Summer | Estate | ზაფხული

Before I get to this summer and one small anecdote that I feel sums up my time here thus far… a quick shout out.

This summer would have been terrible and impossible if it hadn’t been for the Summer Assistants (see above photo). They have worked so incredibly hard. Not only have they served our students well… they’ve put up with incessant questions, weird stories, and pterodactyl-hiccups from me. So, if any of you read this, I just want to say thank you. You’ve been lovely.

Also pictured in that photo is Leanna. She’s laughed with me and let me cry. And she doesn’t even get mad when I get hangry. Plus she feeds me mexican food and takes me for walks where we end up buying new clothes that we don’t really need. And gelato. So much gelato. Basically, she’s wonderful. And I’m lucky to get to work with her.

On to the anecdote.

Last week I was at the phone store. Which is a long story. Just know that we’ve been working to fix a problem with my phone. Anyway, this place is called 3. And Nicola, the designated English-speaker (and very kind human) at 3 sent me to another phone company store called Tim.

“I’m sending you to Tim. You are going to see my friend there. His name is Zaur. He’s Russian. But he speaks Italian. And English. You’re gonna see Zaur. Then in a few days you’re going to come back to see me.”

Deal.

So off I charge, determined to get this finished as soon as possible… because there are a million other things to be done.

I go to Tim.

Zaur (the English-and-Italian-speaking Russian) greets me.

“Do you speak Italian?” a head shake from me “Oh, come on! Something? Spaghetti, lasagna, gnocchi, something!”

I laugh and say no. Which was kind of a lie. I’m learning. But I don’t know anything that will be particularly helpful to me in a phone store.

Zaur gets to work. We are about to finish up. I look at him and say, “So Nicola tells me you’re Russian.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Oh? I lived in the Republic of Georgia for two years. So I know like five words in Russian.” It’s actually six.

“Well actually I’m from Abkhazia.”

You, my dear friends, may recognize that word: Abkhazia. And if you do, it’s likely because while I was living with people who had been displace from–you guessed it–Abkhazia.

I speak Georgian to him, much to his surprise.

And that, humans, is how I found the 2-3 Georgians that happen to be living in a town in Italy.

This summer has been filled with things that, in the moment, were a tad bit annoying (however necessary) that ended up being totally wonderful and worth it because of a surprise at the end. I’m learning to wait for the other shoe to drop… because it inevitably does. And it’s usually a really great shoe.
It’s also been filled with traveling and concerts, lizards and giggles, lots of work and midday naps, and one strange fire alarm.

Che Strano

Weird things happen.

And in my case, two weird things happened yesterday–one within an hour of the other. Two very different, very strange things.

Thing one:
I would like to start by letting you all know that Arezzo is, though not perfectly, a relatively safe city. I haven’t felt unsafe walking around at any time of the day or night thus far. And with that, my story goes on.

Yesterday I was standing with two other females at a street corner talking. I had been meandering around after dinner when I saw them and we stopped to chat. We were on the arguably busiest street in Arezzo, at least for foot traffic. A man comes up to us, speaking in Italian and gesturing at me. He circles and stands cattycorner from me about two feet to my left. My friends and I continue our conversation.

He stands

He stares.

About two minutes later, he walks by me again, only this time circling and coming within two inches of my person. I’m concerned he’s either going to grab me or try to steal my purse. I tense up. My friends and I become silent. The man gestures at me some more and the only word we hear clearly is “bella.” He walks away. The three of us sigh in relief and go on about our evenings.

Did I mention he was eating a croissant the entire time?

Thing two:
Maybe 45 minutes later, I’m walking along a road I often take back to the monastery… because it’s the one with the least incline (or, perhaps, it has the same incline but it happens over a longer space). A group of women and girls walk up to me gesturing and speaking Italian. At first I ignored them. One woman waved at me and started speaking again. I told them I only know a little Italian.

“Do you speak English?” she asked in a thick accent.

Turns out they needed directions to the city center and… I was the person they chose.

 

In sum: in one day I looked both American enough to be slightly harassed by a strange man and Italian enough to be asked directions by Italians. What a life.

Buongiorno, იტალია!

Some towns are sleepy.

Arezzo most certainly is not.

