Oodles of new pictures up on Facebook from a number of trips. Included ducklings, flowers, and some lovely views.
Hope you enjoy!
A wonderful New York Times article about traveling in Eastern Georgia. Very similar to my experiences.
Don’t you want to come visit?
When Susy first discovered this place we agreed not to shout it from the rooftops because we didn’t wish it overrun with undesirables. We’d found it, loved it, and planned to keep it. Just like the Hotel Lotus of O. Henry’s Transients in Arcadia, a favorite short story of mine:
There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool…At every strange footstep the guests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered and invaded by the restless pleasure-seekers who are forever hounding nature to her deepest lairs…Thus in the depopulated caravansary the little band of connoisseurs jealously bide themselves during the heated season, enjoying to the uttermost the delights of mountain and seashore that art and skill have gathered and served to them.
Tbilisi is only a 2 hour martshrutka ride away from Korbouli, but it always feels like entering a different country entirely: Western food, metros, supermarkets, etc. And that’s why we come. Because things are there as they are not in villages: hot showers, unlimited coffee, the facilities to do our own cooking, non-Georgian restaurants, and plenty of good English conversation.
In the States, there is this negative interpretation about how foreigners tend to stick together. “Linguistic ghettos” is the term that I remember being specifically applied to Hispanics. Yeah those immigrants, hanging out in their “linguistic ghettos,” refusing to learn English, refusing to acculturate to our ways. Ungrateful. If you don’t like it, go home. And on, and on. But folks who say this have obviously never lived abroad. Probably never even left the States.
You only have to leave your country and go somewhere else to realize how instinctual and natural this is. In Georgia, who do I by choice and preference hang out with? Other English-speakers, of course. Not because I don’t like Georgians. Far from it. There’s just not any that speak English in my village. And nothing needs to be explained much when I’m socializing with other English-speakers. It’s just so much easier. I can be sarcastic, tell jokes, make references to pop culture, American history, speak at a normal speed, etc, etc. The conversation is richer, more enjoyable, and just so much easier. Everyone needs the opportunity to speak their native language.
I completely understand the urge of immigrants to call home, to be with others from their homeland, to eat their native food and dance their native dances. It’s natural, not ungrateful. Making an issue of it in America reveals our lack of understanding about the world, a certain ungraciousness and a great deal of insecurity.
Anyways, back to Tbilisi.
In the course of the weekend I was able to see several things around the city that I’d been meaning to see for awhile. Since my time is getting short, putting it off is no longer an option. On Friday I climbed to Narikala, a 4th century fortress with a commanding view of the city. On the way there I passed through the bath district, for which the name Tbilisi comes from, tbili being the word for warm. The local mosque, also on the way, was at prayer and I lingered to hear a bit before moving on. Thunderstorms had been forecast for the day and arrived shortly after I made it to the top. This made picture taking even more problematic as it was already. As I was alone, I was relying on my camera timer, which is a marvelous invention I depend on. So some of my pictures have rain drops on them.
With the storm I felt less inclined to go the tippy top of the fortress, lightening poles being in my mind, so I made way along the bottom of the fortress to go see the massive Kartlis Deda, “Mother Georgia,” statue. A bowl of wine in one hand for friends; a sword for enemies in the other. There was then a true “and suddenly” moment as the rain ceased entirely and the sun rolled out so quickly and warmly that the pavement was actually steaming. Being rather soggy from the downpour I sat and dried for awhile before heading down the hill.
Friday night we went to the Irish pub, owned by an authentic Irish woman, which serves Guinness and has rugby playing on the telly. You can even get Strongbow.
Saturday I went with a pair of wonderful Polish girls who were also staying at our place on a trip to Mtskheta, the old capital of Georgia. Mtskheta is located at the convergence of two rivers, right outside Tbilisi. I’d seen it every time we drove into town and was determined to see it before I left.
I’d been awake since 9, but the girls hadn’t rolled out of bed until maybe 11, so we got brunch on the way to the martshrutka station. The girls love Georgian food and so I had the chance to introduce them to lobiani, which is like a thick quesadilla with wonderfully spiced beans inside. They were a little skeptical at first, but once they tried a little they were as enthusiastic as I am about it.
After riding the metro to Didube, a main transportation hub, I wandered around trying to find the right martshrutka. Didube is huge and I had no idea where to find it. After walking all the way in the wrong direction and having to go back, we found our ride. Should’ve asked someone before trying to find it on my own.
Once we reached Mtskheta we drove along the river for awhile, crossed the bridge, and headed into the central part of town. We’d been warned to jump out as soon as we saw the big church, so we did. The roads and gates in the center of town have been beautifully redone, though it looked eerily like Sighnaghi. We went and saw the big church, which has the highest ceilings out off all the churches I’ve seen. There were both weddings and baptisms going on inside. Plenty of visitors, foreigners and Georgians alike, were roaming around. All three of us commented on how we liked that it was clearly an active church: a living community rather than just an old building. There was the obligatory ice cream, Barambo, of course, and then we went to find a taxi to Jvari.
Jvari is a church perched on top of a tall hill opposite Mtskheta. So when you drive through you do a little head-whipping back and forth: Jvari, on your left; Mtskheta, on your right, and then repeat. All together it’s an impressive area with the rivers flowing and converging between. Extremely picturesque. The church itself was smaller than expected: a circular layout with the usual icons and burning candles. Plenty of people in attendance, flowing inside and out, with everyone jockeying for the best picture taking spots. Even some newly married couples in their wedding finery.
