt towards him and gave him our usual hug goodbye. I got my bag from the back and walked a little bit and then turned around and saw him giving me a goofy wave and I couldn’t help but smile and be sad at the same time. I only have four or so weekends left of rides with him, if we go into Tbilisi every weekend until then.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Monday night, I took my nightly shower, just standing under the hot water going over what I was going to put in my blog and it hit me, I’m mad at my friend because I don’t want him to go home at the end of June. I don’t want this period of time to come to a close. I’ve already thought about the autumn and how I am going to feel about being able to look and see his town in the distance from mine and if it will sting a little like it does now, out of knowing soon he won’t be there. I think about the new volunteer who will be placed there, if someone is placed there again, and if I will silently hold it against, whoever they are, that they are not him. Trying to push him away with my rage, hoping that it will make the final goodbye not as hard, if he’s mad at me for being mad at him. It’s not working like that, though, he hasn’t stopped caring yet and it’s too hard to stay like this, now fully aware that I am using my old defense tactic of pushing people away by hurting them before they hurt me, especially when all I want is him to give me a hug and tell me that I will be ok, life won’t end in June when school does. I’ll still have him and all my <i>moron</i> friends, they just won’t be as close anymore. It’s not a new concept for me.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-23401589414883039422012-05-17T11:03:00.000-07:002012-05-17T11:05:08.017-07:00Because This Problem Is Going To Last More Than The Weekend: Part Two<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I walked along Rustivli eating my icecream and enjoying the sun. I got a phone call from a woman I had met the night before at the dance concert. Her hostel was near where I was so I stayed put and watched the parade of people. There was one glorious woman who had bleach blond, from the bottle hair, with a red visor that clashed exquisitely. An, also red, halter top that showed off her stomach fat that was no quite big enough to be called a roll, tight hip hugging bootcut jeans that accentuated her muffin top beautifully with white sneakers, maybe knock off Sketchers, and she was screaming in Georgian to her cellphone while people gave her a three meter radius. I could have taken a picture, but I didn’t want her to spot me and rip my head off. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They were setting up a stage and there were policemen all about. I thankfully have gotten over my fear of them, most likely because I can drink on the street and I am not driving so there go all the reasons I would have to talk to one, except to hit on a man in uniform. This also gave me reason to not fear the crazies. They could not hurt me in the percents of this massive police turn out. One guy did come up and try to chat me up, however he may have been trying to tell me that I had chocolate on my face from the icecream. I will never know as I put my headphones in and ignored him.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While sitting there one of the most magnificent men I had ever seen came up and stood next to me. He had a great mustache with black Ray Ban glasses on and smoking his cigarette with a holder. There is nothing I love more then a ginger man (yea, I’m currently in therapy for that) or a hipster, and this good sir was a true hipster. He had that swag, that he didn’t care if anyone thought he was cool, he was going to be his own spectacular self. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stacy showed up right as I was still admiring the man and we set off on a walk to look at souvenirs. I found a pair of metallic earrings that I liked and bought them. She had only been here since the end of February and didn’t know as much of the city as me so I took her on a little tour. On the way we stopped in a store to buy water and made a pit stop at a McDonlds so I could go to the bathroom. We commented on how the place was a zoo, filled with mostly children and there parents and how the prices were too expensive for us poor volunteer teachers to spend on food like that. (Really almost $5 for a Big and Tasty. No thanks!) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We ended up in a park snagging a bench in the shade. She had packets of Crystal Light that she had brought from America and shared one with me after I asked her a few times if she was sure she wanted to give it up as there aren’t things like this in Georgia. We talked of our lives before Georgia and she is one of those awesome people who can admit that it’s not her cup of tea living here, but she still appreciates the experience for what it is and enjoy her time spent here without being bitter, unlike some people feel the need to trash this place every chance they can just because they don’t like it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We soon got a call from my <i>moron</i> friend Jamie, (who I had hung up on in part 1) calling to ask if we would like to meet at a cafe with him and our friend George. We agreed and made our way there. I ordered a small Americano and we sat and chit chatted about how we all knew each other and our past lives for about an hour or so while I Facebooked on my iPod and George downloaded things and read the news on his MacBook. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was then decided that we would go eat at a German restaurant brewhouse near Old Town. It was a big dimly lit place were you could see the beer being made behind glass. For the four of us they brought out one menu. The place at this time was empty and I just sat there muttering that there had to be more then one menu in English. We all ended up ordering a liter of beer, that’s right a liter, each that cost about $3.55. (I really should have taken a picture but I didn’t want my parental units back in the States to think that I need to go to rehab for an alcohol addiction. I was just being economical like you guys taught me!) We debated over what to order and George and I went with the burger. Jamie went with some BBQ chicken thing. Stacy wanted Georgian food and decided to hold off until after this to get her fix. We looked through the starters and settled on getting garlic bread.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the time that we placed our order and got it, a volunteer who was from Vermont showed up. It was nice to be able to talk about some places in Maine with someone, but I was still in a bad mood and after being over seas for so long, it seemed pointless to talk about a place I hadn’t been in almost half a year and wasn’t going to see anytime soon. When our garlic bread came we just started laughing. It was literally chopped garlic on bread. We could have made it better at one of our hostels, but we didn’t so we would just pay a lot for it instead!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our meals came out and I remembering looking over at Jamie’s chicken portion and thinking it was a little on the small side, all he wants to do is eat meat because his host family never feeds it to him, or maybe he had just already inhaled it. My burger came with fries and some kind of cole slaw type salad. The burger had a massive skewer in the middle of it, that I wanted it to stay there, because I was starting to feel the liter of beer kick in and I am a messy eater to began with. Jamie started making fun of me for it and pulled it out when I went to take a bite. I got upset that my burger, the closest thing to one I would have back in America in ages, was going to fall completely apart on my plate, because of him. If the beer tears were to come it would have been his fault. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stacy decided that she wanted some fries and placed an order for them. When they came there was no ketchup and when she requested some, she was asked if she would like sweet or spice. She then asked if the waitress could bring a little of both so we could try them and see which was the best. This amused everyone in our group, but she did have a point, if we were going to pay for it, we might as well get the one we like. (You normally have to pay for condiments here.) I don’t remember which one she went with, the beer was really starting to kick in at that point and I was just happy to have ketchup. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After the beerhall, the Vermonter parted ways with us and we set off to find Stacy’s Georgian food restaurant in Old Town. I was delighted when we got to it and I released that I had been there in December with two of my friends. The four of us sat down and order some mushroom khinkali for Stacy and I and Jamie got the meat one. George was full from his burger and declined. The boys got beer and Stacy and I decided to split a liter and a half pitcher of white wine. (It works out that we each paid about $1.80) There was no wireless here so I was forced to talk to the people I was with. It wasn’t so bad, but I know the word <i>moron</i> kept popping into my head when I would look at Jamie, so I kept drinking more wine to keep my mouth busy from actually saying it. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it was probably a really ridiculous, uncensored, horrible un-politicly correct, drunk mess, but who am I kidding we are too lame to do anything like that. We were coming up with a plan to end world hunger through singing, holding hands and planting flowers and there was no alcohol drank all night.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our food came and my mushroom khinkali, was a bit too oily for my liking and I thought Jamie may not have been as big of a <i>moron</i>, because he went with the meat. We sat and talked some more and to my shock the waitress came with the bill, that never happens in Georgia, unless, wait...they are trying to close and are kicking you out, and we were being kicked out. I was not done with my wine and wanted to stay and chat more, but that is just the way of the world sometimes.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We reluctantly got up and went to the door. The rain that had been sprinkling when we came in had turned into almost an outright monsoon. All of a sudden I didn’t feel so drunk and I did not want to go out into the freezing cold downpour. Jamie called me a sad sack for deciding to call it quits with Stacy and go back to our respective hostels, but this storm was too much to go traipsing around Tbilisi in. The boys stood with us and waited as we got a cab. When we got in the guy was blasting the heat and I thought I would melt in the back seat. Stacy tried telling him where she was going, but he didn’t seem to understand. I, however finally understood why Jamie makes fun of me for having an American accent, because Stacy had one too. My drunk Georgian kicked in and along with it a slightly better accent and I wasn’t afraid to sound like an ass using what ever Georgian I could to get me home as fast as he could drive. I just wanted to sleep. We dropped Stacy off and he drove me to my hostel. I asked him how much it was and he told me 10 lair. My mad Georgian kicked in and he told me it was because of the rain. (It should have been 5 at most.) I used a few choice words and gave him his money. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got out of the taxi the street was flooded a few inches of water and again I cursed. The door to the entry was open, but there was no light on. I found my cell phone and turned on handy flash light and climbed the two flights of stairs up. (I always stay at the same hostel in Tbilisi run by a nice family, in a nice safe building. The stairwell is not some creepy crumbling ruin that I was going to get killed or kidnapped on, mom.) I stood at the door soaking wet and rang the doorbell. The song didn’t play when I pushed the button so I tried again, still no song. Drunk Emily started thinking, <i>hey I’m in Georgia, there is a massive storm, maybe, just maybe the power is out. </i>I located hall light switch on the wall and tested my theory and I was right. I started knocking loudly on the door and gotten let in a little after that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went into my dorm room, which I was the only one staying in and held my cellphone flashlight in my mouth to find my sleeping cloths fast, so I could get my wet ones off. I changed in the bathroom and then came back into my room and drunkly stared out the window, where I could see most of the city, which a lot of the buildings and streets were oddly dark, except for the lightning that lit up the sky every few seconds and constant thunder. I pulled back the curtains so I could watch from my bed. It looked like Tbilisi was under attack. I sent a text to the <i>moron</i> that I had made it back to the hostel safely. I fell asleep fast, not able to believe that he was out drinking in a storm like this. <i>Moron</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">*Later on we found out that the power had been cut to a lot of the city on purpose, so if there was a downed wire and it fell on one of the flooded streets it wouldn’t electrocute anyone. Five people also died in Tbilisi due to flooding that night.