The air is full of pigeons, the streets with people, my nose with smells.

Strolling through the streets (which sometimes also means huffing up hills) there are a few distinct things to watch out for. One of those things is the Pigeon Zone. There are literally thousands of pigeons here and they tend to hang out in certain places. If you’re walking along the side of road, or on the ever-rare sidewalk, you might look down and notice a very distinct area where to avoid: the poop zone.

During those strolls you might also notice that there are people pretty much everywhere. There are many cars, but there seems to be a constant flood of people. And they *will* run into you. They fearlessly traipse across pedestrian crossings, setting out only a moment before a car is due to go by. They often have their dogs, incredibly well-behaved and inevitably small. The women wear hight heels. The men in business suits or skinny jeans, despite the 80+ degree heat. Nearly everyone is fashionable. They navigate the town effortlessly.

I, however, am a bit more cautious. I wait a moment to make sure the cars will slow down. I carry water with me and dress in Birkenstocks. I tend to look around corners before making turns and often look around amazed at the structures around me.

And the smells. There is literally always something to smell. Sometimes the door the the lavender store is open. I pass by the purple storefront, breathe in the calm, take in the possible purchases. Sometimes it’s the bar (cafè) with fresh baked goods or the restaurant with fresh bread. Other times it’s… not quite so pleasant. And we’ll leave that there.

Arezzo is snuggled in a valley between green, green mountains.There is a wall surrounding the old part of the city. Inside that wall, the buildings are smushed together and almost jostle fore space. The roofs are terracotta orange and the buildings tend to be variations on light green, white, and soft yellow. Most of the shutters–the windows invariably have shutters, are green. The roads are wide-cobblestones most of the time. Outside the wall the buildings have more breathing room. The roads are paved. The cars park on the skinny, though thankfully existent, sidewalks. The further from the city you get, the more space there is.

A 20-minute walk from the wall is a movie theater. It happens to be part of what I can only describe as a mall. They play movies in English every Wednesday. Last night we went and watched Wonder Woman. I nearly cried. But not for the reason you might think. During the first real battle scene, as Diana charges across the field taking all the  fire, I felt tears behind my eyelids. How thankful I am that it’s during my lifetime that we females, women and girls, get to see a mainstream film where a woman is the leader and the best fighter. Now, I’m sure there are plenty of critiques (how come she had to fight in heels? What about that outfit? Why did she have to take her hair down before she started fighting?), but I am immensely happy. Representation, even and especially in the mainstream media, is so important. (Sorry not sorry that I couldn’t get through one blog post without talking about the patriarchy or something related.)

And let me tell y’all, the Italians do a lot of things right. But one of my favorites is that they take a five minute intermission in the middle of their movies. Which means I could go to bathroom without missing any of the action.

What I guess I’m trying to say here is that I’m settling in very, very well.

 

 

 

Nametag

I’ve had a lot on my mind recently. A lot that I’ve wanted to talk to you all about. Everything from my online dating experience to walking around as a female in America to Arezzo to BYOB (Being Your Own BAE). I’ve also had shin splints recently so I’ve spent an indescribable amount of time googling how I can keep running but also not get a stress fracture. It’s been a whole TIME.

A few of these in summation:
Online dating is weird and no less awkward or hard than regular dating. It’s definitely no less disappointing… and is actually probably more so. And I’d encourage you to actually start a conversation with that person you’ve magically matched with that you think is so attractive. Just do it.
Arezzo is coming up in just about a month and I’m losing my mind. No, I haven’t started packing. Yes, I have started (re)teaching myself Italian. And I should have my visa very, very soon.
BYOB because you’ve got to take care of yourself… even if that means Michelob Ultra and Girl Scout Thin Mint brownies three nights in a row while you watch Nicholas Sparks movies because you’re feeling mopey.

Have I mentioned that there’s also school and work and trying to be a good family member/friend?

A lot on my brain.

But I’m going to go where I always seem to end up… the (capitalist, heteronormative, sexist, racist, cis, white, etc. patriarchy… probably) and tell you a story that I don’t know I’ve quite worked out how I feel for myself.

I’m an external processor. I never know where I’m going to end up. Hang in there.

