Chemi Megobari (My Friend)

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is Jamie Phillips. I'll be posting a new ESL-related article on my blog at the start of every month, and the carnival is always published on the 5th by that month's host. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival, please contact Dean at dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com, and he will let you know how you can start participating!

Friendships on the road are interesting things. Everything is moving quickly, and the person who was a stranger one second survives a careening bus nearly slamming into your shared taxi the next and you are suddenly best friends! But these friendships can sometimes fade away just as quickly, when after a night of wine and deep conversation in the hostel your new friend leaves for Istanbul in the morning and you head to Yerevan.

Longer term stays abroad give you more time for building friendships. They also give you more time to build up immunity to blatant staring, mistranslations, and exciting animal parts for breakfast. 

My best friend when I lived in the country of Georgia is someone I'll call James. Her name isn't actually James (and she is actually a female) but the Georgians called her something like that, so we'll go with it. James and I roomed together during our teacher training, were assigned to villages not far apart, and used our little Nokia phones to talk every single day. You would think we didn't have enough news to talk every single day, but we did. Chickens fought, teachers tried to marry us off to their sons, confusion arose. She came over to my host family's house for my 23rd birthday, when we had only arrived a week before, barely spoke Georgian and had no idea how to act. We were awkward together. We went to Batumi, the city on the Black Sea coast and got hopelessly lost and still managed to have a lovely time. 

James is from a small town in the northern mid-west and she's traveled almost every where. She saved cats in Guatemala and studied hallucinogenic drugs in Peru and went to math class in Germany. At least, that's how I remember the stories. James didn't take crap from nobody, and that's the kind of person you want to travel with.

We exchanged ridiculous text messages to get us through hour long supras (the toasting feasts of abundant alcohol). She took it in stride when shirtless Russian men approached us, or when she had to travel solo to meet us far in the mountains. James was a mastermind behind the great Mattress Carrying Caper. James stayed calm at all kinds of border crossings. James rejected the hands of Georgian suitors. 

During my time in Georgia, I also fell head over heels for a foreign mountain man and spent the majority of my time traveling with him and James. He and I were one of those obnoxious couples, but James was always chill about it. James gave us our space without rolling her eyes and cut our hair in a hostel in Armenia. The three of us did Christmas together in Istanbul and then just James and I went on to Greece, while Mountain Man returned to wandering mountains. 

We grabbed a bus into Athens and then found ourselves outside the bus stop, no Euros in our pocket and no place to exchange our money anywhere in sight. We were in the gray, asphalt wastelands of what I term the Athens Bus Desert, a place that chills the most Greek-loving soul. James remained calm and some kindly Greek people helped us. 

We took photos of each other at the Parthenon and made our way to Santorini, one of the Greek Islands. We took a hundred photos from the ferry and had a small giggling, squeal fest when we were actually on the shuttle up the cliffside. And we aren't the giggly types. We reveled in our inexpensive, gloriously clean hotel room and the views of the ocean. The next day we were stranded by the unreliable island bus system, and left to walk for hours along the road until we were picked up by a nice man who spoke to us about rabbit hunting.  We ate octopus by the sea. We saw waterspouts weaving through the ocean. I remember Santorini for its strange off-season abandoned feeling, the smell of the sea, and the beauty so striking it stung. 

It rained during one of our walks around the island, but James was prepared with an umbrella. 

James may get upset with Georgian manners and capricious children, but the only time I saw her truly angry was New Years Eve, which we celebrated in an Irish Pub in Athens with a bunch of Canadians. We followed the Canadians to a club and it was a terrible, crowded expensive place and James was angry. Rightly so, James.

We had to say goodbye the next day, I feeling sickly and exhausted,  heart aching from loss of the Mountain Man, boarded a long bus to Istanbul and then Tbilisi. James prepared to travel solo to Thessaloniki where she met a Peruvian man and they got married. That last part isn't true, but I would have been only slightly shocked. 

There are some people that come to define a time in your life. James was my person for my four months in the Caucuses. We drank wine in chilly nights in the mountains, stayed in countless hostels together, and forgave each other for lack of showering. James rapped Kanye's "Gold Digger" in the streets of Yerevan around midnight. It was oddly inspiring. 

Mountain Man came and went in my life, but it's James who I still send weird articles to about Georgia. And when I think of those months in the villages, I see myself walking down my town's main road, kicking up leaves and hoping a dog doesn't chase me, talking on my little Nokia phone to James. We were probably discussing our scores on the Snake game or planning our next trip. We were also likely complaining about strange food, cold bedrooms, and tummy troubles. 

I miss those days.  

Mistake Making

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is Vanessa Long, here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with me at dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com, and I’ll let you know how you can start participating!

I made so many daily little mistakes in the different countries I have taught in - cultural faux pas, language mishaps, that time I accidentally dropped all my underwear in my neighbors yard... 

