Ich red' mir ein, es geht mir gut....!

Some encouragement to help me through the next seven weeks: this adorable terrier, with the caption, "I keep telling myself that I'm doing okay!"  You and me both, little guy.  (Sometimes we need to remind ourselves!)

Easter holidays (that's "vacation" to you 'Mericans) in Germany were only mildly hindered by my wallop of a head-chest-eye cold (I got pink eye--YES, PINK EYE, that disgusting infection found mostly in gooey kindergarteners who don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom).  That aside, the whole trip was exactly what I wanted and needed.

Pretzel, wanted; Radler, completely needed.

The lovely Musas of Germany.

Not pictured: me during my daily America's Next Top Model Cycle 16 viewings. 



So now here I am, back in Georgia, and I can handle seven more weeks.  I just have to keep telling myself I can.

When You Have Leisure Time

Hallo aus Deutschland, dear friends and family.  I am on a much-needed sojourn into civilization here in Munich, and I have been running about like a mad woman for two days, soaking up the familiarity of the city, as well as a Radler here, a cappuccino there, and about $60 worth of English magazines (here is where I should probably feel very ashamed of myself, but I'm just too damn happy).

Alas, I have been struck down by a cold, so since I am just loafing around the flat anyway, I thought I'd use my 'leisure time' to put up a few pictures here.  Maybe they'll clear up those rumors that I'm living in a straw hut with goats and teaching English to cows.

 

First day out of the hotel: My school director takes me to my original host home.  Little did I know then how much I would come to hate that ridiculous Cruella de Vil coat. 

My first home-cooked meal in Georgia--pickles, vermicelli, bread, and chacha (without which, no meal is complete).

Mini-supra at school.  Anything to avoid work.

At a rugby match with my friend Tamo.

Tavisuplebis Moedani (Freedom Square).  See how much Georgian I know?

A stunning view of Kutaisi from the Bagrati Cathedral. 

One of Kutaisi's founding fathers: David Bowie.  A little-known fact.

Not one to balk at tradition, I gamely drank wine from a sheep's horn at a teacher's birthday supra (and clearly enjoyed it). 

One of my buddies at the dog shelter I started volunteering at.  The poor guy has some sort of skin condition and is more dandruff than dog, so of course he is my favorite.  I've always had a soft spot for the disgusting ones.  I am so glad to have found the shelter; it's really the one place where I feel like I'm really doing anything meaningful or fulfilling.

Took a wonderful day trip to Davit Careji, a cave town near the Azerbaijan border. 

The view from the other side of the mountain at Davit Careji.  Definitely wish Dunia could have seen it.

There are plenty more pictures where those came from (mostly of animals, of course), but for now it's time for me to make myself look presentable, or at least human, and hit the Marienplatz.  So, in the words of Heidi Klum, I bid you all aufwiedersehen.

The Gays

In my monthly volunteer reports, I am forced asked to reflect on the “learn” part of the Teach and Learn with Georgia program.  Now, the "teach" part I'm finally getting down, but I still have to stretch my imagination to give a decent answer about what I'm learning from this unique country.  However, halfway through my time here, I know this much is true of Georgia:
1. Regarding food: When in doubt, just fry it.
2. Regarding hygiene: Whether or not you brush your teeth/shower/wash your hands with any regularity is up to you, but for God's sake, don't pet the stray dogs, they're dirty!
3. Regarding sexuality: "Here's hoping everyone at this table IS gay!" is not an acceptable toast to make at an all-Georgian feast. 


I learned this last one (the hard way) recently at a 6-year-old's birthday supra, my feathers properly ruffled when some old codger raised his glass and offered this toast: May everyone at the table be straight.  And with just the right amount of cognac in my system to silence the voice that would normally tell me, "Nadya, pick your battles, it's not worth it," I shouted a countertoast, if I may invent a new word.  It fell on a mostly non-English speaking audience but definitely was not well received by those who did understand it. 


With laser-like focus, Georgia's president, Mikheil Saakashvili, is intently pursuing entrance into NATO and, more importantly, the EU.  Despite his insistences that this is a bustling, cosmopolitan, modern country--look, here's Donald Trump himself, preparing to build a Trump Towers Hotel in Tbilisi!--Georgia is truly a country of villagers, steadfast in their traditions and less concerned with the bright-lights-big-city dreams of their President than they are with tending to their homes, their farms, their families.  They are fiercely protective of their own kind, but "different" is dangerous here, and has no place in the tightknit village communities.  They are Georgians, dammit, proud of their heritage and rightly so, but often to the detriment of anyone who does not fit the national idea of what a Georgian is supposed to be.   


I have found Georgians to be some of the warmest, most helpful, and most welcoming people I have ever met--which made the bluntly intolerant toast all the more disheartening.  By no means do I want to paint their culture as inherently racist, sexist, or homophobic; rather, the country is simply insulated, resistant to change, decidedly inward-looking and perhaps too ethnocentric (and I realize that coming from an American, a Texan at that, "ethnocentric" is a bit of a hypocritical observation).  Even my friend, a kind, bright, intelligent girl, has very straight-forwardly explained to me that while she has "no problem with the gays," she would not want them as her neighbors, and that Indians, Turks, and Africans smell bad. Georgia is still a place where English-speakers use the word "n****r," unaware, I guess, of its history and context, and refer to gay people as "the gays," as if they are a family that lives down the street ("Oh, look, the Gays bought a new car"), or an awesomely named garage band.  More than anything, I think Georgia is just a place that "doesn't get out enough," but so desperately needs to.


So, perhaps the old "tamada," or toast-maker, at the supra wasn't too far off the mark; maybe I even agree with him a little bit.  I wouldn't wish for anyone to be gay here either.  One of my students, bless his little Madonna-lovin' heart, is almost certainly "the gay," and I wonder about his future, about what growing up in a tiny village with no Bravo TV will be like for him.  I hope ten or so years down the line, Georgia will have opened its tightly shut eyes to the reality that its neat little definition of Georgian will have to bend and blur and accept "different" into the national identity.


Because you never know, your neighbors could very well be the Gays.