On a bright and sunny recent Monday, I walked across the street separating my office from the nearest gas station. It’s your run-of-the-mill gas station… but it’s also no QuikTrip (and if you think QT is anything less than perfection, we’ll fight). I needed to get a money order, which felt sketchy in and of itself for whatever reason, so that I could turn in my visa paperwork.

Anyway, I did something that I almost never do before I went in. I took off my nametag.

I know, I know. What a banal detail to include. But track with me.

Taking off my nametag is something I almost never do. I wear it to class and often off-campus, as well. Every morning I just… set it and forget it. And there was no reason for me to take it off just because I was going into a gas station… in the middle of the day… that I’ve been in dozens of times before.

Since requesting a money order is also something I haven’t done in recent memory, I didn’t know the procedure. I walked up and asked the cashier what I needed to do in my normal, trying-to-make-friends-by-being-kind-of-funny way. She pointed to the ATM in the corner and told me there was a fee that I needed to account for on top of the amount of the money order. She was none too amused by my antics, either.

The ATM was *not* in the corner as I’d expected. It was at the end of the aisle, closest to the cashier desk. When I turned the corner, expecting to be walking down the aisle, I nearly ran into the gentleman using the ATM. So I took a step back and patiently waited my turn.

It’s worth noting in this moment that the gentleman using the ATM was older… and he was very, very tall. Heavier-set. I’m not one to be intimidated easily by the people around her.  I’m usually just as concerned with a big dude in a gas station as I am with a teenager or a small kid. I stay aware because I am a small female. It’s one of the things that I think about in public… pretty much always. I’m tiny–usually see as a weakness–and I’m a woman. And because I am aware of the way people tend to think of those things, I refuse to let myself be intimidated or scared. I prefer to think of myself as small and mighty… or something.

The gentleman finished using the ATM and turned and looked at me.

“You look very nice today,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied, my mind was going haywire. Where was my wallet? My keys? Phone? My bank card that’s out, do I drop it? Is the cashier paying attention? Do I fight? Do I run? Thank goodness, I thought, that I took my nametag off. Otherwise, he’d know my name. My brain was so busy, I didn’t hear what he said next. But I smiled, close-lipped. And he stood there for a heartbeat longer, the length seeming to increase the speed of the calculations my brain was trying to make, before walking around me and leaving the store.

He’d done nothing to trigger that sort of response from me… necessarily. But, for me, this experience can’t help but make me think about the ways in which we interact with others in the spaces we occupy.

I, a small female (and a hundred other things), occupy a space differently than someone who is of other identities… even just one other identity.

I, a small female, have to be aware of people all of the time because society tells me that whatever happens to me, it’ll be my own fault.

I, a small female, felt instantaneously concerned about what might be typically normal behavior from a man. I’m sure he thought he was doing nothing wrong and, in fact, probably thought he was making my day better.

We don’t know the effect we have on the other people sharing space with us.

But we should think about it.

Being a female alone and wearing a dress in a gas station, having been told all my life not to wear a dress or skirt too short or a man might have the right to do whatever he wanted and it would be my own fault, quickly turned from an ordinary gas station errand to an adrenaline-pumping moment. And just as quickly, it was over.

Consider, however, the fact that he felt he had the right to speak to me. He gets to intrude on my time and invade my space because… he just gets to. And I have to listen. Smile. Nod. That is the role I am expected to play.

Can you see? Can you see how the perpetuation of rape culture in our society affected what could have, arguably should have, been a positive interaction with a stranger? Can you see how the myth that men are unfeeling beings driven solely by desire made me afraid? Can you see that the gender role I was socialized in to told me to stand and smile for fear of retribution? Can you?

Maybe you can. I’m sure you can see other things, too. I’m sure you can see things I don’t or things that I disagree with.

Maybe you think you can see me overreacting.

I’m not. But if you think I am, it’s because we have different experiences.

But isn’t that the point? We all see, feel, experience everything differently. I could go today and have that very same interaction and possibly react differently. We are shaped daily, moment by moment, by our experience. And that experience is shaped by identities that we all hold. The history that we feel. Only I can decide what hurts me. Just as only you can decide what hurts you.

Try to be aware of how your identities overshadow, oppress, affect others. And try to mitigate those negative impacts.