In the classroom, I'm sure I made just as many mistakes. I made the mistake in the country of Georgia of doing an English "tournament". Well, I'm not sure if it was a mistake or not - the kids loved games, but those that were good at English were so absolutely devastated if they did not win. I thought the tournament would be fun for everyone and give the students who weren't the best at English a chance to win small prizes along with the better students.  Instead, I had a bunch of crying children - the good students who usually aced the tests- who hadn't been quick enough on the games and were now sobbing over it. I felt terrible. Maybe they didn't have the concept of "just for fun" competition over there? Lesson learned was to ask more if they had ever had a precedent of that sort of thing, and make sure to explain how it was for fun only, and not a reflection of how smart my students were. 

In the Dominican Republic, I was thrown into a Creole speaking pre-school classroom where I not only taught English, but Spanish, writing, and math. I had no idea what I was doing (I had signed up to be an English teacher in an immersion school, but that had fallen through). I came expecting it to be like Georgia, where I had support from other teachers and was told what were the classroom rules to follow, etc. Instead, my very first day there I was told to stand up and teach with no preamble at all. My mistake was not stopping right then and there and asking "what are the rules? What form of discipline do you use? Can I watch others teach for a day?" I should have been bolder and asked more questions at the beginning, instead of letting myself be rushed along. I struggled with classroom management every day and felt that I couldn't ask questions because now it may reflect badly on my organization. When I finally did ask questions everyone was happy to help - but I should have been asking from the beginning. 

So just ask a lot of questions. About everything, all the time. Take the risk of being that annoying foreigner, because in the end, that's what will set you up for success. 

First Grade

პირველი კლასის

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. 

When I was teaching elementary school in the country of Georgia I was always accompanied by a co-teacher. Our program strictly dictated that we did not teach a class without a Georgian teacher in the room – but in the realities of Georgia this didn’t always happen. Time was fluid there, and schedules, and electricity and appropriate alcohol consumption and…many things. One day I went into my 1^st grade classroom and waited for my co-teacher to show up with the lesson plan. But she didn’t. It was ten minutes past the start of class time and 25 tiny people sat in their desks and stared at me eagerly. I wasn’t allowed to be in here alone. But I couldn’t very well leave a gaggle of 6-year olds while I went on a wild goose chase for a teacher that could understand my broken Georgian enough to help me out. I didn’t have a plan, I was still new, and the little ones looked at me with expectant faces, wiggling in their chairs. Mutiny would brew if I didn’t move quickly.

So I taught my very first 1^st grade class.

We did hand motions, we sang songs, we drew with chalk. We had no common language but everyone was attentive and still alive and actually learning something! No one ate their eraser or hit another kid or started an impromptu and rowdy drum circle (which had happened in other classes).

I never actually found out what happened to my co-teacher, but from then on, 1^st grade was my very own class. A Georgian faculty member would sit in the back reading or looking on, but I taught the class. I used wiggle breaks and stickers and smiley faces and songs and those little tiny things, with no knowledge of reading or writing or English at all, learned their alphabet and numbers and colors and Wheels on the Bus and how to draw hand turkeys.  I worked hard in all my classes (I taught through the 6^th grade) but 1^st grade was my very own and I was so proud of them.

What I've Learned in the ESL Classroom

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival please get in touch with me in the comments, and I'll let you know how you can start participating! You can read other blogger's posts from the carnival here!

I taught English to 1st through 6th graders in the country of Georgia, in a small town school that was often without electricity but did have a computer lab.  From there I went to the Dominican Republic, where I taught pre-schooler - 2nd grade in a one room, tin-roofed school house in a Haitian batey, where the heat gave you a headache by around noon. I also taught adults in the evening. Let me tell you, a lot was learned during this year. Now, I could go on about how inspired I was by my students, and I often was, and this could get really touchy-feely really fast - but I want this space to be an honest one, to tell it to ya straight. ESL can be hard, cultural differences are hard, and teaching was often one of the most difficult things I ever did. So with no softening, here are some lessons I learned in the ESL classroom.

1. how to break up fights

In Georgia, play fighting was normal and smiled upon, but it could get out of hand really fast. I had co-teachers that weren't supposed to leave me alone with the kids, but inevitably something would come up and it would be up to me to stop the escalating play shoving. In the DR, my little ones would fight over crayons. Distraction is key and also, being able to lift at least 50 pounds. Make sure you always have enough supplies for everyone and it makes things easier if they are all the same (like little bags of crayons for each kid with the same colors in them).

2. cultural push-back - sometimes you can't assimilate

In the Dominican Republic, parents would come by our open-door school house and if they saw children being rowdy they would tell me to hit the kids. No. I know that in that Haitian immigrant community it was normal and expected for parents and relatives to hit their children and often for teachers to do the same. I wasn't going to start a campaign for different disciplinary methods, but I certainly wasn't going to join in. Aside from my own ethical issues with teachers hitting kids, it would have been very, very inappropriate for a visiting, foreign teacher to do so. This was one cultural rule I was not going to follow. I stood my ground and parents looked at me askance, but there was no way I would lay a hand on a child in a violent manner. (Except once when I thought one of them was choking on a crayon...but he was ok!). While this was an extreme circumstance, I learned that cultural immersion doesn't always mean "just going with the flow", sometimes you have to make a stand for what is right for you and your work in the community.