</span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-22618916740998283702012-05-15T08:34:00.000-07:002012-05-15T08:36:32.788-07:00Because This Problem Is Going To Last More Than The Weekend: Part One<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Last week was a slightly rough week for me and some of my friends might have even used the word “raging” to describe me. A friend and I were on the phone talking about our weekend plans, he was undecided and I declared that I was going to Tbilisi and I was going alone. If he happened to show up, then <i>awesome</i>, but I did not want to hangout with him or anyone from our group of friends because they were all <i>morons</i>. (I told you I might have been raging.) I then stopped and looked at a calendar to see when exactly had been my last village weekend (when you stay in your village all weekend, normally because you are poor and have no money) and to my shock it was the weekend of March 30th. I had spent 6 weekends in a row, with other people, doing what they wanted to do. They weren’t bad weekends really, one was spent traveling going to a metal concert in Tallinn and then traveling to Riga. Another was spent getting drunk with three British guys in Vilnius who told me that they were all twenty-three, but I <i>know</i> they were nineteen and three Tbilisi weekends. I needed a break and some Emily time.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Friday afternoon I headed into Tbilisi alone, which was a little odd because my friend who lives close to me in my region normally takes the same marshookah in with me, oh every weekend. The ride in was horrible. I had a seat by the door and it started down pouring and the door wasn’t sealed tight so massive water drops started to hit and soak me. I inched as far away as I could from the dripping water, half off the seat, muttering Georgian and English swear words. We came to a stop in a town, shortly after this and a few guys who were sitting in the back were getting out and I had to move for them to do this. The thing is, the person who sits in the seat I was sitting in normally just gets out of the marshookah, let’s the people get off and then gets back in and at this very moment it was raining. The men, being good Georgian men, tried to maneuver me so I would be able to stay inside the dry (HA!) marshookah. I took one look at the space they were trying to get me to go into and one look at my ass and thighs and jumped out of the vehicle. (I really jumped, I am not justing using that word to class up my writing.) Everyone looked a little stunned that the American, with just a dress on, no rain coat (it’s back in Maine) would stand in rain that was coming down so hard someone might as well have pointed a fire hose at me. They got out and I went back in and moved into the back row of seats, where I could dry off, but the bouncing on those dirt roads, had me almost vomiting everywhere. By the time we got to Tbilisi I started to wonder if coming this weekend had really been such a good idea.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Friday night I set off to the Tbilisi Concert Hall, which happened to be where I was going to see a Georgian dance performance. I had scored a ticket from another Teach and Learn with Georgia volunteer off of Facebook. I had never met her, or anyone else in the group of about ten who showed up, but it proved to be most enjoyable as we waited for the performance to start we talked about the basics and what everyone was doing when the semester ends in five weeks, it’s all any of us talk about now.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am going to assume that most of you reading this have never seen Georgian dancing, but let me tell you it is amazing. I can’t describe it so I’ve included a video of one of the dances I saw them do. (You can skip to 5:00 in, if you don’t want to watch it all. It gets really good there.) I sat for most of the performance with a massive grin on my face and the two hours of it flew by. The best part was I only spent about $6.15 on the ticket, very much well worth it. After the show some of us went to Elvis Cafe to get something to eat or drink. We again talked about thing such amazing people like us talk about, like lack of water, or illness. We called it a night around 23:30 and I walked myself back to my hostel.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Saturday I woke up and had a nice hot shower and went out to buy strawberries. Right now they are selling small ones that taste amazing, not like the genetically modified monsters you get in the States. I also may have gotten some lobiani. I went back to the hostel and consumed all of the strawberries in one go, with a cup of crap coffee that I drank half of and then threw out. (Georgia <i>needs</i> Starbucks.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got everything together and set off around 11am for a day of Emily adventures. First on my list was to find the post office. I used the maps app on my iPod to find where it was and it told me that it was only a few blocks away. I set out on foot, sweating not even have walked a block. I got to were the post office was suppose to be and there was a bank. Now I know sometimes in Georgia, not everything is as it seems, but this seemed a little silly, a bank? Really? I double checked my Apple product and the address on the website. Apple had sent me to #144, even though I had put in #44. I kept positive and turned and walked the way I had come. I found number #44 and the post office easily after that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went inside and handed my envelope to the clerk and said that I needed to mail my letter. She asked what was inside. I looked at her and said, “a letter. Paper with writing on it?” <i>Would you like me to open it so you can read it?</i> She looked at it, checking my return address. I was just waiting for her to say I didn’t write a street or a house number on it. <i>I’m sorry I live in a village where we don’t have fancy things like proper addresses, not Tbilisi. </i>She saw that the letter was going to Ukraine and then started to speak Russian to me. <i>Dear god woman, I was just talking to you in my crap Georgian and my exceptional American English, why ruin a good thing? </i>I handed her my 4.90GEL to mail it and I am just assuming my letter will get there, but if it doesn’t I’ll only have myself to blame because I didn’t get it insured.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before the weekend started I asked myself what was missing from my life and might put me in a better mood. My answer was street photography. If there is one thing I love it is capturing people when they don’t know I am there. This was number two on my task of Emily adventures. I just strolled to a park taking photos along the way. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was on a mission to find a skate park from a Georgian movie I had seen back in March. When I got there it was full of children on skateboards, bikes and rollerblades, not university students like I had hoped for, but they proved to be worthy subject matter.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the park there also was a demonstration against cutting down some trees there. The workers were just sitting around waiting to use their chain saws and the people who were saving the lives of these poor defenseless trees stood around. I took my pictures, shrugged my shoulders and walked away.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I made my way to the Doll and Puppet Museum, which was Emily adventure number three for the day. I walked in the open door and the man at the ticket counter told me they were closed. I walked out and didn’t even ask for an explanation. It’s Georgia. I called my friend who had come into Tbilisi, the one who I said I didn’t care if he came or not, and told him I was done with my adventures for the day. He asked how the Puppet Museum was (he detests the idea of it, probably scared by them,) and I told him it was closed. He asked why and I said, “immatom” which mean ‘because’ in Georgian. He wanted an explanation but when you say immatom, we all know it really means ‘because it is Georgia and that is just the way things are so stop asking.’ At that point I had forgotten why I had called him in the first place, remembered that he was in fact a <i>moron</i>, and realized that I wanted icecream, so I hung up on him.</span></div>
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I felt like I should also share the song that this post title comes from.</div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-80644857578397352992012-05-13T04:08:00.000-07:002012-05-13T04:08:07.386-07:00However Far Away, I Will Always Love You<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can't spend this mother's day with my mom because I am away in Georgia, still, and I can't buy her something like dirt this year, she gardens, but I still wanted her to know how much I love her, so I came up with 17 reasons and I also wanted to share some of my best moments from the past year</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XSUai0dugye_xKktavDji500Nr7HugyJPg8nIC2VjgBy_1n5Z-9J-hSGuXVRiAPA5gY2mHZ4qGW4mAzqN52JHpgAiOkO-NtbT5BIyBbBO5sexGsyVxSTkzV8SIf0Os6ljJ8I6YHTNVzz/s1600/149569_10150325989270647_680975646_16237092_3908805_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XSUai0dugye_xKktavDji500Nr7HugyJPg8nIC2VjgBy_1n5Z-9J-hSGuXVRiAPA5gY2mHZ4qGW4mAzqN52JHpgAiOkO-NtbT5BIyBbBO5sexGsyVxSTkzV8SIf0Os6ljJ8I6YHTNVzz/s640/149569_10150325989270647_680975646_16237092_3908805_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom and I. (Yes she is wearing an eyepatch. We were at an eye patch party!)</td></tr>
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<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She is completely honest with me a lot of the time, if I can deal with her criticism I can take anything. “You are going to work dressed like that?!” “Why the hell did you that to your hair?” “</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She supports my leisurely approach to finishing higher education, she knows I will get there, I just have to do it my way.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Everyday I thank her for “cutting me off” at a young age and making me pay for everything I wanted to buy so I learned not to depend on someone else, which in turn made me a hard responsible worker... Most of the time.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">She is really cuddly.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I’m happy she never let me have a pet lived a long time (I got fish) so it’s one less thing to miss when I travel, she did however get my a little brother, I guess that’s like a dog.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Teaching me how to cook. I am so happy that I am not one of those kitchen spazes. Also on the same note I love all of her delicious cooking experiments, except the fish ones.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Having amazing confidence and not caring what people think if it means embarrassing one of her children or making someone laugh. Like when Ben & Jerry’s came out with the flavor “Schweddy Balls” and she went around to at least one grocery store a day for a week asking loudly “ DO YOU HAVE ANY SCHWEDDY BALLS?” </span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Teaching me that family is one of the most important things in the world, not matter how dysfunctional.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Reading with me when I was little from books with strong females, people from different cultures and with good morels that allowed my imagination to explode and me to dream.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Being there for me when a “stupid boy” was mean to me.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Even living half way around the world I can count on her to always be there for me for everything from asking if she watched last nights Glee, shipping me random things, or calling her in a panic because I am afraid that I am making homemade macaroni and cheese for my roommate wrong.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Letting me have the friends I want to and always welcoming them at house, but scarring the crap out of them at times, so they won’t stay forever.