Frantic

This is a post I’ve been writing in my brain for quite some time (I’m done apologizing for not writing as often as I intend. Stuff happens or whatever). It has shifted and changed and the only thing that I can assure you has stayed the same is the title.

That word. Frantic. It gets me. I spend a lot of too much time thinking about it. It feels like the only word I can absolutely, truly use to describe my past six months (for certain) and the past year (probably).

Speaking of the last year, 2016 was crap (if you ask me).

And not just crap in a did-we-really-just-do-that-America???? kind of way. Crap in a lot of ways. Crap in that a lot of really great famous people died. Crap in that so many of my friends dealt with really hard things. Crap in that my first semester of grad school left me exhausted  and with no social life (but a 4.0 so… mixed bag?). Crap in that, yes, a lot of unacceptable behaviors were normalized when we elected a new president.
Tangentially related: a lot of me hates that I used the word “crap” so many times in this paragraph because it’s terribly opposite-of-eloquent… but seems like maybe that’s the best descriptor.

All of that’s not to say that I don’t know that a literal TON of wonderful things have happened to me in the past year. I am lucky and blessed beyond measure. The problem arises out of knowing what I’ve done compared to what I know I can and want to do. A girl’s got a right to dream, hasn’t she?

I believe in dreaming. One way  I’ve often used to dream for each of my years is to name it. In 2016, I honestly thought my word was “fulfillment.” Some of you might remember this. But I watched from a Dallas hotel rooftop as 2016 fled and I felt anything but fulfilled. I felt frantic. And I could justify the difference away. I did fulfill a lot of commitments this past year. But most of them didn’t leave me with that sense of contentment I was longing for–you know the one. That feeling you get when you fall into bed after a day of (possibly) hard but also productive and worthwhile work.

Instead I left 2016 and began 2017 feeling frantic. And I hate that. To be clear, frantic is not just a sense of busyness and movement. To me, “frantic” brings with it a sense of emptiness where there should be joy and, well, fulfillment.

So I started out feeling a little bummed, a little let down (and, as always, raging against the patriarchy). I’ve spent the past few days contemplating and dealing with these feelings and I’ve decided a few things.

One: like I’ve said before, I’m not actually a fan of creating resolutions for the new year. They feel ritualistic in an empty way. But I do believe fresh starts.
Two: there are things I can improve in the coming year.
Three: it doesn’t matter how much of a disappointment this last year might’ve been. I’m not letting it keep me from dreaming and improving.
Four: I want to keep it simple.

And that’s leads us to 2017.
This year I’m going to practice more
Patience
Persistence
Productivity
Pinot noir? (Joking… but wine drinking is inevitable.)

Amid all of that, though, I don’t want to push and power into things. When I find myself acting that way, I miss it. The big, near indefinable it. Instead, I want to be gentle. I want to be kind. Kind to myself. Kind to others.

So many quotes come to mind.
“You gotta be kind to yourself,” -She & Him
“Find what feels good,” -Adriene (my favorite online yogi)
“Beyond a wholesome discipline,
Be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;” -Max Ehrmann
(I said so many. I meant three.)

With a year that’s been rough and polarizing for so many passing, I think it’s time we started taking care of ourselves (and each other) a little more and a little better.

Home.

Oh, friends (and family and… enemies?).

I arrived home a month ago two days ago and let me tell you: I have felt all of the feels. When I said I would be hitting the ground running, I’m pretty sure even I didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

After a DELIGHTFUL 26-hour trip home (during which I met a new friend, made a man high-five me on an airplane, met a pilot, was pleasantly surprised at the Houston airport by the easy customs process, and had to switch planes because ours was broken), I sat on my couch and ate my mother’s leftover Chipotle. While my dogs stared at me. And I have to tell you… it was nice.

I spent the next week + at the lake. Sunburns and puppy snuggles and swimming and LOTS of barbecue sauce. And a little catch-up with some friends and family.

On June 30th, I moved into my new apartment at OU. Because, oh yeah PS in case I didn’t tell you, I’m back in Norman! I technically started work on the first (but… didn’t do much and went right back to the lake). So… holla atcha girl.