But do learn the vocabulary that teachers use to tell their students to sit, stand, be quiet, etc. I didn't speak Georgian when I came to Georgia, or Haitian Creole when I went to live in an immigrant community. But I certainly learned command words fast!

Still I tried not to yell commands often, and instead of shouting and hitting, I used...

3. the power of smiley faces and stickers

My Georgian kids would do anything for the little smiley face I would draw on their papers if they did well. The better the work, the better the smiley face. I would also write little English phrases (great job! Good work!) that they would compare. Stickers also worked wonders to have the little ones behave - taking a sticker away from a 1st grader that won't sit down when you ask is a powerful deterrent.

4. energy, energy, energy

I think the only time my Haitian pre-schoolers were really engaged was when I was running around the concrete floor, over-heated classroom singing about baby sharks. It was exhausting. We played a lot of running games in our tiny space and a lot of "find the red card!" which I would hide around the room. I taught half the day (and worked in a shop the rest of the day, then taught in the evenings) and still needed a lunchtime siesta.

They expected a slightly more sedate classroom in Georgia, but those kids had just as much energy. So with my Georgian 1st graders I did "wiggle breaks" where we would all stand by our desks and wiggle. "Head, shoulders, knees and toes" and the "wheels on the bus" were also favorites. The more energy I could bring to the table, the better class went. And while this was most apparent with kids, it stood true for adult classes too!

5. be sassy

This is especially true for adult classes. My very first time teaching adults I stood up in front of 20 young Haitian men, a few who were probably there just to get a glimpse of  "la gringa flaca", and was shaking inside. But outside, I was firm. I demanded respect. I kicked one young man out of class for listening to his ipod, telling him that if his music was more important than what I was saying, he could go. When the young guys kept asking for ways to pick up women in English I told them I would not help them get a girlfriend and to stop shouting at gringas. After they understood that I wasn't the little skinny white girl who could be pushed around, we had a great time! I set the standard for behavior, and the class picked up on it - if you got teased for being late, you stopped being late. If everyone called you out for talking over me, you stopped talking over me. My adult class was my favorite ESL experience and I truly enjoyed my students.

6. you will make mistakes. It will be ok.

Oh man, the mistakes that were made! I would come home berating myself for not planning better, not realizing that activity wouldn't work, for forgetting some materials, etc etc. Mistakes will happen. Be flexible, be gentle with yourself. Teaching ESL is scary and you are human. Do what is best for you and best for your class and go home at the end of the day, have a good cry if you need it, and try again tomorrow.

7. dance

I love dancing. Guess what? So do most kids, especially when they are still young enough to not be self-conscious. Dance breaks got me through a lot of pre-school classes. Turn on some English songs and dance with your students. You'll feel better, they'll feel better.

9. be super flexible

I don't mean yoga. I would plan for class every day, and every day it would end up being different. Either my kids hadn't grasped the last lesson, or my adults felt it was more pressing to learn clothing related words than weather related words. Listen to them. You are there for them. I always held my plans loosely, and was ok giving up half the lesson for review. If they don't get the basics well, what is the point of me being there anyway? This lesson has carried over well into my current non-ESL life - make your plans, but don't hold them tightly.

So break up fights, navigate culture with a firm stance, bring energy, bring stickers, bring dancing, forgive yourself and keep it loose.

The Helpless Traveler

უმწეო


This is a story about helplessness.

I keep meaning to write more fun and exciting stories about hiking in the Andes or trekking around the Amazon or busing through Greece, but instead this is the story that keeps rattling around in my head. It's not very happy. 

I lived with a host family in the country of Georgia. They spoke Georgian. I spoke English. Misunderstandings and frustrations abounded - but they were kind and patient with me, fed me well, gave me gifts and were hospitable and polite to a fault. In Georgia hospitality is very important and so is family. Married couples often live with the husband's parents (something a co-teacher of mine complained about). My host family had a grandmother who lived with us. I was forever unsure if she was my host dad's mom or his grandma or maybe a great-aunt, but it didn't really matter. She lived with us and they were terrible to her. She had her own little stove outside in the garage, instead of being able to use our kitchen. Her room, as far as I could tell, was a cot in the dining room where clothing was stored and the kids would often bust in, shouting. She either was not allowed to sit on the regular chairs or chose not to for some reason. She sat on tiny wooden stools. She was never offered the coffee or treats I or other guests were. She was ignored completely in fact, except when she was sometimes shouted at. I couldn't fathom what was happening - my host family was so kind to me, so hospitable with their neighbors, even the cane-hitting older neighbor was always being offered chocolates and coffee. Why would they treat this grandmotherly relation this way? 

