Barefoot in Strawberry Fields

Standing with my Georgian brother, Nika, in the middle of a neighborhood bebo’s strawberry field, picking strawberries barefoot in the mud, as a toothless woman empties a handful of the red fruit into my palms, surrounded by the Caucus Mountains and peach orchards while the clouds allow a few raindrops to escape, and I know I’m experiencing yet another one of those moments. It’s a moment when I look around and all I can say is “Wow.” 

I can’t speak for the rest of Georgia, but in Kakheti, strawberry season has begun. I pass buckets of strawberries for sale on my way to school; the refrigerator is full of various forms of the fruit. The backgammon table has been replaced by marshutkas and tables full of fresh strawberries, and tired women walk past my house every night on their way home from the fields. 

For our most recent holiday – Victory Day – my family and I climbed into the jeep, which lacks many parts one would think are necessary to drive, and headed to boloze (“at the end”). Turning into a field that only one with the experience of generations could know, we follow a path that has been covered in a week’s worth of rain and mud. However, the jeep can drive in anything, and we make it through without hesitation. Jumping out of the back and grabbing a straw hat, I follow my family to our six long rows of grapes, under which we find the strawberries. 

I took a basket and began the tedious process of picking strawberries. I quickly realized that the experiences I have had in this area are completely different when you are in your own fields. Nika quickly explained that I should eat the best strawberries and put the leftovers into my basket. 

Although this principle significant decreased the number of strawberries we picked, it was worth it.  

Eventually, we decided it was time to leave as the rain threatened to spill out over the mountains. Trudging through the mud to get back to the jeep, we piled everything in the back and made it home, where my Georgian mother and I took off strawberry tops and filled jars with strawberries and sugar. She talked excitedly about strawberry cake, juice, and cream, and while the strawberries and sugar cooled in the refrigerator, we compared American and Georgian strawberry preparations.

I don’t know how long strawberry season lasts, and I don’t know if I’ll get to go back to the fields before I leave. For now, though, I’ll content myself with the bowl of cold strawberries and homemade cream that my Georgian mother just handed me, and if more neighbors offer me handfuls of strawberries from the fields, I will gladly blow off the excess dirt, shoo away the ants, and let my fingers turn red.

98.6: A Fever

Yesterday, I was sick; I had a chill-inducing fever, a lingering cough, an undiagnosed sinus infection, three forms of medication, a doctor-approved – aka, my Georgian doctor/mom – sick day from school, and a headache that made it seem like my head would be better off exploding.

Today, while not sick enough to merit another day off school, I still feel the lingering effects of my cold, or as I nicknamed it, “my 3-packs-a-day habit.” (Don’t worry, mom; I’m talking about Kleenexes, or in Georgia, Selpaki.) Having a clear enough head to think today, I began to think about how it feels to be sick in another country. After considering it for a good five minutes, I’ve decided…I don’t like it. And here’s why.

•   There’s no one to bring me soup. I mean, I have soup every day for lunch, but when I’m sick, I just want some chicken noodle – from a can – soup drowning in crackers.

•   No one believes I’m sick until I sneeze more than twice in a day, cough for a significant period of time, or have a fever, which means that if I don’t have any of those symptoms, I’m fully expected to complete the regular daily activities of teaching classes, playing with children, dancing at dance lesson, and staying up to watch a two-hour dance show that doesn’t start until 10.

•   Sickness doesn’t have the same origins in Georgia as it does in America. In America, if I’m sick, it’s probably because someone else was sick, and they didn’t wash their hands or because the weather is switching rapidly and my body can’t keep up. In Georgia, however, it’s probably because I wore a short-sleeved shirt outside two weeks ago or my feet were cold or my room isn’t warm enough. And this is coming from my host mom, who’s a doctor.

•   Selpaki – aka Kleenexes – aren’t soft.

•   Medicine isn’t the same. Having a doctor as my Georgian mom has its advantages; I said I was sick, and she grabbed a piece of scrap paper and wrote a prescription for me. However, upon going to the pharmacy, I realized that I have no idea what I’ve been given. Therefore, I have no idea what I can and cannot take with it.

•   In America, when I’m up all night due to incessant coughing, I sleep in the recliner chair to sit upright and still be comfortable or eat ice chips. In Georgia, I fluff my pillows up as much as possible and chew a couple cough drops.