I actually started work on the fifth. I fell absolutely head over heels for my staff and supervisors. Honestly, I felt (and still feel) so lucky to be here. I’m feeling so supportive and loved… even while I feel disconnected and weird.

One thing that has struck me is how willing to listen to my stories people are (usually… and I recognize that this literally CANNOT last). During conferences and in talking to RPCVs in general, they stressed the fact that people wouldn’t want to hear it. We’ve all been through this life-changing thing and life back at home has gone on as normal. To you, dear humans, who have taken the time to listen to me and let me tell you all about a culture (even if you’ve rolled your eyes once or twice) that you’ll probably never experience–and especially to those of you who don’t get too annoyed when I start talking to you in Georgian–I want to say thank you. It’s made my transition home so much easier.

But it hasn’t all been easy. My first full week of work not only was I completely overwhelmed but I watched from my couch as useless deaths were recounted on my TV. Amidst that anguish, I kept telling myself that I was okay. Everything was okay. Because that’s what I wanted to tell everyone else (and, well, it is what I told everyone else). I just refused to believe anything besides the fact that I was okay and doing great.

Until Sunday.

Sunday after my first week of work, I had to stop by the bank for cash. I was buying a bookcase from someone later. I stopped at a gas station to get some gum (mostly because I needed change). I walked in, looked to my right. And, I kid y’all not, there were four rows of gum that stretched the entire length of the store.

I nearly lost it right there. In the middle of the gas station.

Instead, I stood in front of the rows of gum for a solid three minutes, staring. Just staring. How does one go about choosing gum… especially when there are so many choices? Surely they are all the same, in the end? Eventually, I picked up the first pack that I had set eyes on earlier, paid, and left the store.

I was either in tears or verging on them for the rest of the day. Overwhelmed with a heavy heart. I was so happy to be at home, but it felt like a completely foreign place. I didn’t know how to “America” anymore. How do you choose gum? What do you buy? Why do I own so many things? Who are these humans? It was all so much.

But in recognizing my overwhelmedness and in allowing myself to take some self-care time, I managed to pull it together. That’s not to say I didn’t get home after only four hours of work and immediately take a nap/just lay on my couch staring at nothing. There is something so freeing about recognizing what we feel and then allowing ourselves to feel it. Own your feels, humans!

I’m so thankful for the community surrounding me. I had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by people who also put a high value on relationship/recognition/helping others selflessly. Not that my PC friends weren’t wonderful. But there’s nothing like returning to my housing-home. And that’s not even to mention my actual-home.

The end of my re-acculturation is not in sight (at least, I’m pretty sure it’s not… I’m still not totally sure about pop culture and, quite frankly, Pokemon Go freaks me out). But I’ve got some lovely humans to walk alongside and help me process.

A few other fun facts:
I started running (gross, I know).
I still haven’t stalled my car.
I attended a Black Lives Matter rally.
My new boss is the bomb-diggity.
I bought a ukulele.
I still haven’t eaten enough barbecue sauce.
A few of my new coworkers like to make fun of me for being old (-er than them, and it’s all in love… I think).
I’ve finally purchased silverware (and wine glasses) for my apartment.
Have I mentioned that I’m oh-so thankful?

 

Love,

 

PS: I expect you might be wondering what I’m going to do with this blog now that I’m home and whatnot. The truth is I don’t know. But I plan on writing SOMETHING every once in a while. Hang in there!

Going Out With A… Whisper?

11 days until I’m home. 10 days until I COS. 6 days until I leave Senaki.

 

If we’ve talked about my leaving Georgia in the past few months, you’ve probably already heard this. But for the rest of you:

Part of me wants to leave this town (and this country) quietly. I want to just… steal out in the dead of night with no one knowing and no tears.

To that effect: I taught my last class without really even knowing it. I saw some of my kids for the last time and they had no idea. I’m pretty sure some people don’t understand that I won’t be back next August to teach… and I’m not correcting them.

But then there’s another piece of me. The piece that wants to run through the streets hugging and crying and dancing. The piece of me that wants everyone to throw me a party and be sad that I’m leaving and ask me to stay. The part of me that gave a speech to 10 ninth graders about how they were crazy but I love them to pieces and I’m so thankful to have been their teacher.