A friend suggested maybe she had been a really evil person before and now no one wanted her. Scrooge without the revelatory ghosts and life change.

One weekend I stayed home, sick with strep throat, when my host family went to a baby baptism. Many Georgians don't believe in germs, and my family was no exception, so it took tears and pleading and calling up a translator to get them to allow me to stay home in bed. Finally, the house was quiet. I dragged myself to the kitchen to eat some of the kinkalli my host mom had left and there was my host grandma, sneaking bread. Did they not feed her, ever? How did she get food?

She looked worried about me. She went off to her little stove in the garage and brought me her tiny pan of fried potatoes. She would come up to my bed and check on me a few times a day. She got our neighbor to check on me too. For the first time since I met her, she was moving around more and speaking and seemed so happy to be doing anything. When my family returned, she went back to being silent.

I made a point to offer her my seat or a bit of whatever snack I was eating. My family only spoke to her angrily, even my host sister. 

 How do you protest something like this, that you don't understand? I was the foreigner, a guest (even if I paid rent). I didn't know what was going on - it not only seemed to go against my family's nature, but against Georgian culture. All I knew was that I couldn't stand to keep seeing the grandmother so sad.

So I thought, I will buy her a chair and see how my family reacts. I could just imagine it - trouble would certainly erupt, but I felt like it was worth it. Although all my anthropology training told me to stay out of what I didn't understand, I did understand pain. And I wasn't going to (literally) sit by quietly in my nice warm corner of the sofa while a lady of 70 had to steal bread and sit in a stool in the corner. 

Then one day after I formulated this plan, a sister of my host dad appeared, smiling and quiet, and took the grandma away. No one said goodbye to her. They continued steadily ignoring her presence to the end. 

I hope she went somewhere better. 

My family continued to be unfailingly kind, patient and inclusive of me. We parted ways with sadness, and a promise to come to my wedding supra. I miss them still.

What would you have done in a situation like this? 

Anecdotes From Abroad

I'm starting a new series, for those random little stories I've never told but that still make me laugh, or shudder or wonder. Enjoy! 


My host family's house in the country of Georgia had a balcony sort of thing - concrete steps led up another bit of concrete that jutted out from the second story. It often held corn drying in the sun and it had the much coveted clothes line, the one that was somewhat protected from the elements by an awning.

I hadn't packed much when I went to Georgia - a whole suitcase less than most people. I was told Georgians re-wore their clothes, often the exact same outfit for a few days (which is true). I was told they wouldn't care what you wore (not true) and that they didn't like bright colors (also not true). I had to do laundry a lot to try to look half-way decent. My host family had a washer (such wonders! fast forward to the DR where I washed everything in a bucket...) and then I would hang my clothes out to dry. I enjoyed this little chore, feeling more adult than when they wouldn't even let me wash my plate.

Past of the clothes line on the balcony hung over our neighbor's yard. For a long time I thought the old woman who lived there was my grandmother, because she was in our house so often and entered at odd hours without knocking. I also thought she was kinda mean, since she yelled at me and sometimes hit me with her cane. The first thought was wrong (no relation), the second was right (I could see the disappointment  in her eyes...). She also had a son, who I wrote about way back when. The mysterious and silent Zaza, who walked by with bags of grass for no reason I could ever figure out since he didn't own any live-stock except chickens. Bedding?

But back to the clothes line - it hung over their yard and I sometimes chuckled as I clothes pinned my undies and socks to that corner (since it was a weaker corner of the line - light stuff!). How silly if my underwear fell into their yard!

But then one day, I came to get said undies, and they were gone. Sure enough, they had fallen into the neighbor's yard, the shadowy, muddy dwelling place of silent men and cane-wielding grannies. Oh, what to do?!

I crept down to the gate that divided our yard and eased it open, making sure not to let any chickens out. As quietly as possible I picked up the fallen, brightly colored under-things. One of them was a little too far for me to reach, having fallen behind some sort of shed. I reached my arm, jumping at every noise, I thought I heard someone approaching, I reached harder, grabbed my now filthy panties and bolted out of there. I and my lady briefs were safe!

And all was well.

First Year Out

"August arrives, hot and breathless and full of all the things you held on to too tightly. and all the places that defined summer start to melt together, the sand that got stuck in your hair, and the bug bites you picked at too much, and the taste of every sunset that slipped through the open car window. somehow each summer is its own lifetime, we love and eat; and the sun will spin around us without fail." 

I have no idea who wrote that quote. I've searched, and I just keep coming up with anonymous. So, dear anonymous (who, according to Virginia Woolf, was a woman) thanks for that. 

