Soviet Slim Down: An Introduction

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.

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. 

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.

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)

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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!”

Breakdown of the numbers:

Fall 2009: 

February 2012: 107kg (236lbs)

June 2012: 100kg (220lbs)

August 2012: 108kg (238lbs)

December 2012: 100kg (220lbs)

May 2012: 90kg (198.5lbs)

February 2012: Barley squeezing into a size 18 in Gap

May 2012: Comfortably a size 14 in Gap 

Break down in photos:

January 2012 (Georgia)

June 2012 (Armenia)

November 2012 (Ukraine)

May 2013 (Ukraine)

One Year...

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. 

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. 

Ok, so maybe I was that child the other weekend...

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 all of you!

Emily 

New Years Eve (Lviv, Ukraine)

Christmas (Lviv, Ukraine)

My first Georgian dance (Mid- January 2012 Tamariani, Georgia)

My first Georgian drinking horn (Early February 2012, Lagodekhi, Georgia)

My host dad's birthday supra with Simon, my Georgian husband, if I would only say yes. (March 7th, 2012 Tamariani Georgia)

Azerbaijan Border with J. (Late March 2012 Lagodekhi, Georgia)

Armenia (mid-June 2012)

Volunteering as Roskilde Music Festival (Roskilde Denmark, Late June/ early July 2012)

Mumford and Sons with my sister cousin (August 4, 2012, Portland, Maine)

Sam thought it would be funny to get me wasted on my birthday. Enjoy this picture Sam. (September 28th, 2012 Tbilisi, Georgia)

Davit Gareja Monastary (Early October 2012, Georgia)

Thanksgiving 2012 (Lviv, Ukraine)

Armenia: Day One: Art Over Load

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. 

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 need 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. 

Sign to the museum 

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. 

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.

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.) 

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.

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.

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.) 

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.

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.

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.

Midnight Train to Georgia!... I Mean From Georgia to Yerevan

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. 

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.

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. 

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!

Train compartment with apples

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.) 

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, seriously Georgian? What would I ever use that for?)  

Mhaha! They gave it to me!

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. 

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. 

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...

I looked so happy with my Ukrainian friend who wanted to take me fishing!