 

Last week I went on my last excursion. I saw Vardzia, an incredibly old cave city, and it made me feel so small. It’s lasted so long, and I am just a small part of history. I toasted (in Georgian) and danced with my kids. I giggled and thought about crying because… I just get so danged attached to things. I saw churches and FINALLY understood jokes in Georgian. People make these incredibly long treks to see an old cave city. Hopefully I’ve done something here worth remembering.

I knew coming in that I wouldn’t be able to see the impact I’ve made–but certainly I’ve made one. What I didn’t realize was how hard it would be to leave.

Next week I’ll be packing and saying goodbye. Because as much as I would like to steal away with only a whisper, that wouldn’t be fair to the people that I’ve spent the last two years living life with. So I’ll say goodbye and thank you and probably spend a good deal of time crying and/or running away from the feels.

I’ll be home before y’all know it.

 

Love,

Excursions Galore!

I’ve had a pretty trying day. Admittedly, it was trying for no good reason. So instead of sitting in my crankiness, I’m going to tell you all about excursion weekend extravaganza!

This past weekend I had the absolute pleasure of accompanying two of my classes on excursions. You might’ve seen the massive facebook dump of pictures. It was warm. It was rainy. It was fun. It was hilarious. It was… exhausting.

On Saturday I went with the sixth graders to: Nokalakevi, Salxuno, Matrvili, and the river. I’d been to Nokalakevi before, but I’d never been inside the museum. Did y’all know that the people who lived in Nokalakevi/Samegrelo/Kolxeti up in the 4-3 century BC (THAT’S RIGHT, BC) traded with the Greeks? Because I didn’t. Seeing such… ancient things was incredible. Pots and arrowheads and coins, OH MY! While there, my students also got to participate in an archaeology exercise. In four groups, they literally used brushes to uncover (fake) bones and other artifacts that had been covered with sand in different boxes. They then catalogued and discussed the artifacts.

Also, interesting fact, they used to bury people in pots. Like… clay pots. They were squeezed into the pot in a squatting position and buried that way. So there’s that.

After Nokalakevi we went to Salxuno and visited the church (and took adorable pictures in the grass) and visited the Martvili church. Some of my girls kept saying “Kala, you’re mine right? Only mine?” to the objections of the others. I also made a four year old be my friend. And all of the kids begged to go to the river, even when there was lightning and thunder. It cleared up a bit. And some of my kids nearly drug me off into the water (even after I went dead weight) until the parents stopped it. We got home early enough that I was able to rest before the next day.

Sunday I woke up to… rain. Or the promise of it. All day. BUT THAT WASN’T GONNA GET ME DOWN! So I dressed for the weather and headed off to school to meet the fourth graders. First stop: Prometheus Cave. This was one of the places I was bummed about because I thought I wasn’t going to get to go (side note: WHERE DID MY TIME GO?). After waiting for quite some time (and having all the kids complain at 11am that they were hungry), we went in the cave with a tour guide. SURPRISE: it was a tour in English and Georgian. When the guide said for the first time that she was going to explain the rules and such to the English-speakers, all my kids looked at me. I just looked back and told them that I knew Georgian and I didn’t need the translation. And, happily enough, I really didn’t! Given, a lot of the things we talked about were cognates. BUT STILL. Also… I have a serious amount of love and appreciation for caves. Like… THEY ARE SO COOL.

I would like to brag on my kids for just a minute. They were so incredibly well-behaved. I mean, we were walking around in the half-dark and I didn’t have to get onto them for being mean to each other or yelling ONE TIME. NOT ONCE. They listened intently to the tour guide and participated when necessary. It was incredible. The guide even said that if all the kids she took on tours all day behaved like our kids, she would love her job so much more. I was such a proud little mama.

At lunch we celebrated our director’s birthday with singing and a cake and, of course, wine. We toasted to her, the kids, the parents, and even our driver. WHO WAS AWESOME, BTW. I even toasted to him (in Georgian) and everyone was really impressed. I caught my counterpart pretending that pear soda was wine. And she reminded me of how I tend to refuse wine on excursions. It was all very silly and wonderful.