Each summer has always felt like it's own lifetime. I have always defined my life in summers - "what year was that? Oh that was the summer I went to nerd camp/theater camp/New York social justice program/Oxford film program/DC internship/was a camp counselor/studied abroad".  During high school, anything exciting that ever happened to me happened in summer, usually at one of the myriad of programs I went to. Summer meant travel and learning and adventure and a summer crush. The end of summer left me nostalgic and a little bit heartbroken for the new friends I left behind.  In college, summer was a welcome respite, but I wasn't quite so sad when it ended - leaving behind huts in the woods for my air-conditioned university apartment wasn't the most difficult transition after months of bug bites, porta-potties and screaming children.  

August now doesn't mark just the end of summer, it marks the end of the craziest year of my life.  I spent this year in the rolling hills of the country of Georgia in Eastern Europe, on the beaches of the Dominican Republic, in the heat of Texas and sleeping it all off in my home state of Georgia. In one year I have been to five different countries (six, if you count Texas...). I have ridden buses and boats and airplanes and marshutkas and carritos and donkey carts.  I have jumped into cold mountain pools and been carried across flooded mountain roads. I have fallen in and out of love. I have slept in terrible hostel beds and taken bucket showers and used outhouses and made friends with lizards and spiders and Georgian grandmothers who hit me with their canes. I have sang '90s karaoke at a bar filled with smoke and cowboy hats and Texas two-stepping.  I have walked through blizzards, burned myself on motorcycles, and prayed in tiny mountain chapels, large city mosques, and dangerously foggy roads. I have felt rich and luxurious as I ate delicious meals in Greece, and hungry and poor as I found yet another can of beans full of maggots in the Dominican. 

I have been lazy and bitter and discouraged and scared. At times I have not acted, not connected, not reached out.  I've been humbled and I've been humiliated. I've been blissfully happy. I have learned the art of silence. I have relearned the art of dancing with new friends. I have counted people as friends, real friends, when all we could use was my few words of Georgian or Haitian Creole, dancing feet and smiles.  I have been very sick and maybe near death. I have had family members pass away. I have marveled in the rain and in the sunset and at the ocean and the mountains and at the grape harvest and at my students all full of the glory and wonder of the Creator.  And I have wondered, while holding a skinny, bruised child, at the plans of the Creator.  

I have been humbled by the kindness of strangers and felt unworthy and it was true and right to know I was unworthy and to accept the kindness anyway. I have been very angry. And it was sometimes pride and cultural differences, and it was sometimes valid, raw anger.

I have had more awkward moments then should be allowed in anyone's lifetime. 

This was my first year out - outside of an institution, outside of the protection of family or school system or university. And what a year it was. 

There is an image in my mind, more like a five second movie clip, of a little boy in the Dominican, my neighbor, four years old, wearing nothing but dirty yellow undies, running down the street with his arms spread like wings in the sunshine, laughing his head off.  And for some reason when I try to package my past year this clip always comes to mind.

 I have not done anything terribly different (a lot of new graduates teach abroad) and I have not done anything terribly conventional. But somehow I know, after all the great times and the hard times and the awkward times, that I did what I was meant to do. There were things I needed to learn and to see and to live. 

And so August arrives. And so August goes, and in My Personal Calender it is the start of another year. 

The Shadier Side of Living Abroad

"Sounds fun! And a little miserable at the same time!"

This text sums up a lot of my "Random Inexplicable Georgian Experiences". Supras can be really fun - until your stomach starts cramping from the food, and you can't get up to pee because you are on a long bench surrounded by grandmothers, and then they force you up to make you dance for the 5th time...

Living abroad is never easy. At least, not if you are doing it right. If you are actually getting to know local traditions, people, and culture there are going to be aspects that are strange and uncomfortable. Sometimes you will get used to them. Sometimes you won't. I present to you some texts from Georgia that were sent during the bad days, the days when you haven't spoken English in awhile and you are fed that dish you hate and forcibly given chacha (homemade vodka) and there is no hot water or electricity....the texts when you are at the end of your rope, and even the beautiful landscape is nothing compared to your desire for a hot bath, someone who believes in germs and an American style pizza (meaning, sans tons of mayonnaise). 

These texts were sent by friends of mine, but I'm sure the feelings they express were felt by all of our fellow teachers (and certainly by myself!) at one point or another. Read them and remember that I loved my time in Georgia and I'm glad I went. But some times, I contemplated running away to Armenia. 

Texts from bad days:

"This country is like Mars to me"

"I can't escape the chacha"

"The drunk lady who wants me to marry her son keeps kissing me and saying I have beautiful eyes. At least someone in this country loves me."

"Surprise supra! Try to call later. We're using a chainsaw now."

"Tmrw is better. I've been kidnapped'

"Just had 5 grown men pull their eyes into squints when I said I was going to Korea. 10 more days"

"Feel like crap. I was laying in my comfy bed and now I'm at a supra"

"I hate people today. Being patronized by school staff again"

"Omg everyone freaked out on me when I came in the kitchen to look for napkins. Couldn't find them and didn't know the word for it. Kept saying nevermind but they were like no! Call Ana so she can translate! Finally I found half a tissue in my pocket. Talk about making a mountain out of a mole hill"

"My whole fam is sick. I wanna be like maybe you shouldn't share a water glass!