We took our taxi back into Mtskheta to the martshrutka station. All the taxi drivers tried to convince us that no martshrutkas were coming, that they’d be crowded, that their taxis were so much more comfortable and really quite affordable. It was all in good fun. When the martshrutka was seen coming up the street, the most persistent one who’d still been hanging around threw up his hands in a good-natured sign of defeat and saw us onto it.
Sunday we went to Sameba for morning service. Sameba is the newest and largest Georgian Orthodox church completed only a few years ago. Built in a central part of the city, it can be seen from very far away, gold roofs and domes shining. It’s positively gigantic in comparison to any other church in Georgia. York Minster, it ain’t, but it still is very big. Like Mtskheta the day before, service was going, but there was constant movement in the church: people moving around, lighting candles, kissing icons, even answering cell phones. And no dirty looks or hissing in response to this. Church is much more relaxed than in the States. We explored and found a whole other sanctuary underground, mirroring the one above. Whoa. For all my prickliness about Georgian churches, I enjoyed my visit to Sameba very much.
So it was an extremely successful trip: plenty relaxing, good food, and actually more sightseeing than I anticipated. While I feel rather mournful about leaving Georgia, I take comfort in knowing that when I do return it will be in a sense like coming back to a good friend and not a stranger.
Well, I am happy to report that some progress is being made on my job hunt.
I reopened my Peace Corps application because I find that the possibility still interests me for a variety of reasons. And the application was SO much work I hate to waste it all. (Not the best reason to go into Peace Corps, I know) The committment time still bothers me a bit though.
Otherwise I have been applying to university positions in China, Korea and Mexico. I had one telephone interview on Tuesday, another tomorrow, and two I need to set up. I actually have an offer from a university in Hong Kong, but because they want a 2-year contract I am leaning more towards declining it. (I can’t BELIEVE I’m thinking of turning down a job)
It is highly gratifying that I am a candidate-of-interest to at least some universities. And my MA seems to be having its uses after all. For awhile there things felt rather bleak.
Now I wonder if I should bother applying for any more positions and worry about how to make a final decision. I’ll admit that I like the idea of being home for the fall, which is something Peace Corps would allow me, but home is so expensive I could burn through all my savings in a number of months. But I hate the idea of coming home and rushing out the door for another year so soon. Argh! Wisdom! I need wisdom!
The job application process is certainly sort of taking over my life. I am sitting at school trying to sort all this stuff out, when I wish I could just enjoy my remaining time in Georgia. I still wish there was some great university job somewhere in Georgia that would allow me to stay here while also making some progress on my loans.
But I was feeling cheerful this morning and just wanted to share my good news with you all!
Some people in our area were out gathering herbs and apparently got too close to the South Ossetia border. They were promptly shot by Russian military folk.
It’s a big deal, for sure. We’ll see what happens with this.
Whenever I am school, this scene is not far from my mind. A sort of old fashioned Total Physical Response? Mostly it just makes me laugh. “Please, sir. He’s cleaning the back parlor windows.”
Perhaps some of my fellow teachers haven’t seen this before and would enjoy it as much as I do.
Unfortunately I couldn’t find a clip of this exact scene only or one that does not have Spanish subtitles. But I think that some of you might actually enjoy the subtitles.
Please tune in to 3:00 although I’d highly recommend the entire film if you haven’t seen it.
Also enjoyable is the brimstone scene beginning at about 1:00: “Take it! Take it and be grateful!”
Had I written this post when our ducklings originally arrived, it would have been nothing but awws and oohs. However, the realities of life have been strongly present among my ducklings. Of the original seven, only four are still with us. And I fear that that four will soon become three.
The first two hatchlings did not survive the first few days. Then there were five and all seemed well. The little quintet was moved out to the porch where they nervously explored their new environment and tried to stay out of the way of the gawky adolescent chickens. Little thugs, I swear. And then one day the smallest duckling was just . . . gone. Grandma Neli was asked for his whereabouts and she just shrugged her shoulders with the shrug of an experienced, toughened farmer. Just didn’t make it. End of story. Tamta and I consoled each other. The little duckling had been our favorite.
And then to the dwindling numbers of our duckling family a new tragedy arrived. One of the ducklings has become lame. Accident or injury, I don’t know, but now this little guy is attempting to make his way around the yard on a single leg with a great deal of lurching and flapping as his nest mates unconcernedly waddle ahead. Though I might hope that this little guy could make it, game leg and all, I think the reality is that he will eventually fall prey to another animal or perhaps even a quick, potentially merciful end via Grandma Neli.
This is when my American anthropomorphologyizing gets me in trouble.
It’s been raining all morning. Very duck appropriate weather. From my window I can see the little foursome wandering the yard, drinking rainwater from puddles and throwing back their heads in that peculiar ducky way. The little fourth guy is hanging in there. Looks like he is getting better at getting around on just the one leg.
Soooo ducklings. Yeah. I will just have to cherish my remaining ducklings and cheer the fact that even some of them will make it to maturity. And maybe my fourth duckling’s leg will heal. It’s possible, right? I can’t help but hope.