We went to two more churches (and at one I crawled through a hole and looked at a pair of skulls three times… apparently to make a wish come true). The parents on the excursion bought me a magnet. And then we went to the Kutaisi funfair. What was interesting about this excursion is that at each stop 2-3 kids did a small presentation on the history of the area. My little scholars.

We ended the day on the side of the road at an abandoned building. We (and when I say we I mean the teachers/parents) built a fire, danced, played games, and ate. And as great of a day it had been thus far, I really want to brag on the ENTIRE group for a minute.

As some of you may or may not know, Georgia has a fairly large race problem. Mainly being that since all Georgians tend to look more or less similar (white), they don’t always react well to people of different races or ethnicities. People of Asian descent have it (in my opinion) especially hard here. I’ve been with community members who exclaim “ჩინელი, ჩინელი!” (Chinese person, Chinese person!) and point and laugh. Other people do worse things. But, on the excursion, when my director, coworkers, parents, and children saw three people of Asian descent walking along the road they invited them over, gave them wine and food, and promptly proceeded to insist on having a dance party. Not once did I hear my students (or see them) pointing and laughing. The parents and teachers just alike were welcoming and hospitable. It was the kind of welcome I wish for every foreigner in this country to receive. One or two of the three spoke Russian, so they even took to having a conversation. It was just the BEST.

After we had packed everything away and were on our way home (literally driving off into the sunset), I had to will myself not to cry (a bit). It literally had been the best excursion I could have asked for.

 

To finish off this post, I just want to add that my students have started drawing arrows on the insides of their ankles… to mimic my tattoo. Imitation just, in fact, might be the sincerest form of flattery.

 

Love always,

THE END IS NIGH

I am one giant, moving, walking, breathing paradox at the moment.

I’m so busy that I don’t know how I’m going to fit everything into the next month. I’ve also got too much free time on my hands, somehow.

I’m nervous to reacclimate into American life and culture, but I can’t wait to come home.

I want to leave Georgia but I don’t want to leave behind the life I’ve become part of here.

Basically, I feel like curling up into a little ball with a book and refusing to speak to anyone all the while wanting to go spend all of my free time with the friends and family I have here in-country. And that seems to be the story of COSing.

To give you all an idea of what I’ve got left to do:
-3 excursions (field trips)
-1 banquet
-1 barbecue at the Ambassador’s
-1 appearance at PST
-1 suitcase, 1 hiking backpack, 1 bag to pack
-8 showers (roughly estimating)
-1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 goodbyes to say
-2 layovers on the way home

And putting that down on virtual paper makes it seem like it’s not a lot. But consider the fact that every time I do something here, I’m starting to think it’ll be the last time. მაგალითად (for example), I just bought shampoo and conditioner… for what is probably the last time in this country. Or I went to happy hour at an oft-frequented bar on Friday in Tbilisi for what is quite possibly (but maybe not?) the last time. I saw PCV friends that… well, who knows if I’m going to see them again (in this country or ever at all). I also got my Georgian tattoo… and I can guarantee that’s the last time I’m gonna get a tattoo for so cheap (60 lari… roughly 30 dollars).

Trying to live and be in the moment when there’s something as large as moving your entire life back to a different continent in front of you is just as hard as you’d expect it to be… or maybe a bit harder.

I’ve said it before, but I’m just living a normal life over here. Pre-PC, I would think about my service and all the adventures I would have on a daily basis. And it’s true, tiny adventures are always waiting if you’re willing to look for them. But at the same time, this has really become the new normal. It doesn’t feel like “PEACE CORPS,” capital everything. It feels like… I’m a human living with other humans and just doing what humans do. So all that being said, I know that my life back in America will be different. But it’s incredibly hard to imagine that right now.

And then there’s the added layer of my return. Namely that I don’t know when that will be. It was almost easier, I think, to leave America because I knew exactly (or thereabouts) when I would be home. 27 months. You know that from the get-go. Last week I walked into the teacher’s lounge and was greeted with questions about when I would come back to Senaki. I gave my normal response which is mostly “the future…,” but that generated a series of guesses. “October?” they asked, “New years??” My first reaction was, if I’m being honest, to get annoyed. If I knew when I’d come back, I would say it! But when I sit back and think about it, they’re looking for concrete answers because, somehow, they just might miss me as much as I’ll miss them.