"At my aunts. Liver for dinner. I think all they ever eat here is liver"

"Georgia mystery. Why do the teachers check each others blood pressure in the staff room? And its always a different person checking. Do they all really know how?"

"Just saw the class pic for the first grade. Looks like they all have depression."
Editor's Note: Georgians don't smile in photos. I was at a supra and while taking a photo of a group of Georgians, their digital camera actually said "searching for smile" while an erratic little square bounced around the screen. No one understood why I was laughing.

"I just realized that I look like I'm pregnant"
"Who's the father?"
"Khachapuri"

"Back to the Sagarejo post office tomorrow to try to send a fax. They're gonna love me waltzing in again with my broken georgian and weird requests"

"3 weeks from today I will be leaving my host family forever! Yay!'

"8 Am -host sister gave birth to son, me tipsy by 9am bc of supra. Then, fellow teachers bday party at 2pm - I remain faded till 6pm. Just got to hostel in Kutaisi, host gives me chacha, day destroyed!"

"Just had to change my tampon in a bathroom with no doors on the stalls. Hate this country."

"We had nasty cow parts for supper so I just ate bread and potato salad. My vp's son texted me and said "my mother gave me your number for future relationship' Haha I was trying not to laugh at the dinner table when I got that"

"... love how in Georgia children get yelled at for not having the tv turned on"

A Week in the Life

Note: Again, this was written in Georgia and is just being posted now for various reasons, such as my life being weird, fast-paced, and the subject of a documentary film (that last part was a lie) (that second part was only half true).

2nd note: upon re-reading, I find the tone very cynical, which I believe was due to lack of contact with the outside world for some time, and an abundance of strange situations and/or supras. Please be forgiving. 

This weekend I got my first marriage proposal. So that was cool. By which I mean awkward. It was the at-least-30-year-old neighbor man who comes pretty much every night and hardly talks. He has spoken to me maybe 3 times. He sat down beside me at my host sister's birthday supra and abruptly asked (in Georgian): In America, you are Christian? Catholic? Protestant?" By that I took to mean if I was Christian - (in Georgia I've found they sometimes assume an entire country is one religion, like Georgia supposedly is (Georgian Orthodox)). I told him I was Protestant. 

A little later I was informed by some of the attendees who spoke a little English (read: high school students) that this man wished to marry me and that he loved me. The man did not deny it. I replied that I could not get married, I had to go back to the USA. They all said he could go with me. Oh yes, the nearly silent man who can only speak Georgian and apparently owns only two, very '80's sweaters. We would have a lot to talk about.

He didn't come over tonight like he usually does and I felt kinda bad. Maybe I missed out on a great opportunity to find a perfect Thrift Store Sweater Buying Partner. I will never know.  

I didn't feel very well today, due to the supra of last night, but still went to some meeting on domestic violence put on by US AID and sat near the US Ambassador to Georgia (but didn't get to talk to him! ugh!) and some Georgian man started yelling at everyone and the meeting was chaos because this is Georgia and that is what happens in meetings. 

I've mentioned how they also don't have a concept for cheating, only "helping". I saw it in action again tonight. My sis was helping my brother by doing all his homework and then she wanted my help by letting me write her entire English essay. (I refused.) Meanwhile, my host mom watched all of this and found it perfectly natural. Georgian's aren't dishonest people (in fact, they are incredibly honest) - they just seem to have the idea that if someone else is struggling with something, why wouldn't you help them out....a lot? 

Editor's note: This post ended abruptly as the author was busy applying to jobs, planning trips and then left for Istanbul. So the title was really a misnomer, and this was more of "Two Days in the Life" 

School Life

Note: This (and a few other posts coming shortly) was written while I was still in Georgia, started way back in November in fact...I'm only posting it now (from the DR!) because life got busy and I'm kind of lazy.... here you go!

Working at a Georgian school is always an adventure. Today fireworks went off in the hall, my 3rd grade girls gave me love notes and I was forcibly cuddled by one of my special needs students.

Also, isn't this the cutest picture you ever saw? 

But why is the sun so concerned? 

Not only do I not speak the language, but the rules and, in fact, the entire culture and idea of education is entirely different from what I'm used to. Students are allowed to run screaming through the hallways. The younger ones continuously fight in the halls and the teachers just laugh at the cuties (it's not so cute when they run into you, however). Cheating isn't a concept here (it's called "helping") so giving tests is an entirely new experience. The older students stand in groups and try their best to not go to class on time. I actually saw a high schooler look annoyed at teacher as she tried to get around him in the hall, and SHE apologized to HIM.

In older classes having the phone out and texting is normal. But then again, so is missing school for days on end. And the fact that an 11th grader just got married, while definitely gossip worthy, was not unheard of.  The bell is rung by whoever walks by it and notices the time. It's often five minutes late. Electricity goes out fairly regularly, and then teachers bang two pieces of metal together to signal the end of classes. When the gas is out all the students sit in their giant winter coats and look more ready for a snowball fight than an English lesson.