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Packing anti-diarrhea pills, even though I thought it was really stupid. I thank her silently every time I have to use them. I live in Georgia, you are going to need them.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> She loves Adele as much as me, making road trips much more successful without me having to sit with my headphone jammed in my ears and my hoodie pulled up trying to block out her music.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Letting me be my own person and make my own way in the world, even when I am sure she questions if I even have a “plan.” Although I sometimes wish she hadn’t let me be my own person when it came to spelling.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Making me understand from a young age that other people have feelings and that it is unacceptable to bully or belittle them for any reason.</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Supporting me in all my travels, even if she doesn’t agree with some of the places I go, because in the end it makes me happy and able to grow in ways that we both could have never imagined. In the past year I have spent half of it away from her in, in Georgia, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and a night in London, traveled countless hours on planes, trains, and buses accomplishing things I don’t think she could have even dreamed of when I was born. It is a massive credit to her parenting (and my father’s) that I am, where I am today. Without her I wouldn’t have a best friend and a constant source of support. I know that whenever I do end up back in Maine she will be there to welcome me with a hug, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and a hot bath to wash off all my travel grime. You can say that you have the best mom in the world, but I don’t believe you, not one bit, because she is mine and you can’t have her. I love you mom!</span></span></li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating Georgiana nutritious meal in the main square in Lviv (May 2011)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbyes at the train station in Lviv after volunteering at a film festival. (May 2011)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My adopted Ukrainian grandfather I met on a train that wanted to take Chad and I to his village for a fishing weekend. (May 2011)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I got to see London (End of May 2011)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Who is this pretty lady? I think it's her birthday! (June 2011)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYZSQ2JWTsEqGzDEJM1haJC2e922NPEesyzRUES7kzqcj-DsNwM86FBYXlKZNJSwHWp9KJt_a22c8H4TxSKMylg7u4S4-eq8o_BtkUBzHK3Y1oB41vmZaiNc3K45HnbTElQvgvfaiX18j/s1600/IMG_6097_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYZSQ2JWTsEqGzDEJM1haJC2e922NPEesyzRUES7kzqcj-DsNwM86FBYXlKZNJSwHWp9KJt_a22c8H4TxSKMylg7u4S4-eq8o_BtkUBzHK3Y1oB41vmZaiNc3K45HnbTElQvgvfaiX18j/s640/IMG_6097_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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Yea I'm pretty badass taking my little brother out to dinner (July 2011)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCeIEVjQaTMro1uFZBdTUwudwRFGzSFX4NRLnMck7Z06TYPMFrAgM7pZOY1XEe0Do8HiO-jUXXwJHKh4f3FkpRGt_jKSIabzIO-hsKwHpgxEwEi-IG_G53-8bu41IMVfOIlEfh9e5E5WB/s1600/IMG_6112_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCeIEVjQaTMro1uFZBdTUwudwRFGzSFX4NRLnMck7Z06TYPMFrAgM7pZOY1XEe0Do8HiO-jUXXwJHKh4f3FkpRGt_jKSIabzIO-hsKwHpgxEwEi-IG_G53-8bu41IMVfOIlEfh9e5E5WB/s640/IMG_6112_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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He's a badass in training. (July 2011)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTRt3q6dKIhKxdTxvVPS6rYjVYn05EjPUhtuWSihOJvxliuH_rVogeLPC8oSJyrqm4SGZRazGkjkQ2Zua6X3oMKopAdB0-t1kmlBqmC8XtqdGroix5hfOMAhAZadld3B-LbwMkmbcOHn8/s1600/IMG_6261_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTRt3q6dKIhKxdTxvVPS6rYjVYn05EjPUhtuWSihOJvxliuH_rVogeLPC8oSJyrqm4SGZRazGkjkQ2Zua6X3oMKopAdB0-t1kmlBqmC8XtqdGroix5hfOMAhAZadld3B-LbwMkmbcOHn8/s640/IMG_6261_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Lunch at Benny's (September 2011)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdif_P5UMeicGjs-ClnygkAohAJsvN2jXbu6n3_hwnbHVdZqysBep4pqAjsollBTzk2NV8ISCd2fzP-Oft_f-Dn-B_bMZrO_7hzk06V-WABxegjrP-39_JwNuMjlE8TrZsdYycYYUensRF/s1600/Photo+on+2011-12-25+at+11.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdif_P5UMeicGjs-ClnygkAohAJsvN2jXbu6n3_hwnbHVdZqysBep4pqAjsollBTzk2NV8ISCd2fzP-Oft_f-Dn-B_bMZrO_7hzk06V-WABxegjrP-39_JwNuMjlE8TrZsdYycYYUensRF/s640/Photo+on+2011-12-25+at+11.34.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Christmas wasn't quite the same without you, but we made it work (December 2011)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KTkENl0dcfVu_EUr99cQc9xy4JYKPfHct8pN_4gpN2SLjgy-NYmLkWvMRsCdWOUN4gH0_poyyObOZIOLMxP8UkLdh2eGyj8NG2ux1fh3YaS6oQzMt3VPQnfO5W9y1bsZv8s7yGJJ1ZBG/s1600/IMG_6937_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KTkENl0dcfVu_EUr99cQc9xy4JYKPfHct8pN_4gpN2SLjgy-NYmLkWvMRsCdWOUN4gH0_poyyObOZIOLMxP8UkLdh2eGyj8NG2ux1fh3YaS6oQzMt3VPQnfO5W9y1bsZv8s7yGJJ1ZBG/s640/IMG_6937_2.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Maybe it was a good thing I didn't spend New Year's Eve with you because I am sure you would have out partied me. (2011-2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztz4XtOv1n9_2QkanArL7eIEIj2M4CI2pspC_DRRb5Zpi6JEuH15mDq6UNQRyMcu_c9VsEz3YHEyWTJmnkF4X2K58NRZY_GXF2dyL3d-OE02VyDR7rQE7peS7l07MIL8tGaKTIFffZ9Iy/s1600/IMG_7113_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztz4XtOv1n9_2QkanArL7eIEIj2M4CI2pspC_DRRb5Zpi6JEuH15mDq6UNQRyMcu_c9VsEz3YHEyWTJmnkF4X2K58NRZY_GXF2dyL3d-OE02VyDR7rQE7peS7l07MIL8tGaKTIFffZ9Iy/s640/IMG_7113_2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ukrainian Christmas (January 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9CqRay97jDnjfZzaOllUDUIdZUpsTCKJtczqunrCjkFqh64xfabJB4J6iyAmkBKacul9FlriQ_tjUNcInnmUqBR_mVdmXM6NpBan0eldtZzpvUo4Mo1irv73FAk6bMVlgO_s9UIh7U_J/s1600/IMG_7597_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9CqRay97jDnjfZzaOllUDUIdZUpsTCKJtczqunrCjkFqh64xfabJB4J6iyAmkBKacul9FlriQ_tjUNcInnmUqBR_mVdmXM6NpBan0eldtZzpvUo4Mo1irv73FAk6bMVlgO_s9UIh7U_J/s640/IMG_7597_2.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me doing my first Georgian Dancing (January 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuiRfZGUzZgydlWpRWhu_WJdCFEdqtKifha1j5CyOXzSJxlItcnHBEZjXTDbq0zlTKAoymOHxmbMKrZtgDEz7XAuv5JahKIkn222XP874lYhWof8Q3_zB_71P7All_7LoYKdqGWgRm1oP/s1600/IMG_7858_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuiRfZGUzZgydlWpRWhu_WJdCFEdqtKifha1j5CyOXzSJxlItcnHBEZjXTDbq0zlTKAoymOHxmbMKrZtgDEz7XAuv5JahKIkn222XP874lYhWof8Q3_zB_71P7All_7LoYKdqGWgRm1oP/s640/IMG_7858_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
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Me getting excepted by the locals (February 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNg_0Tc0aDo603N5oJsqq_ReaJ8pBjPhrVdFgNs1mrBgPcGxmoxLLFXJA8_jgdP29g2NduD9w1V0zyymkYKq6WwBIRQ0Hg52Hddw_1MQIb1GpT-5j_pIi-alT5HJvpc0m4TdjI9EOPpjF/s1600/IMG_8231_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNg_0Tc0aDo603N5oJsqq_ReaJ8pBjPhrVdFgNs1mrBgPcGxmoxLLFXJA8_jgdP29g2NduD9w1V0zyymkYKq6WwBIRQ0Hg52Hddw_1MQIb1GpT-5j_pIi-alT5HJvpc0m4TdjI9EOPpjF/s640/IMG_8231_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">My kids being silly after school (February 2012)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Q70NfJvYqN1XQJxx9LjwF0SuQ9uFunxt0PRQYd5xiEiRzJroeOFNEo16uO6eeZZqWTzUB8Z8D7Ii1-outZrLanbnfwaOrL2rahSmsSgUZic384WRhuM97CkMjt3R5J9I1jpZJoOYNN9L/s1600/IMG_8249_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Q70NfJvYqN1XQJxx9LjwF0SuQ9uFunxt0PRQYd5xiEiRzJroeOFNEo16uO6eeZZqWTzUB8Z8D7Ii1-outZrLanbnfwaOrL2rahSmsSgUZic384WRhuM97CkMjt3R5J9I1jpZJoOYNN9L/s640/IMG_8249_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">My host mother (right) and neighboug making Georgian food, I helped! (March 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJ5SdcXh5dBGp_ZURlaq-osKyf5PhmZGvuRi3rXhA8trRPpLiiospkOzKEcjPAwfkdSyV6Fvheiy_6LY_QQtVI62OhQgbWEwvSz7jfKX-ywm-dcoaiVJacNBGOyTlaUxdEqETUIDGX_Yh/s1600/IMG_8305_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJ5SdcXh5dBGp_ZURlaq-osKyf5PhmZGvuRi3rXhA8trRPpLiiospkOzKEcjPAwfkdSyV6Fvheiy_6LY_QQtVI62OhQgbWEwvSz7jfKX-ywm-dcoaiVJacNBGOyTlaUxdEqETUIDGX_Yh/s640/IMG_8305_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me with new glasses (March 2012)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuZ9o_68FIfB-qrNSpov6veytNwlCtyvFiYwOx1mhWIRQzWB7p6fT-tX9YAQ07UlXF-_V5fGMs0TOOO-WLvjlTYi4b-ozx4e7HbnKkV4pqosUr_vU1AvDzh8di_lPdypBq38gBHOlDfUt/s1600/IMG_8398_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuZ9o_68FIfB-qrNSpov6veytNwlCtyvFiYwOx1mhWIRQzWB7p6fT-tX9YAQ07UlXF-_V5fGMs0TOOO-WLvjlTYi4b-ozx4e7HbnKkV4pqosUr_vU1AvDzh8di_lPdypBq38gBHOlDfUt/s640/IMG_8398_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My host dad with Saba, the neighbor baby (March 2012)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41NliQVExggWe-7G3sWnZvg9_qF8xgstshWFJouYNMTDst9TVq5MgKKywb4bmd3ITANiKT0xRE3gnVoXgGrVnLpLbdYimSlj0E2MnrSbyAMjXiY31hql0ZaeyofOkQ0jP4XHSCX_Y9gx2/s1600/IMG_8541_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41NliQVExggWe-7G3sWnZvg9_qF8xgstshWFJouYNMTDst9TVq5MgKKywb4bmd3ITANiKT0xRE3gnVoXgGrVnLpLbdYimSlj0E2MnrSbyAMjXiY31hql0ZaeyofOkQ0jP4XHSCX_Y9gx2/s640/IMG_8541_2.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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Me at my host dad's birthday supra with Simon, on of my village friends (March 2012)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PKIL7X2YcFleMggXH2f3e1B0c7eCNriDnVfTaGNVkVyrnQvX1nZW2lKxy1_aKCUusThiBsC2t-W4aJQwjN3E7ncSd5DYkwQPzTQxJixdPw0L-d-Y81QzbMzovZyRWVqJMgxjyNLzsXSn/s1600/IMG_8548_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PKIL7X2YcFleMggXH2f3e1B0c7eCNriDnVfTaGNVkVyrnQvX1nZW2lKxy1_aKCUusThiBsC2t-W4aJQwjN3E7ncSd5DYkwQPzTQxJixdPw0L-d-Y81QzbMzovZyRWVqJMgxjyNLzsXSn/s640/IMG_8548_2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me in a marshookah on my way from Tbilisi to the village (March 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lFV4lrTdaedCUKGxevtispVC7RDdr_xrfm1oBCbJjmjASeM6HsB9GaiJ1NStNlfa1xT617n5g7fBdsKxX12-e7jdL6X42q028Dj1P7YXeMcNB_ggRmIMG6-PMiKe4QTsCUyXT2Fb8ny8/s1600/IMG_8551_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lFV4lrTdaedCUKGxevtispVC7RDdr_xrfm1oBCbJjmjASeM6HsB9GaiJ1NStNlfa1xT617n5g7fBdsKxX12-e7jdL6X42q028Dj1P7YXeMcNB_ggRmIMG6-PMiKe4QTsCUyXT2Fb8ny8/s640/IMG_8551_2.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><br />Me by the border of Azerbaijan (March 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZmhPzQGlwrmyGPCOpUslSqNTlSZk87_0sz1UMhlKpPlW5crmH_cW9BVyAhNDulebWhpGhs8HJYzOTLqakqh_2wI10c5B7nrDxOY0Xtm6uqy9QJEv18pA36Vxw2m7BsxFhTEdq2fNCOrp/s1600/IMG_8704_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZmhPzQGlwrmyGPCOpUslSqNTlSZk87_0sz1UMhlKpPlW5crmH_cW9BVyAhNDulebWhpGhs8HJYzOTLqakqh_2wI10c5B7nrDxOY0Xtm6uqy9QJEv18pA36Vxw2m7BsxFhTEdq2fNCOrp/s640/IMG_8704_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Enjoying a nice sunny day in Lagodekhi, drinking soda. (April 2012)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFuamOGGrZsHXCLiFT4DUd5e-y3mainFbd9frxiwg_PvojrBmGeFKysX-udMcdPu8xoiX3r_jtKNkK5C85ET5if21bs1Y_Ubhi-d_XacoPW_AZujUKX_BVmS_Tw0wkxJtXDrDE4FRrc4k/s1600/IMG_8768_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFuamOGGrZsHXCLiFT4DUd5e-y3mainFbd9frxiwg_PvojrBmGeFKysX-udMcdPu8xoiX3r_jtKNkK5C85ET5if21bs1Y_Ubhi-d_XacoPW_AZujUKX_BVmS_Tw0wkxJtXDrDE4FRrc4k/s640/IMG_8768_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me in Tbilisi by an advertisement for Gap (April 2012)</td></tr>