Not knowing is hard.

I’ve always said it: I’d rather know bad news now than sit around, wallowing in my ignorance for any period of time. But there’s nothing I can do about it right now.

 

Speaking of things that I may or may not be able to do something about. I had an “AHA!” moment recently. At our Close of Service (COS) Conference, we took what should have been our very last language test. We received our results a few weeks later. And I was intensely unhappy with mine. According to the test, my language level had gone down. It was only one level and it didn’t really matter because I could put the highest level achieved on my Description of Service… but it really bugged me. I was just SUPER bummed. As it so happens, I got the news right before an interview… so it was almost worse. Anyway. I looked at my options. And instead of wallowing around in my own self-pity and being bummed and complaining… I realized that this was something it was in my power to change. And I didn’t HAVE to settle. Cue “I’VE GOT THE POWER” playing in my brain. So, last Friday, I retook my language test. And no matter what the outcome actually is (I haven’t gotten the results yet), I’d like to take a moment to publicly acknowledge that I am actually super proud of myself. Not everyone takes control of a situation that they’re unhappy with, even if it’s in their power to change it. In fact, it’s been my experience–in my short 25 years of life–that most people would rather NOT do anything. And just like I’m not going to be one of those women who refuses to admit their real age because they’re ashamed or whatever (thanks, society), I’m not going to be one of those people who complains instead of changing the things that are in their power.

So boom.

Let’s end this post on that positive note right there.

Love,

Chasing Winter

Welllll… I just realized that I hadn’t uploaded pictures to Facebook since sometime around the New Year. So… cheers to that.

A lot has been happening around here. The most notable of which seems to be that the weather is finally consistently hitting the seventies.

That being said, we also had Orthodox Easter (and spring break) at the end of April. So… I’m only blogging about a week (and a half?) late. Which is re-he-heally pretty good if you think about it.

Let’s talk about what “spring break” means. It means it’s getting warmer. Spring has sprung and summer isn’t too far away. No more freezing. South by Southwest. Some people go skiing. Whatever. The point is that it’s usually warm (or you travel to warm places).

Let’s talk about things Kala likes. Summer. Warm things. Reading books in the sun. Not getting rained on. Eating. Coffee.

Let’s talk about how I apparently decided to CHASE WINTER UP INTO THE MOUNTAINS for my spring break. WHO AM I?

What’s even more inexplicable is that I actually enjoyed my 3-5.5 hour hikes in the precipitation while wearing multiple layers of clothing.

But perhaps I should tell you a little more about where I was?

Svaneti is a region/area of Georgia that’s all up in the mountains. The major “town,” if you can call it that, is Mestia. It is also home to the highest continually inhabited village in Europe. Mount Ushba is a notable peak not because it’s even one of the ten highest peaks in the Caucasus range, but because it’s apparently a pretty rough trek. It’s a pretty popular area for hiking.

A quick rundown of some of the highlights:
-Me, constantly listening to Beyonce.
-A 3 hour hike to Chaladi Glacier in the rain on our two year Georgia-versary.
-Crossing bridges because we followed a dog that we named Martha around Mestia.
-Giorgi, a village kid, with great English saying “DO YOU WANT SOME SALT?”
-A 5-ish hour hike in Ushguli to Shkhara Glacier during which is rained, snowed, sleeted, and shined.
-Finding a giant dandelion and carrying it back to the guest house.
-Some YUMMY Svan food (meat khachapuri and mashed potatoes with cheese inside).
-Climbing on some REAL STINKIN’ BIG ROCKS to get to a patch of snow.
-Dance-hiking (I would say it was about half normal and half dance for me, TBH).
-Meeting an Israeli girl who hugged me because we both hiked in leggings and had Northface fleeces.
-Homemade bread and peanut butter.
-Generally spending solid time with some humans that I really like.

I can’t help thinking that the fact that I chased winter up into the mountains when all I talk about is spring and the warm weather coming as some sort of metaphor or allegory for the end of my PC service. All I seem to talk about is COS/paperwork/what happens after, but I also keep running away from the fact that it’s ending soon. Maybe I’ll write about that later. But for now, enjoy some pretty pictures!

დიდ სიყვარულით,
Lots of love,