It can be frustrating, all these differences. But I love my school, my fellow teachers, and especially all my students!

My students tell me they love me, give me group hugs, notes and necklaces they made themselves. My very favorite "gift" was when I entered my 6th grade class to be greeted by a choreographed "drum circle" rhythm (as they beat on the tables with their hands) and chanting.  My tiny first grader, Tamuka, helps me every day by telling the other children, very seriously, to be quiet. My 4th grade boys solemnly shake my hands and my 2nd graders hug me so fiercely I almost fall over. I am convinced this is love, and not just pent up energy and angry. Please don't tell me otherwise.

I will not miss having to explain cheating at every test, nor pulling apart play fights that become real fights every afternoon. But I will miss my students - their energy, playfulness and the love notes that they give me even when I've had to withhold star stickers! 

Being Old People in Yerevan

Some friends and I took a four day weekend and hopped on the night train to go to Armenia! With only 4 days we didn't see anything outside of Yerevan, but the city itself was plenty! 

Some facts about Armenia:

1. In Armenia, they speak Armenian. 

2. My friends and I do not speak Armenian. At all. 

3. People are incredibly friendly and polite and will explain at length, in Armenian, how to get somewhere. Luckily, some of them speak English. 

A tiny, adorable very old Armenian woman shared our compartment on the train and fed us fried bread and potatoes. We crossed the border around midnight, and it felt very dramatic to disembark the train and be met by soldiers, the eight or so of us foreigners feeling so alone in the middle of nowhere. The soldiers and officials were all very nice, which made it less dramatic. Once we got to Armenia the facts that we didn't speak any of the language, they didn't speak Georgian, it was very early morning and we didn't know how to get a cab came crashing down on us in our sleep deprived state. Luckily, a kind Iranian man in a stellar orange '80s sweater with a deer head on it translated for us and got us a cab. We made our way to Envoy Hostel (which I HIGHLY recommend - the hot, clean showers alone are worth it) and started what I will term our "Old People Cultural Weekend".

It's a stereotype of the young foreigners in Georgia that they are only there to party....and that they only travel to enjoy more partying. We, however, do not fit this stereotype. We frequented four different museums, nerded out with ancient manuscripts, drank a lot of tea, attended church services (beautiful music!) and on our one "young people" night drank about 2 beers apiece.  It was a lovely weekend. 

We took the marshutka back, which wasn't a terrible ride, though at one point we thought we had been stranded on the border. And then it was done - a too fast, tiny slice of Armenia!

Some comparisons between Yerevan and Tbilisi:

1. They follow traffic laws in Yerevan and will even wait to let pedestrians cross the street!

2. They sell khachapuri (cheesy bread sold everywhere in Georgia) in Yerevan in case you didn't get enough of it before.

3. The artwork, especially in the churches, is much different - in Yerevan it struck me as much more Middle Eastern. (I'm no art historian, so don't quote me on this.) In fact, Yerevan in general was definitely much more Middle Eastern to me than Tbilisi. Though I'm not sure what this is based on since I've never been to the Middle East....

Photos! 

View from the top of the Cascade - usually there are a fountains flowing

 down this giant, beautiful staircase, but we were too late in the season. 

In the Armenian Genocide Memorial (the museum was incredibly powerful!) 

Mother Armenia 

From the manuscript museum 

From the manuscript museum! Nerding out. 

We went to an Armenian church service - amazing music!

My first mosque!

Summary - if you find yourself in the area, Yerevan is lovely, pleasant and fairly inexpensive city! Stay at Envoy! 

The End in Sight

Today was December 1st. I welcomed in December by dancing, trying, in fact, to keep up with a professional Georgian dancer, surrounded by about thirty clapping Georgians, feeling foolish but having a fabulous time!

It's fitting that I begin the last stretch at a massive supra, with the people who welcomed me to Sagarejo, indulging in my favorite bit of Georgian culture - dancing. My poor stomach still complained this morning from the huge amount of food intake, but I shrugged it off to catch a marshutka to Tbilisi, where I met a friend to go Christmas shopping!

I was proud of myself for at least holding my own with the dancing last night. In this past month, I was proud that I know my way around Tbilisi metro, that I got my hair cut on my own in the city, that I plan and run some of my own lessons.  Today I was proud that I caught a marshutka from Tbilisi, alone, by hailing it from the street, able to read the Georgian alphabet quickly enough to find my town name as they drove by. A few months ago I was terrified to do that very thing.  I felt I had come a long way.

Then I came home and threw a small temper tantrum to myself because sometimes I am tired and I don't like certain cultural differences and all I want to do is sit in my PJs and watch Elf and eat Mac & Cheese!

 Living in a culture where the good manners you were raised on are turned on their head, in a language you don't really know, with no fellow foreigners nearby, is hard. It's hard the first few weeks and often it's hard during the last few weeks.