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Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-8586266242027847522012-04-25T12:26:00.000-07:002012-04-25T12:29:05.976-07:00I'm Tallinn you...<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Surprise, I went to Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius over Easter break! I don’t want to try to cram all three places into one, blog because that wouldn’t be fare to expect you fine people to read and look at all of those pictures all in one go and most importantly it would be unfair to each unique city.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tallinn</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I will start off with Tallinn, Estonia which is a small country of about 1.4 million people south of Finland, to the west of Russia, to north of Latvia, and east of the Baltic sea. Arriving in Tallinn on April 11th, I was tired from my traveling to I checked in to my hostel and took a two hour nap. I then went out and naturally found, say it with me people I know you all know where I went because I just got into town, the grocery store! Whatever moron, thinks it’s a good idea to let someone go to a grocery store after spending the past four months in Georgia is wrong. I was so giddy to be in a place that sold food that was so bright and clean. The chicken was even already butchered and put in nice little packages to buy. I didn’t have to buy a live one and kill it myself! They also had Ben and Jerry’s, which I wanted so badly, but it was almost €7, so I will wait until I get back to the States in January-ish and have my mother buy me a pint for every month I was gone. (Love you mom!) I didn’t make too many poor choices when I checked out. I ended up with carrots, cabbage, cauliflower, rice, oranges, kiwis, muesli, and assorted liquorish. I just really wanted the option to be able to eat food that is not dripping in sunflower oil and salt. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got back to the hostel I took one of the most amazing showers I have ever had. I am lucky enough to have hot water at my house in Georgia, but to say it’s lacking water pressure is an understatement and when I was in Ukraine I bathed in a bath tub that was in a freezing cold kitchen. (I still love my kitchen bath tub, but it is a <i>bath</i> not a shower.) The hostel, just opened up and the show head is one of those ones that is suppose to mimic rain or being under a water fall or something. All I know is that it was amazing.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in my Ukrainian bathtub this past May</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After my shower and so dinner of rice and veggies I went to go see the Hunger Games. I have been wanting to see this movie so badly and in Georgia all the movies are dubbed in Russian or Georgian so I had to wait until now to see it. I thought it was fantastic. It was also odd sitting in such a modern movie theater, dare I say better then the ones in Maine, and then leaving it to go back to my hostel. I kept thinking that I would be going back to my house in Maine, but alas it was back to my hostel to get a goodnights sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On day two in Tallinn I woke up and took shower number two in less then 24 hours (amazing!), ate a nice healthy breakfast and heading out to kill sometime time before going on a free walking tour at noon. I ended up at a great little cafe in Old Town that I don’t remember the name of, but they had real coffee and strawberry cheesecake. I sat in the dimly lit place, just so happy, but feeling a little weird, that I was not in Georgia for the first time in three months. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I set off and found where the walking tour and for two hours a lovely Estonian girl took us all around and told us all about the history of the city and fun other little tidbits.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Georgian food in Tallinn</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Estonian Freedom Monument </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orthodox Church</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Orthodox Church<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Orthodox Church<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former KGB Headquarters that are now going to be luxury apartments.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swedish Embasy</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town Center</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town Center</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBECPdRXqWpJpN-LnqTv29G2kx9Jug9JbKQtwhaJsB-KeTri53V7c5jsshA_0gD6qTo3W_68fKvYS3VgFOKQVqVy6iSDVvuAgPeSE6EnZu6cSWOdxfWaXfDKsVZmpmt07s6G6ZPHzm2PG8/s1600/IMG_8847_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBECPdRXqWpJpN-LnqTv29G2kx9Jug9JbKQtwhaJsB-KeTri53V7c5jsshA_0gD6qTo3W_68fKvYS3VgFOKQVqVy6iSDVvuAgPeSE6EnZu6cSWOdxfWaXfDKsVZmpmt07s6G6ZPHzm2PG8/s640/IMG_8847_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After that I set off and walked along the sea and it reminded me of my autumn spent in and out of Aarhus, Denmark. Tallinn has a very Scandinavian feel to it to began with. I eventually drifted back towards town and found a little bistro that had the most amazing tomato and ginger soup with feta. It was simply to die for. I will find a way to make this when I get back to the States and have a proper kitchen.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best Soup Ever!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Art</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Art</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Art</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On day three of my Tallinn adventure, it was raining so I decided to go to their occupation museum, which covered when they were taken over by Germany and Russia. It had lots of artifacts, and showed long half hour portions of a documentary every few meters. Needless to say I did not watch them all, because I would have been there all day. Down in the basement there was this odd collection of Soviet statues, in a room that had a bunch of lockers in it. There was nothing also nothing stopping me from going up and cuddling with the massive Lenin statue. I thought about it, but I have higher standards, now if there was a statue of Stalin there... Just kidding! Still kind of perplexing that room.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That night I was suppose to go to the ballet, but smart me thought it started at 8, and it was actually 7. I normally never mess up on times or dates, but it happens. I stood pouting in my black dress, looking all nice for the missed ballet, when one of the guys who worked at the hostel asked me if I wanted to go to a metal concert with him and three other guys. Who wouldn’t want to go to a metal concert with a Belgian, two Brits, and a Russia in Estonia?! Of course I said yes. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To be honest I said yes very reluctantly. I don’t really ever listen to metal, but it was one of those “Oh, why not Emily? It’s not like you are ever going to get this chance again,” moments. I stood awkwardly for the first few songs, clutching onto my beer for dear life, surrounded by hipster metal heads, looking like I had just walked out of Banana Republic, and I felt like someone was going to throw me out for clearly not belonging. I downed my beer, and thought, “Screw it, screw them. This is your last night in Estonia, might as well enjoy this.” I just threw myself into the music and started dancing and moshing, while most people just bobbed up and down. During the breaks the Belgian who worked at the hostel introduced me to some Estonians, and a girl complemented me on not looking like every other douche bag in the place and that I was beautiful. She became my new best friend at that very moment. I really wish I had taken some pictures of me on that night to share, but I didn’t think my camera and metal concerts mixed. (Russian Circles, Junius, Deafheaven, Wolves Like Us, and SoundArcade were the bands I saw just incase that means anything to you.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Overall I thought Tallinn was a great arty little city, people had hair more outrages then mine! It was full of plenty of cafes, where I could get my coffee fix, and not curse not having Starbucks for once in almost five months. Creative restaurants to get my foodie on and the glorious ocean that I have missed. Possibly the next semi-permanent destination on my list?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDRXBaYXkKKhTFDqiB1gnrbH0HZka25eGg6KutbIxV6Acbv_honaShPzRAcGKOgYXOG3CsgpZRWRloZ4UtjCPL1TtolpOWlXejj8IbIEDzE7a9OQz_AeZc1wxMybQ1DOXnnZ06xt_-HHIw/s1600/IMG_8869_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDRXBaYXkKKhTFDqiB1gnrbH0HZka25eGg6KutbIxV6Acbv_honaShPzRAcGKOgYXOG3CsgpZRWRloZ4UtjCPL1TtolpOWlXejj8IbIEDzE7a9OQz_AeZc1wxMybQ1DOXnnZ06xt_-HHIw/s640/IMG_8869_2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a gem of a poster.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-25558041994249685772012-02-29T10:22:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:36:50.501-07:00Border Lands<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was out to dinner with friends in Lviv, Ukraine when I checked my e-mail and found out that my new village in Georgia would be Tamariani. I quickly Google mapped it and my first thoughts were,</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I’ve complained so much about not having a real toilet that they have stuck me in Azerbaijan!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> By the looks of it, it looked like I was only two or three kilometers away. Since arriving back in Georgia I had been thinking about walking and looking for the boarder for a few weeks and over the weekend when I was in Tbilisi I was talking to some other volunteers. I told them where I lived that that I was basically in Azerbaijan. All of them wanted to know know what the boarder looked like and I had to give them the bad news that I still hadn’t been there yet.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On Monday it was a really warm, sunny spring day. I decided that I might as well try to find the broader and see if it was really that close. I walked through my village talking to a fellow volunteer on the phone about the past weekend and I came across a group of students and waved hello and kept on walking. I reached the end of the village and I had made it to a field. Out of no where my fourth grade shadow came running and screaming towards me, like she always does when I think I am lost and then walks me home. I sighed and looked down at her and tried to reason with her that I was not going to fallow her back to my house today, I was going for my walk. My Georgian is still really, really bad, but her English is worse. A few other students showed up and one was an 11th grader who has a decent grasp on the langue and I explained that I was going for a walk. It appeared that my shadow was not going to take no for an answer and if I wouldn’t turn around she was going to stay with me. We walked in a barren corn field and I started speaking to her in English, it was better then talking to myself and I might as well be good company. I asked her if she was going to fallow me back to America too and she said yes. I laughed because I know she has no idea what I said, but I can picture her really trying to run after my car when I go back to America crying that I am leaving her. I suppose I could adopt her, but I’m getting ahead of myself.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we walked, we went over the alphabet and numbers up to ten. I felt like we were making progress on our English. Every once in a while she would point back to the village and say that we should go back. I would say no and that she could go back. She acted like she was going back a few times, to see if I would fallow, but she quickly caught on that I would not fall for that game. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We came to a four way intersection of dirt roads, one was the road we came on, one road went over a bridge, one road lead back to town, and the other road went along a river. I went with the last one. I told my shadow that I was looking for Azerbaijan and pointed in the direction that we were heading in and she told me that I had it all wrong, that Tbilisi was that way. I told her I had looked it up on Google maps and I had been to Tbilisi the past weekend and I knew it was the other way. We walked along the river and stopped at one point to take a few photos. On our other side was a field with horses and I asked if we should go ride them. She shook her head no. (Swear to God this child knows English, but pretends not to just to annoy me.)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I saw two men approaching in the distance and assumed they were the farmers who owned the field and I didn’t want to be rude so I walked towards them. The closer I got, it became clear that they were in fact soldiers. Soldiers with big automatic weapons and binoculars. Oh shit.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They came up and said a curt hello and it became apparent quite fast that they didn’t know English and well my Georgian is again, crap. They tried asking what we were doing here and thank god my shadow started talking a bit. I used my crap Georgian to tell my student to tell them that I was her teacher, we were just going for a walk and taking photos. (It’s funny, but kids seem to understand me better. Adults just don’t listen.) They asked “Document?” I pulled out my cellphone and iPod and was like “no document, I was just going for a walk.” One pulled out his walkie talkie and the younger one pulled out his cell phone. They told us to wait there. There was some conversation and I kind of stood around kicking the dirt with my boots and looking up into the bright sun, thinking</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> can we go yet?