•   The remedy for sickness changes with the border. For example, today I was told that I should definitely wear a coat if I want to get better, which may or may not have merit. The problem was that it was approximately 20˚C (70˚F) today on my way to school, so it was all I could do to wear a thin sweater and scarf, let alone a coat. In America, I just need to sleep and drink lots of fluids.

•   98.6 isn’t a consistent body temperature. My host sister insisted on me taking my temperature the last time I was sick. I was sure I didn’t have a fever; it was just a headache, intensified by her screaming as my Georgian dad tickled her. I took my temperature and read it, “37˚C.” After doing a quick conversion on my phone, I assured her it was fine: 98.6. However, she refused to drop it until I let her see the reading, at which point she declared I had a fever. I explained many times that 37˚ is NOT a fever; it’s normal. After failing to convince her, and my doctor/host mom who had walked in, I said, “37˚ is normal in America.” My host mom thought for a moment and responded, “Here…it is not.” Since when did body temperatures vary by country?

New Uses for Old Things

In the past seven months, I have been confused by many occurrences. Interestingly enough, cultural differences are typically not the main culprit. Sure, I’ve had my share of surprises in terms of what I’m eating, where I’m going, and how I’m getting there, but overall, I’ve kept up. It’s in the comfort of my own home, where I feel the most relaxed and “off guard” that I’m taken aback most often, which has triggered the not-always-silent question, “You do what with that?” Perhaps you’ve encountered a few of these surprises yourself.

Cotton, bought in small bags like stuffing, can be rolled around matches to create Q-tips; it’s how the family cleans their ears.

A propane tank lit with a burning piece of paper taken from the pechi is an acceptable way to start a burner.

Cupboards are not only for storing plates, cups, and utensils; they also store the dinner leftovers, cheese, and extra fruit.

The refrigerator, which is unplugged during the winter, stores the pots and pans as well as small appliances.

The refrigerator can be unplugged during the winter because it’s so cold outside that the windowsill does a perfectly good job of keeping things cool.

An old door handle can be jimmy-rigged into a razor, which also happens to entertain 12-year-old girls as their uncles show it off by cutting their arm hair.

Bundled bird feathers are the best way to sweep out the cracks in the floor and the corners near the wall.

The string used to hold nuts for churchqkhela can also be used as floss.

Tiny scissors are not for cutting paper or thread; they’re for clipping fingernails.

Filling water bottles with hot water and setting them in between the blankets before bed is a legitimate way to keep warm at night in the winter.
 

One of Those Nights

Have you ever seen one of those movies that has kids running around on a street in their neighborhood in the summer? Women are usually sitting on chairs as they look on to the activities around them. The men are barbequing or throwing out comments about the games. It slowly turns to dusk, but no one cares because it’s just one of those nights. 

I thought they didn’t exist anymore; I thought it was reminiscent of a time when life was slower and kids liked playing outside more than sitting indoors watching TV or playing on the computer. I realize that even in my childhood, these were few and far between, and it was still never exactly like this.

And then I came to Georgia. 

My night could have been shown in those movies. The neighbor kids and I played Hide and Seek on the gravel road in the summer air while the women sat on a bench, gossiping about the week’s events. At times, they would take pity on me, and soon became the reason I continued playing. They motioned to the kids’ hiding spots when I was the seeker. When I was hiding, they let me crouch behind them or motioned to stand inside their gates. They told me when it was safe to come out and run to the wall, and they laughed with me when I could no longer use the excuse of not understanding the game for losing so many times. 

On the other side of the street, the men gathered and, although at first seemingly uninterested, they quickly found themselves sucked in to the movements around them. Playing antagonists, they threw the seeker off the hider’s trail and pointed out hiding spots. 

Slowly, it turned to dusk, but no one noticed. The cows had long gone through and the last of the horses were returning home from the fields. But none of it mattered. We were too busy running, hiding, yelling, laughing, and seeking to care what time it was, whether dinner was ready, or if the chickens had been fed. How can I ever leave?