Here, a chart of difference in manners:

Western                                           Georgia

Stand in Line/Wait your Turn                                          Clump/Use Elbows

Stick to a Schedule/Plan                                                    Go With the Flow 

         Respect Personal Space                           Hug/Pinch Cheeks/Pat Bottoms 

   Respect Privacy                             What is privacy? Come hang out with me! 

This isn't to say Georgians aren't polite. Everyone I've met has been kind and patient with me, and, by their standards, very well-mannered! I'm simply not accustomed to not having/being told a schedule, having my bottom patted by neighbors, or needing a strategic plan to get to the ATM.

Three more weeks folks! I've begun sifting through my belongings, trying desperately to figure out how to carry home four heavy, clay drinking horns I was given as well as the homemade wine I have been promised.

Here is probably where I should tell you the life lessons I have learned and goals I've accomplished.
Let's look back over my goals, written in September!

Realistic Goals

1.  Go to the Black Sea - Did it, as you know from here! 
2. Hike in the Caucuses Mountains ---- Did it too, though not as much as I would have liked....
3. See Folk Dancing  (They dance with knives!) - Never saw professional dancing, or the knives, but feel like that was fulfilled in our interactive dance off last night! 
4. Actually teach some children some English - I'm proud to say I have, at least a little. 

Gigi learned the word turkey! 

1. Write everyday - I don't think I've done this, though I've come close!
2. Be able to hold a basic conversation in Georgian (past "how are you?" and without help from hand signals/broken English)  --- Depending on the person, yes, I can do this! Though my grammar will be bad and the conversation is still short. 

Slightly Less Realistic Goals Due to Scheduling Conflicts: 

1.  Go to Armenia --- Yes! At least, to the capital of Yerevan! Post to come soon.

 2. Read all those classic books I have on my Kindle - This was definitely unrealistic, especially as I keep adding more (they're free!). But I did read Anna Karenina! 

I also just finished Bread and Ashes: A Walk Through the Mountains of Georgia by Tony Anderson. It's a fantastic book if you want to learn both the ancient and recent history of Georgia and to get a feel for the culture! 

One of my favorite quotes: "'Ho! Ho! Ho!' he cried. 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' that wonderful Georgian affirmative that turns all agreement into laughter and Christmas, with just a little undercurrent of policeman."  (Don't you love it when books describe an experience you had?) 

It is strangely sunny and warm this weekend, much welcomed after weeks of rain and intermittent gas outages leaving us with no heat or hot water! I went for a walk on my usual route, going past the house of a special needs girl in my 2nd grade class. As usual she ran up to me, grinning and speaking rapid, incomprehensible (to me) Georgian. She hugged me tightly around the waist, giggled at my Georgian and asked when we would have English class again. "Khval! Tomorrow!" I said and she laughed in excitement. She doesn't have an easy life, this patarebi (little one). Her clothes are torn and her face often dirty. I could say something trite about being here to help her, but realistically, I've made no real change in her life. I know the 2nd grade teacher is working to get her into a special school in Tbilisi. People with more know-how than me are providing her with relevant help. 

It makes you feel small sometimes, this ancient and wild country of Georgia. It makes you feel small, all of the little bright eyes of your students, each with their own story, own problems, own happiness and tragedy. I think I've excited some of them about learning English. I know I've given concrete help to my very busy co-teachers. I know that some students are more engaged now because of my efforts. But in the end I am just the "Amerikelli" who takes long walks and dances at supras. I am not so proud as to think, in my mere 3 months here, I have changed my entire school. Still, I think I have changed a few little minds when it comes to learning. 

I am planning an end-of-the-year English tournament and have been excitedly getting my prizes in order. (Flashy notebooks, pencils, markers, and even some bouncy balls and silly putty!) The last big hurrah! I'm so excited to see my students faces when they see the prizes!

 I'll miss my students. I'll miss (some of)the food here. I'll miss the music. I'll even miss supras. The sun is setting and I'm feeling nostalgic. Can you tell?

Three weeks sounds like a good amount of time to me right now. I'll be sad to leave but ready for home. Back in the States, I'll whip out my drinking horns, put on some Georgian tunes, and hold my own little supra!

Some highlights via photo form of the last three months! 

Riding in a donkey cart and taking part in the grape harvest

Visiting the gorgeous Kazbegi

Going to Signaghi, and taking pride in my lovely region of Kakheti. 

Being tamada (toastmaster) for the first time at a mini-supra

Ice cave in Mestia

Learning traditional dances

Attending what feels like a million supras 

Embracing my alter-ego of Shy Georgian Girl

Attending a Georgia vs Fiji rugby game!

Seeing hundreds of beautiful, ancient churches 

(I'm a sucker for them, and Georgia has plenty!)

Observing a chicken sacrifice 

at the church of St. George here in Sagarejo.

(We ate the chicken afterwards.) 

Here's to finishing strong and to savoring every moment! Gamarjous! (Cheers!)