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I turned on my camera and started to take a photo of my shadow and they said no photos and made me show them the ones I already had. I flipped threw a few and then realized I still had ones of me being silly to have a profile pictures with my new glasses on so I stopped. I was happy to see that they didn’t care, that I didn’t show them all to them. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I pulled out my phone and called my co-teacher, like she said to do if I ever needed help, and handed it to one of the guys. He handed it back to me and she said, “Emily, listen, you are on the boarder lands. You should not be there. You see the river? Half that river is Georgia, half the river is Azerbaijan. You must stay there until the commander comes in 10 or 15 minuets. Ok, Emily?” The border lands? Where the hell is the “Welcome to Azerbaijan” sign? Shouldn’t there be a fence?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The soldiers just kind of stood around smoking cigarettes, the younger one kept playing with his cell phone. I stood around a little bit more, but I felt a little stupid so I just sat down on the ground and picked at the grass. My shadow was unfazed by the whole thing and was playing with a thorny plant, pulling it apart. The young soldier asked my name and I asked his and he laughed when I said it wrong. It was clear this conversation was going no where.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the distance we saw dust and a pickup truck speeding towards us. A middle aged man got out and I was relieved that he spoke decent English, at least it was good enough to interrogate me. He again asked for my documentation and I explained that I had just been going for a walk and was unaware I had stepped into the “Border Lands.” He asked my name, nationality, what I was doing in Georgian, when I came and when I was leaving. He didn’t badger me and could see that I was indeed a harmless American. He told us that he would drive us out of the “Border Lands,” even though I was sure we could walk the 500 meters there ourselves. When we reached the edge he said he could drive us home and I said that would not be necessary, I did not want my host family freaking out. We were greeted by a handful of my students when we got out of the truck. One girl gave me flowers, a welcome back to Georgia present I can only assume.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I walked my shadow home for once and headed on to my own house. When I got there my host family was sitting outside talking to a neighbor and I thought, yes they have no idea. I stopped at the picnic table to say hello and they said they had received an interesting phone call from the sheriff. My host dad asked if the army was good. I said yes. My host mom made a gesture that said she knew she should be mad at me, but found the whole thing really hilarious. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two days later my host family is still making fun of me every chance they get. I go along with it. I understand I am entertainment for these people. I wasn’t harmed in anyway and I am sure that if I spoke half decent Georgian I would have gotten a date from that solider. I also thought about baking them cupcakes and bringing them to them as a thank you for not killing me, but I am living in Georgia and the closest grocery story is two hours away in Tbilisi, because you know I can’t make cupcakes from scratch. I also would have to go back to the “Border Lands” to deliver them and I don’t want to do that anytime soon. I am however really tempted to go back with a hand painted sign that says, “This Is The End Of Georgia” and maybe some of that yellow cation tape and make my own fence, because really having another country a thirty minuet walk from your house isn’t all its cracked up to be.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can see Azerbaijan from my backdoor! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaDJjNa1kyIzz-y5_zfSHszELOi344HjkJfsbxihr0XbIMnWlYju7ZtR4mvj0uA4E2Rl8Eqo0xq5i1MY8bGUiXnAwIvR7zJx-w2Jvhw-9RJ8-J8MSSOxN_mhda448AoOh-5qH9kdmtHxG/s1600/IMG_8305_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaDJjNa1kyIzz-y5_zfSHszELOi344HjkJfsbxihr0XbIMnWlYju7ZtR4mvj0uA4E2Rl8Eqo0xq5i1MY8bGUiXnAwIvR7zJx-w2Jvhw-9RJ8-J8MSSOxN_mhda448AoOh-5qH9kdmtHxG/s640/IMG_8305_2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">My silly photo that I didn't want the soldiers to see.</span></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-44189729320010285592012-02-26T11:18:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.732-07:00A Little Death Makes Life More Meaningful<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few days ago my co-teacher informed me that the sports teacher’s mother had passed away and the funeral was to be held this Thursday. She asked me if I would like to go and I kind of looked at her and sputtered out “Um... I don’t know.” Thinking inside my head, <i>I don’t really know this teacher, let alone his mother. Won’t it be kind of odd me just turning up?</i> She then informed me that all the other teachers would be going and I should go as well, being a member of the faculty. I wanted to say that I would just wait for the next funeral, when I maybe knew the person a little better, but then I realized that would mean there was another dead person and stopped myself. I told her that I would go, since <i>everyone</i> else was going.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I worried about what to wear as I was not quite sure what one wears to these kinds of events. The morning of the funeral I tried on my go to little black dress, but it was a little too tight and short. Great for a bar, not a midday village death party. My second black dress was just crap. Again too short. I tried on my black and gray sweater dress that I normally wear with jeggins and just laughed. I settled on a floral dress that hit at the knee and was mostly blue, green, and yellow. I looked at my shoe choice and sighed. It is super muddy right now and I have just been wearing my L L Bean boots because they can take it. The only shoes that maybe were close to being appropriate were my six inch stiletto platforms, because they were black and dressy. They were not going on my feet. I put my Bean boots on and thought if anyone thinks badly of me because of it, I hope they will write it off as me being American. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During school I asked my co-teacher how many people would be there and she said about 200, but this would be a small funeral. It’s normally about 500 and there will be a supra after. I just kind of looked at her and was like “All right then.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I should admit right now I have not had to experience a lot of these events, thank God, back in America and I am terrified of them. I even took a class in college called Death and Dying to help me over come my fears of such things. I got a D and that was just because the teacher felt bad for me. I’m pretty sure she could see me having panic attacks in the back of the class, when I wasn’t crying. (I’m never going to die and neither is anyone I love.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After school all the teachers who went, which was not all of them like I was lead to believe, piled into our large school van and was driven to a village that was about 15 minuets away. We stopped in front of the dead woman’s house and got out. There were people milling about everywhere and I stayed close to the teachers that spoke English. Some of them were going to go in the house to see deiced and asked me if I wanted to come along. I looked at them like they were crazy. No, I did not want to see her, I don’t like seeing dead people. You people brought me and I can pay my respects by not having an emotional breakdown.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We stood outside for a bit and then finally the funeral procession started. Some of the men from the family carried her out of the house in her simple coffin, with the top off so everyone could see here as we walked by. Small children led, dropping flowers every ten meters or so. The couple hundred of us trailed, walking about a kilometer and a half to the cemetery. One of the teachers asked me before we started walking if I wanted to go because we had to walk very, very far. I was like, really you can’t walk a mile on this glorious sunny day, in the memory of this poor woman who died? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When we got to the cemetery I assume a little something was said and then she was buried. I didn’t get too close and couldn’t see or hear anything. I started to think about this woman and how she had probably lived in this village that we had just walked her through, for her whole life, quite moving really.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our van had come to pick us up and drive us back to the house for the supra. When we got there we took our seats at a massive banquette table that was under a large tent. There were two rows, one for men and one of the woman. We ate cold food first and the toasts started up. Some women filled there glasses up with a little wine and drank it in gesture, with the first toast, but after that there was no more drinking from our side of the tent. The men went on and on toasting and drinking. When the wine bottles started to get low, younger men from the family came around with more, putting funnels in and pouring the wine out of massive tea kettles.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After about 45 minuets hot baked beans were served, fallowed by pork with mash potatoes, beef, and then sweet rice with fruit in it. One of the toasts came from a very emotional crying elderly man who was the brother of the woman. I felt really bad for him and how he lost his sister. One of the teachers wiped tears away during the speech and I was glade that I did not understand it, because I probably would have started crying too. What funerals I do have to go to I always want to cry and sometimes do, even if I don’t know the people.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was asked what a funeral after gathering is like in America and I tried explaining and when I started failing horribly I apologized and stated that the last one I had been too was a while ago and I couldn’t remember. It was half a decade ago. It was in a church basement, there was food and crying people.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After about two hours or so of eating and drinking, for the men, the festivities wound down and I was put in a car to be driven back home. On the drive I looked at the landscape bathed in the setting sun and a feeling of contentment overcame me. I am living in this foreign land, that never seems to make complete sense to me, but it always keeps me guessing and wondering. Whenever I get overwhelmed by this I can’t help but look out a window and think above all this is one of the most beautiful places I have been and everything seems a little brighter, especially when I’ve just been to a funeral and I am not only happy to be alive but also living.</span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-1982947969956939112012-02-21T10:45:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.720-07:00No Love for the Georgian Bromance<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A running joke among my volunteer friends and I is that my host family thinks I am a man. I personally think it is hilarious, that we have come to this conclusion and for the most part they do have a point. My host father is quite keen on having me drink and for the first week everyday he would offer me different kind of alcohol, which I would also deflect with answers like that beer makes me vomit. I’m never a hundred percent successful at this. Last week I ended up having beers with my host dad and the region’s police chief. I hate to say it, but I was almost out drinking both of them, but then again they were were in a heated debate over some topic in Georgian so all I had to do was politely sip beer out of my “I <3 Georgia” mug, that my host parents bought for me in Tbilisi. (I cannot wait to take this bad boy with me back to America and use it for the Keurig machine at Gap.) The other night I also got in on the boys drinking action when we were having a supra to celebrate to delivery of about 5,000kg of fertilizer. I will admit it is fun for me to kick it with the village men, chugging wine, eating great food, toasting to everything, and trying to get me married off. Yes, that’s right I have a potential husband lined up. He seemed more interested in who ever was texting him, probably his secret girlfriend, then me. I am also pleased to report that I did not throw up after drinking all that wine, which again makes me a man. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You see women here aren’t suppose to be drunk in public. A lot don’t seem to drink at all because of this, especially in the village. I have Georgian female friends who have been away to university and have lived a life away from their families and then after to come back and live with them. I had a friend tell me </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I like to drink a little and dance, but my brothers don’t like when I do that, so I don’t in front of them.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> If my older brother ever told me that I shouldn’t drink, I’m talking social amounts not black out amounts, I would tell him to go to hell. When I in my house my host mother is always hovering around to make sure that I don’t look too bad off or that the men aren’t too rowdy. If anything like this happens she pulls me out. If she thinking I am drinking too much she will try to cut me off, and normally my host dad shooters her down I am sure he says to her, “Just let her drink, she’s still in control. She is my American son I have never had. I mean half her head is shaved, so clearly she’s not a Georgian woman, there for she must be a man!” </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They have also tried to take me hunting for little birds with them. It’s quite a popular man activity here. They have this big riffle looking gun that shoots pellets. On the weekends they are always doing target practice, if they don’t have something to do like make Cha Cha. I honestly haven’t seen them kill a bird yet and I kind of want to take them up on the offer to go hunting and kill something so I can one up them. My host dad thought I didn’t want to shoot a gun and that is why I didn’t want go hunting. I really didn’t feel like being laughed at for doing something wrong again. I ended up pulling out my pictures of target practice from Ukraine. They were super impressed, it was either my sweet hat or the fact that I had l told them that I killed ten Russian spies with a sniper riffle, you decide. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ukrainian Rebel</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They have also been really interested if I can drive or not. I explained to them that I have a license and my own car back home. There minds were f*ing blown. I drive and have </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">my own</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> car? They told me I could take the BMW for a spin, but it’s not an automatic, however the Mercedes SUV is. Again I think it was my host mother who ruined my fun and informed them that I could not drive cars when I am here. The men then had the bright idea that I can drive the tractor this spring. (Because yes boys, that is not a motorized vehicle, which again I am pretty sure that I cannot drive here. I will however pose for a photo op later on.) Many women here don’t drive, either because they don’t have a license, or because the men here just drive too crazy. They kind of have made up their own rules that they just seem to know, and I hate to say it, but I’ve heard that women driving causes a lot of accidents here because they fallow the proper road rules, not bro ones.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are a lot of gender specific rolls here in Georgia and I am not completely against them. It is a very traditional society and awesome if the men want to be out in the fields growing the food that the women are going to cook in the kitchens. The issue I have is the double standards. We have a female friend of the family that comes over at least a few times a week, always brings some kind of food, and sits socializing with us, and oh smoking cigarettes. (Women here don’t smoke cigarettes in public incase you haven’t caught on yet.) She keeps a pack hidden in our kitchen and stays around for an hour or so and smokes a few. I do not know how her husband doesn’t know or better yet why she should have to hide it. I understand that it is not the best habit to have, but I don’t think it spouses should be hiding things like that, I mean she goes off to a friends house so she can light up? I know she’s not the only one to be doing something like this. We were told during orientation to be aware that in the villages smoking women would hide it. I mean come on, people know you are doing these things, why not just do it in public if they all know? I’ve been tempted to walk down my village smoking a butt on my way home from school, with my bright red lipstick on and headphones in, just to see people’s reactions, but I am a teacher and I don’t need my students thinking this is good behavior. I just want to do it in spite so badly some days. The men can’t really judge, because most of them smoke and the village women already know that a select group smokes and they don’t beat them with sticks. Do it in public already! Stop hiding! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The thing that I think pissed me off the most since being here was being at a supra with a friend and there were probably twenty or so people at it. The wife of the house hold that it was being held at was rushing around most of the time while we were eating, making sure that there was enough food, never really having time to sit down herself and enjoy the party. The table was split men on one half and women on the other. This seems quite common and I’m not horribly against it. The women can talk about women things like mommy and me yoga and guys can talk about the newest Apple product, oh shit sorry this is Georgia, those things don’t exist here. (Kind of off topic but I told my sixth grade boys how much I paid for my MacBook and they about shit their pants the other day.) </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The supra went on for hours and it was a school night and I wanted to get home and go to sleep. It was close to 10:30pm and the guys kept drinking more and more, toasting away. They were making a racket and having a jolly time. I looked over at my half of the room and it was full of a bunch of the most tired, pissed off looking women I had ever seen. One of the wives was even pregnant and the guys were completely ignoring the fact that we were beyond over it. None of us had drank, which was probably a good thing in my case, because if I had, and known enough Georgian to get my point across I would have shouted at them for being so fucken rude and irresponsible. They are suppose to take care of their wives, keep them happy and protected, yet they were sitting there drinking more and then driving home at least somewhat intoxicated. They more then had their allotted amount of fun. I mean this supra started around 5pm and I didn’t get driven home until well after 11:30pm and that was only because my friend was able to use the excuse that I was an American guest who had to teach the next morning. If I was a Georgian woman, forget it. I would probably still be there. Unacceptable in my eyes. I have grown up around very strong women, who have taught me to stand up for myself and I know that if my dad ever tried to pull crap like, especially if my mother was pregnant, he better enjoy the couch, because he was going to be sleeping there. It is so hard at times to sit in a country where women don’t always have a voice, granted mine is a rather loud, strong one. I would never stand for a spouse that acted like a big man-boy. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After this particular supra, I was on the phone with one of my friends and I said, “I’m pretty sure this year I am going to get into more cars with drunk drivers then I had in my whole life.” I don’t really make it a habit, to be driven around by drunks in the States, but it has happened a few times, when people were a little buzzed. I can probably count the times on one hand, if I really sat down and thought about it, like I said it’s not a habit I am into. Here however, when someone gets pulled over the first thing they do is breathalize you, wether or not you seem drunk. This happened on one of my marshooka rides and man was the driver pissed. That says something about a country when they check alcohol content in the middle of the day. My friend asked why I didn’t refuse to get into the car of someone who had been drinking. I told her I didn’t want to cause a scene. He also didn’t appear to be drunk. I know that is not an excuse and people reading this right now are thinking that I am in fact stupid as shit and that I make poor choices. I except this, however to it is a really hard situation if the driver doesn’t look clearly intoxicated and his family members are getting in the car. You will seriously offend someone by questioning their ability to drive and you will shame them, which is taken very seriously here. It’s one of those damned if you do and damned if you don’t things. I feel every volunteer is going to or has at some point and not just once but multiple times had to deal with this. (I might add the last time I left my village was over almost two weeks ago so I am not getting driven around that much to start with.) Also if the police just assume the drivers they pull over are drunk, even if your drive is sober, the one next to you on the road may not be. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Things like these make me wonder why I am here sometimes. I shake my head and think, “I just don’t know any more.” This weekend I am most likely going to try to spend at another volunteer’s place, which he has his own mini-apartment. I don’t know how to exactly explain to my host family that I will spending a night sleeping over at a guy’s house without them freaking out and thinking I’m a whore. (Women in Georgia don’t have sex unless they are married and if you are sleeping at a guy’s house you are sleeping in the same bed as him and there is penetration. There is also no such thing as a guy and a girl being friends here.) Nope, it’s more like a sleep over with two ex-pats who want to be able to speak fluent English to someone in person, while drinking a little, making fun of this crazy situation so they don’t loose their minds and then passing out in separate beds in different rooms. I am just waiting for the shit to hit the fan with this one. It makes me miss America and my parents who accept that I have friendships with guys and I’m not sleeping with them, but then again I think they suspect that the majority of them are gay. (We don’t have gay people in Georgia.)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I just want to slam my head against a hard object and go, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">what the hell are you people thinking?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> There are so many things I don’t understand here and it bothers me a lot. It’s just so backwards, like the fact that my host father encourages me to drink so much and then the next morning asks why I was drunk last night and why I am hung over this morning. I don’t know. I guess it’s because I am in fact not a Georgian man? </span></span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-74525256954200513302012-02-15T09:07:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.767-07:00Emily Teacher!!!!<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This morning I woke up in a slightly bad mood, that most likely steamed from me getting woken up from a deep sleep by my alarm clock at 8am. I got out of bed, had breakfast and made sure to have my morning coffee hoping that at some point my mood would clear.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On my walk to school I listened to Brand New and an odd thick fog had settled in our village over night, I could only see a few feet meters in front of me at a time. It added to my mood and made everything seem a little creepy. I am sure the American English teacher, living in a village abroad getting attacked out of no where on her way to school would be a great film or maybe something with ghosts. I do enjoy a good ghost story.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once I got to school I made my way to the teachers room and sat by the wood stove with the other teachers and warmed myself before going to class in grade four. One of my unofficial favorite students, seemed completely unfazed by my bad mood. Academically speaking she isn’t one of the best students, but she does give me a card about once a week telling me how much she loves me, in Georgian of course. She never wants to sit down and always has to be doing something that she shouldn’t be. She doesn’t have books, because she will destroy them I’ve been told, so she always borrows mine. I personally think she is super smart, but doesn’t apply herself. (I am positive my mother is reading this right now and thinking <i>Hmmm, now who does that sound like Emily?