Headscarves and Candlesticks

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to Mtskheta, which used to be the capital of Georgia, until it was moved to Tbilisi hundreds of years ago. The most important thing about “tourism” in Georgia is that it centers on the religious traditions of Georgian Orthodoxy. For example, I visited Samtavro, a church where, according to legend, St. Nino lived and prayed. One of the churches dates from the 4^th century while the second was built in the 11^th century and contains the graves of Mirian, the Georgian king who adopted Christianity, and his wife. I also walked through the Sveti tskhoveli complex, which is one of the most sacred places in Georgia as it is built on the site of Georgia’s first church and contains the graves of various Georgian kings, including one who is said to be buried holding Christ’s robe. These sites, too numerous to count, are considered holy.

As people poured into these churches to worship, I was struck by the tradition of it all. Georgian Orthodoxy, from what I have gathered, is primarily based on the acts one can do to gain closeness to God. Through prayer, fasting, attending church, taking communion, lighting candles, and kissing the pictures of saints, amongst other actions, one performs his or her duty to God. 

Almost every person in Georgia is Georgian Orthodox; it’s a part of the culture. For many, it is a very real part. For a large portion, however, it is part of who they are but not part of what they do; beliefs do not connect with the rituals. Women wear scarves and skirts to church; an entire bus of people crosses themselves when driving past a church; children do not play cards the day they take communion. They are a religious people, but most cannot explain the justification of their actions.

Traditions – in connection with a belief system – can be healthy. If it didn’t mean something to those around me, I wouldn’t have a problem lighting a candle when I pray. I like the outward symbolism of my beliefs. However, as I walked out of these churches, women, covered in black from head to toe, put out flames and removed candles where there were too many. They washed the kisses off the glass. Headscarves were removed outside the doors. And herein lies the problem; they are empty symbols – temporary actions – meant to fulfill some obligation to God.

In Protestantism – which is the distinction I have to make to my Georgian friends as they consider themselves Christian – there is very little that is so physical. Sure, I go to church every week, but I can pray whenever I want. I can read my Bible, which is not typically allowed in Georgian Orthodoxy – in the morning or at night or whenever I remember. No one is keeping tabs; no one can judge the level of “Christian” that I am. In Georgia, however, everything is physically done. I know when my host mom is praying because she gets a hat to cover her head, reads from a book of prayers in the kitchen, and crosses herself throughout the process. I know that my family is more religious than the neighbors because Nana is not eating meat during “Lent”, and Ani goes to church three times every weekend.  And maybe that makes it easier to understand the emptiness that comes from this religion, from a belief system rooted in ancient ideology. Everything is literal and very physical. 

I know she is finished praying when the headscarf comes off, and I know religion won’t be thought of again until we walk to school and my students cross themselves as they walk past the church or until the next night when prayers are repeated. 

But, according to my faith, what’s supposed to be different between this and my relationship with Christ? I have these rituals, and I have things that I do to try and be closer to God. What makes me different? Maybe a better question is “What is supposed to make me different?” 

I’ve mulled it over a bit, and I keep coming back to the idea that my faith should be a part of my daily life. I act differently because I love with Christ’s love. My purpose is secure because I am following where God leads. I am motivated to do what Jesus has commanded me to do because I love him, and I want to be like him. I worship with everything I am, in every part of my life. My headscarf – the symbol that represents the attempt to be closer to God – should never be removed.

A Girl Named Michelle in Men's Dance Shoes

I’ve always thought I could be a great dancer. Given the chance, by this time I could be touring foreign lands to reveal my amazing dance skills. However, I was not given the chance. I’ve never been to a dance class, and the only practice I’ve had is when I prance around the house in my leggings. If only I’d come to Georgia sooner…

I’ve been taking dance lessons for three weeks now. Let me be clear: these aren’t salsa, tap, or country dance lessons. No, these are Georgian – stand-on-your-tiptoes, spin-at-insanely-fast-rates, keep-your hands-free, learn-in-another-language –lessons. Our dance lessons started out at two days a week at the school in the next village with Gio mas (my dance teacher). It was going to be me, my (American) friend, and two Georgian high school students. Somewhere along the road we added a third lesson and another student. Oh, and my name became Michelle*.

After the first lesson, I was sure I would be great. I understood the steps, and I caught on pretty quickly. When I got home an hour later, however, I couldn’t remember any of it. By the next week, we were adding hands to the steps, and a few lessons later, we increased the tempo exponentially. My inability continued to prevail.

The past two lessons, we’ve come in a few minutes early when another lesson is finishing. If I wasn’t already convinced I will never be a dancer, watching the small children dance the same thing I’m learning with much more grace and coordination quickly eliminated any remnants of that dream. They’re good. They have legit outfits. They keep tissues in their belts. I wear jeans. And I may have accidentally bought men’s dance shoes.