</i>) She has a desk right next to mine in class and is always jabbering along to me in Georgian which makes me laugh, because I would think by now she would know that I have next to no idea what she is saying. Today she had bread in her desk and would eat some when she thought I wasn’t looking and when I would catch her she would just give me an innocent smile mid-chew and make me smile, even though I was trying to look stern. (Students aren’t suppose to eat in class in Georgia.) By the end of the class my mood was much better.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We had grade three next and I went to go set my bag in there, and I took out my camera and headed outside to go take some photos. It was too cold and not that many students were around so I went back into my classroom. I went to go sit down at the teachers desk and wait for my co-teacher to come in after the break and I tried to photograph some of the students without them seeing me. I failed and they noticed right away, but they were over joyed to have my attention. This grade seriously is great. I just love everything about them. There is only one girl in the class, which I feel makes the boys try more because they know that they won’t be out shined by a bunch of girls, so they have a chance to impress the teacher. I just want to take all of them home with me and photograph an ad campaign for Gap Kids or something. They are a bunch of goofballs.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My last lesson of the day was in grade two. Again these kids just adore me. I even had coffee this past weekend at one of the their houses after their grandmother kidnapped me on one of my walks. There is one girl who just smiles at me for the whole lesson, every time. Today in class they were working in their workbooks, coloring so I took out my camera. I wish I could say that I was more sly, but again it was an epic fail. (I could never be a spy.) They too were over joyed to have me taking photos of them and even asked for a class photo which I indulged them in. After all it was just a small break from coloring. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After that lesson I started to walk home and my certain unofficial favorite student from grade four started walking next to me. I kept my pace to match hers as we walked in silence, while she pulled a handful of sunflower seeds from her pocket and started eating them. The sun had come out during school and she would stop at the edge of a puddle and put her foot on the ice to break it. Having my trusty Bean boots on, I just stepped in the middle of a puddle and broke it with a huge cracking sound and then the splash of my foot hitting the water. She enjoyed this quite a bit, I am going to assume it is because no adult here just steps in puddles making huge messes. I always laughed at for having snow and mud cover my boots. They aren’t nice fashion boots, they are utilitarian so its fine. We made sure to crack every puddle between school and my house. When we reached my house she said goodbye and watched to make sure that I made it in ok, which is hilarious that ten year is making sure that everything is fine with me. I really should be the one walking her home.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went up to my room and it being a Wednesday meant that I got to indulge in Glee. It is my 43 minuets, of musical bliss every week. I prefer to watch it in private, because most of the time I turn into a fourteen year old girl, this week was no exception. I think I almost cried at one point I was so full of emotion. I need a life.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After I went down to our kitchen and had lunch and did other random things. Making an attempt to connect and share culture with my family I let them in on my Glee addiction, by showing it to my fourteen-year old host brother. He knows next to no English, but my host mom said that he had to sit in watch it with me to learn English. I felt a little bad about having him be forced, but he did laugh at a few parts and I only made him watch half of it. I’m going to keep showing it to him every week, I’m sure if I can find it with Russian subtitles he would be completely into it. I know I am forcing things on him, but I am his older sister right now for all intents and purposes so I am going to treat him, like my little brother in the States. You are going to watch Glee and like it damn it and if you don’t I’m telling mom! </span></div>
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-Also here are some photos from my first grade class that I didn't really have a blog for:</div>
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<br /></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-46721768369049267432012-02-14T10:35:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.739-07:00There's A Wocket In My Pocket<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the last day of January I was very excited when my texts from the bank came saying that I had been paid. I am sure my co-teachers were just as excited when they were informed that they had also been paid. The teachers I work with make about $100 a month, yes that is not a typo I meant to write $100 a month. There was one small issue, some of the teachers at my school had been over paid by about $50, from what I gather. I know that may not seem like a lot, but think of what you make a month (unless you are a bum, that doesn’t have a job) and imagine half of that is in your bank account randomly. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The teachers got paid on February 1st, and by the 2nd someone had realized that the teachers had been over paid. This would not have been an issue if some of the teachers had not already with withdrawn the money, spent it, and now the bank wanted it back. Most people in this country live on very little money, so coming up with this extra $50 that was already spent on things that were necessary to live, naturally caused panic and a few pissed off teachers. I do not blame the teachers at all for being upset. Whoever was in charge of their pay should have known better then to make this mistake, granted I don’t know the whole story, but this is also Georgia so issues like this always seem come up in one form or another. It would be like the average American being asked to come up with between $500-$1,000 oh a day’s notice.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My English co-teacher was one of the teachers who had to go to the bank and deal with the money matters, along with her sister who teacher history at my school. She asked me if I wanted to go to Lagodekhi (the nearest town which is about 15 or 20 minuets by car) that afternoon after school with her, her husband, daughter, and sister. I am course always up for a trip into town, even if it did mean just going to the bank.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After my lessons for the day ended I went home to drop my school bag off and grab my camera. When I came back to school some of the students in fifth form where out playing in the snow. I think it was gym for them. I stood there for a bit taking photos. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I then went up and collected my teachers and we made our way through the snowball fights to my co-teacher’s car. Her daughter was super excited to meet me, which naturally meant when I got in the car and said hello she was shy and would not look at me. Fare enough, I’m a big scary American. I understand. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWAYsKB2pS13rqPX5QFOXHtmd3JQI0yH0LkJca2yvF2WFCwcqWw48nLYLVW1Wuk8Y6oKIC8QCwscx7nieUMUBiYgR_-gTczcGdXmoexo1_pSagXAGBAo3DpjkJmb_f5O4nOsO6uTy9oKV/s1600/IMG_7797_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWAYsKB2pS13rqPX5QFOXHtmd3JQI0yH0LkJca2yvF2WFCwcqWw48nLYLVW1Wuk8Y6oKIC8QCwscx7nieUMUBiYgR_-gTczcGdXmoexo1_pSagXAGBAo3DpjkJmb_f5O4nOsO6uTy9oKV/s640/IMG_7797_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We drove into town and I was told that if might take a while at the bank so I could go off on my own if I wanted to. I spent my time walking into random markets and ended up buying some clementines and pastries. It had snowed earlier in the day, so walking on the street was very much a game of slipping and sliding over the slightly hilly town. I made my way back to the car and we pilled in and went off to get some food.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We went to three different restaurants and they were all busy and had about an hour wait and we wanted food then. In the mean time someone had called family that lived in the town and they said that they would be more then happy to have us. I was slightly hesitant, because all I could think was, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh god I am in for another supra, I don’t know if I can handle this</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. I also have that fear of meeting new people. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were greeted by a lovely older woman, two young girls, and a male that was most likely in his thirties. They got to work cooking khinkali, meat filled dumpling like things. Other food was brought out as well and my co-teacher is a vegetarian so I was pleased to see a healthy representation of fruit and vegetables. </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbE28OS21OuKavm0tXOKck-Zn6H8x3J0sfvtvzSLpsOmqT39054irce3wTM1lcKg4o4596e-Ovb3rBFf83pyvO4v2mmd8TvnMtflO_E2QG4pSSCoZIMy9Tjui53JXFkhN6LW1hSFXcGZ6/s1600/IMG_7829_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbE28OS21OuKavm0tXOKck-Zn6H8x3J0sfvtvzSLpsOmqT39054irce3wTM1lcKg4o4596e-Ovb3rBFf83pyvO4v2mmd8TvnMtflO_E2QG4pSSCoZIMy9Tjui53JXFkhN6LW1hSFXcGZ6/s640/IMG_7829_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When everything was being prepared some of us went upstairs to get the traditional drinking horns. They were quite impressive, especially when put on someone’s head so they look like a creature out of a Dr. Seuss book. The sun had also come out and made everything look like a winter wonder land.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrKq5Y7eyJEDboA2oHKSRELcs_zjHTNyBbmZgWwLVqb-HiZfm_y7DiOWHpJpJxwqONR2NtgmJPFolmdnBNPs010hL4mG6Mo9VLXMXCRU1T-DA_RrSiNRownN2EDozLAFCz9-md2bDN6XS/s1600/IMG_7836_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrKq5Y7eyJEDboA2oHKSRELcs_zjHTNyBbmZgWwLVqb-HiZfm_y7DiOWHpJpJxwqONR2NtgmJPFolmdnBNPs010hL4mG6Mo9VLXMXCRU1T-DA_RrSiNRownN2EDozLAFCz9-md2bDN6XS/s640/IMG_7836_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHeBeLhb6YoiQT5cgVnHdoP5jrUAf4d12Y7mQw1Et0HqYEQzHKEiIabKTjrsQWbqIUfyFWyeuYHV2XRzTpax6m3AbzxbJUJergbHXb3tcSXMtP90meftf6ct9-cXX5ImWDkdk2Hx92poa/s1600/IMG_7842_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHeBeLhb6YoiQT5cgVnHdoP5jrUAf4d12Y7mQw1Et0HqYEQzHKEiIabKTjrsQWbqIUfyFWyeuYHV2XRzTpax6m3AbzxbJUJergbHXb3tcSXMtP90meftf6ct9-cXX5ImWDkdk2Hx92poa/s640/IMG_7842_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eventually we did get on to eating after being hungry all afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that my co-teachers had a rather liberal attitude toward female drinking (perhaps it was those few years they had spent living in Ukraine when they were young?) and I was offered vodka and wine. I stuck to the wine and I can’t not even begin to guess at how many glasses I drank, it was also almost two weeks ago now. We toasted to everything; God, family, dead loved ones, American and Georgia, children (I dedicated that toast to my students), and I think there was even a toast to me being the most amazing American ever or something along those lines. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During all that drinking, there was just as much eating going on and I almost died. I sprinkled some pepper on some of my khinkali and you see when you are eating these you have to bite in and suck out the juice at the same time. I accidentally inhaled some of the pepper that was still dry and had a small coughing fit as everyone watched. I tried to assure them that I was fine, which worked well until about three seconds later when I took another bite and inhaled even more pepper and started coughing even more. I also had gotten some in my right eye, so it started watering uncontrollable. I was so embarrassed and was ushered into another room to die in peace, or get the pepper out of my eye and lungs. You pick.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I came back no one laughed too hard and we continued to eat and drink some more. I banned myself from pepper. Drinking horns were brought out. These bad boys were wooden and could hold about two glasses. The men wanted to see the American try to attempt this and I knew that sooner or later in my year here I would have to give these a go and then seemed like as good as time or any. I knew my co-teacher’s family would not make fun of me too much for failing, that is if I did fail. The men went first and then I had my turn. I didn’t drink it all in one chug, but I got it down and felt like I had accomplished something in my life. (Got to love thinking you rule the world when you are drunk.) I then ate some more pepper free food to off set all the wine.