Through it all– the amazing, dancing children, the men’s shoes, the new name of Michelle, the confusion of misunderstanding Georgian instructions, the fall I took after running and jumping back to my spot, the practicing of dance in my kitchen – I still love it. I practice spinning, spotting, walking with “free” hands, and dancing on my toes with the intensity of a real dancer.

Maybe Gio mas has it right; maybe Michelle is my second half – the dancing half – who has been waiting 23 years to shine. She’s a little dusty and a bit out of shape and her calves hurt from walking up on her toes for hours, but she’s a dancer; she’ll pull through.

In any case, I will continue to dance. I will count out beats in Georgian. I will only wear my dance shoes for dance lessons. I will practice upstairs in the open room. I will learn “left” and “right” in Georgian.  And I will respond to “Michelle.”

*If you know me, my name is not Michelle. It is, in fact, Andrea. Multiple attempts have been made to correct my dance teacher – in fellow Georgian’s Georgian and in my rudimentary Georgian – but to no avail; my name remains Michelle.

Consequences of Boredom

For those of you who are not aware, I’m going to be a guest blogger for the TLG blog. I’m going to go ahead and post all of the blogs that I write for that onto my personal blog, but I wanted to give a little bit of background because this isn’t exactly the “personal experience” type of thing that I typically write. If you read something, and it seems to be out of place, it’s probably because it was originally a TLG blog post.

For many TLG teachers, life in one of Georgia’s thousands of villages has become part of the experience. No longer do cows blocking traffic, chickens becoming dinner, horses pulling logs, water disappearing, and families living in the pechi room bother us; it’s part of the routine. Throughout the winter, however, I have encountered a part of village life I was not anticipating – endless amounts of free time.

When it is too cold to go outside, and the only thing to do in my village is play backgammon with the men on the streets, I can either become insanely good at backgammon or go crazy with boredom. Since I’m a woman, backgammon-playing with the men is out of the question, so I am discovering new ways to keep myself busy. For Christmas, my mom sent me a package (USA2Georgia is my best friend) that included an embroidered blanket kit. I downloaded the classic novels I’ve avoided in the past onto my e-reader. I studied Georgian more regularly, and I began to memorize a Georgian poem. Basically, I became an old woman.

I would suspect that many other volunteers have experienced this same phenomenon. Coming from a life where I was always busy, constantly going somewhere, and wanting more downtime, I was thrilled to finally have it. After approximately 10 minutes of just sitting, however, I knew the thrill would not last; I needed to do something. Knowing other teachers in our various villages are going through this same process, I would like to provide some options for getting through the hours upon hours of sitting.

1.       Take up a hobby. Granted, in a village you will have limited resources, and you’ll have to work with what you have; overall, though, I think it’s a good option. Learn to ride horses, become a master chicken-catcher, or start splitting wood. You’ll have to find the horses when they’re not pulling logs and catch the chickens before they become dinner, but if you’re dedicated to learning, I’m sure you can figure it out.

2.       Improve your mind with literature. Do you realize how many books you could memorize with 9-10 hours each day of free time? Imagine going back home and telling people you memorized the complete works of Jane Austen or that you would love to meet up with them later and quote A Tale of Two Cities. If you’re a guy and want to impress girls, you could memorize the romantic words of the vampire-hero ofTwilight.

3.       Learn a language. You’re in Georgia, so Georgian is the obvious choice, but what if you learned Zulu while you are here? I assure you it would be a unique accomplishment. Better yet, why not create your own language? I would advise against teaching it in your classrooms, but you can be the judge of that one.

4.       Start cooking. I already have a cake recipe as well as pictures of the khachapuri-making process. Learn some Georgian dishes and become an expert at them. My Georgian dad is always telling me the businesses I could start in America with Georgian food. Although I had to break it to him that the US government would have a problem with me if I started making wine in the refrigerator-door-and-tarp-covered wooden barrels in my backyard and selling it on the side of the road, he is convinced I can make money with homemade khachapuri and tone bread.

I realize some of these options may seem a bit…extreme, but when I have 10 hours of free time every day (getting home at 1:30 and going to bed around 11:00), extreme measures have been proven to be necessary. Never underestimate the consequences of boredom.