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZFy6fNwKV0jznxJjGktH2-Sof9N0QlWn1hf5sIeiFrvCT8NYtTFtBkQ7XdVM16s2k5bFWNyu9h35IbTUc15jejBbSNqUWa3rOJFMZSWvoeJtgtMhLyRfhLb7Wl38AsXudtJe1Do9oOJg/s1600/IMG_7855_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZFy6fNwKV0jznxJjGktH2-Sof9N0QlWn1hf5sIeiFrvCT8NYtTFtBkQ7XdVM16s2k5bFWNyu9h35IbTUc15jejBbSNqUWa3rOJFMZSWvoeJtgtMhLyRfhLb7Wl38AsXudtJe1Do9oOJg/s640/IMG_7855_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We soon wrapped up our small supra, which as much as I enjoyed it, at that point in time I knew I was going to enjoy getting home to my bed just as much. Before we got back into the car they made sure that they got one parting photo with me, which I honestly think is amazing. Looking at it, reminds me of Christmas card pictures with my brothers, if both my brothers were older then me and more Georgian. Looking at it almost even makes me miss my American brothers and Maine... almost.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuiRfZGUzZgydlWpRWhu_WJdCFEdqtKifha1j5CyOXzSJxlItcnHBEZjXTDbq0zlTKAoymOHxmbMKrZtgDEz7XAuv5JahKIkn222XP874lYhWof8Q3_zB_71P7All_7LoYKdqGWgRm1oP/s1600/IMG_7858_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuiRfZGUzZgydlWpRWhu_WJdCFEdqtKifha1j5CyOXzSJxlItcnHBEZjXTDbq0zlTKAoymOHxmbMKrZtgDEz7XAuv5JahKIkn222XP874lYhWof8Q3_zB_71P7All_7LoYKdqGWgRm1oP/s640/IMG_7858_2.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-69945921811181580992012-02-10T09:38:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.756-07:00Please Mr. Postman Look and See, Is There a Letter, A Letter For Me<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I know there has been a lot of interest in sending me things in the mail to Georgia. I have also got quite a few requests for postcards, letters, and such. A few weeks ago I decided to send a card to Ukraine to a friend. How hard could it be to post something from here, right? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First I asked one of my co-teachers if there was a post office in Lagodekhi (The closest big town to my village), you know to mail a letter? She looked at me like I had three heads and then asked,</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> you want to send an e-mail? You can use the computer lab.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I tried explaining over again a few times and she still had no idea what I was talking about. You see in Georgia, no one gets mail. There is no reason for them to get mail, no magazines, catalogs, credit cards offers. Chances are all of your family lives in the same village as you and no one ever really leaves Georgia, so why would you ever need to send anything? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few days after I asked my co-teacher about mailing things, I went with my other co-teacher to Lagodekhi to pick something up at one of the Teach and Learn with Georgia offices. We got there early so we had nothing to do for about a half hour. I asked this co-teacher if she knew where the post office was here. She also looked at me like I was crazy, I was starting to think that I was. I didn’t have the time to play games and make her guess what I was talking about, so I dialed up my regional representative and asked her to explain. After a minuet or two the point had come across to my teacher and she understood what I was trying to do. She question why I would even send something physical to a person in the first place if they had e-mail or Facebook. I tried to explain the joy that friends get with receiving letters and cards from me and the fact that when you mail something now a days it shows that you put some thought into things and that you care and are trying to go above and beyond to show that. Anyone can spend 20 seconds writing on your Facebook wall </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I miss you.</span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We trudged through the snow covered town, stopping to ask people along the way, just where the post office was. Some people had no idea, but finally we got to what we were told was the building with the post office in it. We walked into a big room with a massive wood counter and some tables. Everything was empty and no one looked to be around. My teacher suggested that we try upstairs. We climbed to the second floor and went into a random office and they told us that we did indeed have the right room and we went back down. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we went into the room again there was someone there this time. We explained that I needed to send my homemade card to Ukraine and were ushered into a smaller room that had a wood stove, desks, but still did not look like a post office. She pulled an envelope out of a random draw and I stuffed it in. I wrote my friends address on the front and then they instructed me to write my return address. This is where things got tricky. In Georgia, unless you are in a big city, people do not have actual addresses, everyone just knows where you live. My co-teacher and the post worker bantered back and forth about what I should write. At one point they wanted me to write my passport number on there. (What?!) I said I could just write my return address in the States on it, but this also would not do. It ended up coming out like this:</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Emily</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tamariani Village</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lagodekhi</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Georgia </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was one of the moments I just think </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh Georgia. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The post person hand wrote my receipt, stamped it and I handed over my 5.20GEL (a little over $3) to send one card off to Ukraine. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I left the post office with my co-teacher she told me that it would take two to three weeks for my card to get to Ukraine</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She then said</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I don’t understand what you didn’t just send an E-mail. It’s so much faster. </span></span></i></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2853735076822278010.post-82999038521681930212012-02-09T10:14:00.000-08:002012-05-15T08:37:43.781-07:00Maybe Gaining Weight Isn't So Bad After All...<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today I was sitting at a Georgian restaurant, having lunch with a fellow volunteer and during our conversation I brought up how my host family put me on their industrial electric scale used for making Cha Cha (Georgian homemade hard alcohol, that I find the need to write with capital letters) and weighed me the other day. He was very confused as how I could even let this happen in the first place and I explained that it had been a very silly morning full of giggles. My host dad had started it off by saying that my host brother’s backpack was too heavy and decided to see just how much it weighed. He went outside and got the scale out. The backpack came in at a whopping 6.2kg and I laughed, thinking that my bag always was so much heavier in school. Then my host dad got on the scale to see how much he weighed, then my host mom. Naturally it was my turn next. I said no at first, but I was kind of curious to see how much I had gained in the time I have been over seas. Well I got my answer and my host family got a laugh. Seriously they laughed. I on the other hand ran up to my room to get a calculator to multiply my weight in kilos, by 2.2 so I could get it in pounds. I gasped a little when I realized that I had gained about 10lbs. I am not stupid. I knew Ukraine did nothing to help me out, nights spent drinking copious amounts of vodka and apple juice, mornings sleeping off a hangover and afternoons and evenings eating hearty Eastern European food with chocolate sprinkled in whenever I felt the need. The only exercise I had on a regular basis was from bar to bar, or grocery shopping. (Honestly I do not mind the extra weight at all. I had so much fun in Ukraine. Yes it was worth it.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then Georgia has not helped the weight gain. There are three food groups here this time of year: bread, cheese, and meat. Oh I bet that sounds great doesn’t it? I am not kidding at all here. My daily weekday (weekends are always a toss up) food breaks down like this: breakfast is normally eggs that have been cooked with large amounts of sunflower oil, bread to soak up the oil, and cheese. Meat is also thrown in two or three times a week. Lunch is soup of some sort, that is eaten with bread always in one of your hands. If you do not eat with the bread in your hand you are questioned and given looks. Dinner is normally meat, potatoes, bread, and some other random thing like maybe picked cabbage. Coffee time happens once or twice a day and there is always cakes, biscuits, and chocolate. Fruit sometimes comes out after dinner. Add in a supra or two a week and I know exactly why wait gain is happening. On Monday I had 5 pieces of cake that day. It was people’s birthdays and you sometimes just cant say no. I also did not know at the time of eating the first pieces of cake at school that I would be going to a birthday supra that night or I would have tried to have eaten less.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Talk then turned to the fact that my male volunteer friend was perplexed as to why it seems like all the women gain weight and all of the men loose weight over here. (This does seem to be the norm. I know there are some exceptions. Lucky bitches.) He asked if we just eat all the time? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When you are bored, do you just sit there thinking about how bored you are and how you should just eat to stay busy?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I thought about it and concluded that, that cannot be the answer, besides some of the guys must fall into that trap too, besides I don’t think any of the girls I know really ate that much more then they do back in their homeland. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, don’t hate me for saying this, but is it possible that girls are always on a diet or have some odd eating habit, then they get here and can’t keep it up or choose not to and let themselves go? </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, I thought, this does seem a little more probable. I mean I know a lot of people, guys and girls, who have let themselves go a bit since getting here, in one way or another. (Love not wearing make up everyday) Again this could not be the possible reason for the all around weight gain that split the genders.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our conversation moved on to other things and naturally it came back to the topic of drinking. Georgians pride themselves on having the best wine, well as much as we would love to agree we can’t, because we don’t know. There are no wine snobs twirling glasses, smell the lush bouquets, swishing it around in their mouths and spitting it out. Oh no, here there is just chugging glass after glass on the weekends, that honestly for most of us, grossly enough, gives us the shits and makes us throw up. I don’t know who thought of it first, but we realized an important thing. Girls are not forced to drink here. We can get away with being too “delicate.” Guys cannot escape this fate (I just this moment thought of my father coming to see me in Georgia and going to a supra and being made to drink. This man </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">never</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> drinks in the States, except for stealing one of my PBRs ever few months. It would be hilarious for me to see. I’ve heard rumors about him being a Jack and Coke man back in the day.) Anyways guys here have to drink. In Georgia ‘no’ is a sarcastic yes. All of a sudden it clicked, the guys are made to drink, there for cleaning every single thing they have ever eaten out of them, they are literally shitting and vomiting the pounds away. Girls sometimes get to drink a little wine, but its not enough, often enough to make them turn Georgian bulimic. I would just like all of my fellow female volunteers to remember this the next time we want to kill a male volunteer for loosing weight or kiss him for that matter. He’s probably recently thrown up.</span></span></div>Loiusehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13768412939248117692noreply@blogger.com0