Have you ever peed on a bee? And other tales of a Georgian summer.

Aaaand it's like a week later again and I never finished my blog post.  But I think that's an accurate representation of what I've been feeling lately: bits and pieces cobbled together, seeing how long I can hold out before going to the bazari again for a 40 tetri screw (since I'm missing a few of those) to make me last for a few more weeks.

So it goes.

Speaking of which, went to a samdzimare (wake) this month for the 10th grade homeroom teacher's husband.  He was only like 60.  I also helped with food prep for the neighbor guy who died a week later, former friend of my host grandpa and grandpa one of my 5th graders (and probably one of my 4th graders?)

To clarify: when I say I got robbed at the Nike store, I'm referring to the criminally high price.  No actual forceful taking of money by guns has happened to me.

The "job shadowing" last weekend went okay.  I feel like I really live up to being called "Mas" after Friday: 5% CP support
+ 0% CP informing on where students are in book ever
+ 30% concrete followed lesson plan
+ 100+° F weather.

You can imagine how much learning went on.  The one redeemable thing from the lesson, which featured an attempted future-with-will fortune-teller roleplay:
6th grade boy: "Will I be womens' liker?"

Good things from the visit include:

• pizza, brownies, and ice cream cake.  For breakfast.
• wine tasting.
• chillin' and morale talk on Ilia's Gora (hill).
• Polish horseshoes in the Kwa park.

Not Desirable Things Ever include:

• Truth or Dare
• Bustin' a move with the seniors on their banqeti (banquet) on Friday and hurtin' my left foot.  It's hurt for about a week and a half.  Daily ibuprophen, muscle gel, and an ankle brace later, I think I'm finally ready to run again.

In other news:

The students of this village are incredibly talented, dramawise.  4th graders had a "zeimi" (event) for their graduation today, which was cute.  And we had a "kaveini", sort of like a variety show, in Kvareli a couple Thursdays ago.  Bless the 10th graders' hearts, they don't study English worth a damn, but their comedic timing is amazing.  The first schools' piece was also better than Kvareli me-2 skola and Shilda, which was mainly a couple-kid-spotlight with the rest just there.  Which goes to show how things go down here:  One or two star pupils, who know all the answers in two seconds, are encouraged and participate in the lesson, and to hell with the rest of them.  The strong get stronger, the weak get weaker, and the teachers wonder why they're cursed with stupid children.  Betcha can't resolve that apparent discrepancy.

Sorry, I'm starting to try to study for the GRE.  Can ya tell?  I'm thinking maybe linguistics, something about how we use different language for stories, aka we have some kind of a "storytelling mode."  You can tell when someone's gonna launch into a long-winded anecdote.  Usually even if you don't know the language they're speaking.  I think that's cool.  So I wonder if there's something universal to it; tribes used to have master storytellers and stuff.  And today there are still people in every neck of the woods who haz l33t yarn-spinnin' 5killz (and those who don't).  Hmm.

Also, health translator sounds like something I could get into.  That or maybe Fulbright.  Or maybe going back to school for nursing.  Or maybe going to school for computer things.  Or maybe just being a student for life.

I'm interested in health, but I'm kind of feeling sickly all over.  Gimp ankle, sore throat, digestive things, mosquito bites complementing my tattoo and everywhere, and just a general feeling of blah.  I think it's the I've-just-spent-a-whole-year-in-Georgia-and-what-am-I-gonna-do-this-summer blues.

Speaking of which, I've finally let it slip to my host mom and counterpart teacher that I've got a tattoo.  Responses varied from "People have those in the capital and not here, but don't worry about hiding it," to "Hah!  And the older teachers think you have ankle problems because you always wear socks or tights."

I'm gonna keep wearing socks to school because it's a professional setting (relatively speaking) and you can't show off tattoos in the states in professional settings, either, generally.  But walking around the village is fair game.

Speaking of which, I'm pretty much done being cordial to everyone I meet.  Whoops.  While at first conversations like the following are charming:

Georgian: Are you Georgian?

Me: No. I'm American

Georgian: Do you understand Georgian?

Me: A little.  I'm learning.

Georgian: Maladets (Good job, in Russian.)  Why are you going to Akhalsopeli?

Me: I live there.  I work as a volunteer; I teach English to children.

Georgian: Wow.  How much is your salary?

Me: I get a stipend, for my host family.

Georgian: You should get married and stay here.

etc....

Now, they go more like this:

Georgian: Are you Georgian?

Me: No.

Georgian: Do you understand Georgian?

Me: (NO. I CLEARLY AM NOT RESPONDING TO YOU RIGHT NOW.) Yes, I know what's necessary.

Georgian: Maladets.  Where are you from?

Me: The U.S.

Georgian: Ah.  You should marry a Georgian.

Me: (Because that's the only goal one should have in life.  Especially foreign women here.) Nope, not interested.

Georgian: You don't like Georgian men?

Me: (I LOVE misogynist drunkards who can't pour a glass of water for themselves.) I'm not interested.

Georgian: (clearly offended) Oh, be careful what you say!

Me: (WHY are you offended?) I'm not interested in Georgian OR American men.

Georgian: (astonished) Well, how old are you?

Me: 22.  I have plenty of time.

Georgian: Oh, how small! (Her clock is a-tickin'.  She'd better get on that before her childbearing years are over.)

Why are you going to Akhalsopeli?

Me: I'm going home.

Georgian: You live in Akhalsopeli?!

Me: Yep.

Georgian: What do you do?  Teach?

Me: Yeah, English, to children. (When they show up.  With one out of two partner teachers.)

Georgian: What's your sal-?

Me: (REALLY?) I'm a volunteer.

Georgian: -ary. But you have to have money.  How much do you get?

Me: (PLEASE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!)

You get the picture.  I'd like to be a good diplomat, but unlike Cara, who has the patience of a rock, I just don't have it in me anymore.  So maybe a future in foreign relations isn't for me.  Fair enough.

I know I'm leaving you with a novel, but I have one more item of disgust to be discussed--  the title of this post.

I do not want to find out what happens if you pee on a bee, but I am scared to death that I will be privy to this knowledge by the time the summer's over.  Seriously, guys, what is so tantalizing about our outhouse that you have to be buzzing around from early in the morning 'til the sun don't shine, filling me with fears of stings in the place of the same?  I am trying my best to not upset you, so please don't get riled up if I make a mistake.  I'm not perfect.

Love, Paula.

Nothing to Write Home About... ?

So, as I was breaking my notrunning team training program this morning, something occurred to me which has been percolating since yesterday or so.  I greeted one of my 6th grade boys who usually hangs around the stadium the same time as me.

Turn on my jammin' tunes.  I've got some new ones, thanks to a certain charitable donor.  And the words seem to reflect my line of thought for the past few whatever-periods-of-time.  Let me illuminate.

Yesterday I had a chat.
Rick: "You know, you should keep writing.  You've got good stuff."
Me: "Most of the time it's like, 'Today I picked chinchari.  Hooray.' Nothing really interesting."

By interesting, I mean writing style.  Like, I just word vomit on the keyboard and whatever comes out is what you, my zillions of loyal fans, are stuck reading, if you make it to the end of the entries.  Sorry I'm not very entertaining.  I seem to have lost that in the shuffle of everyday life in the Twilight Zone.  (That along with patience.  There's only so many times I can handle "Does she like xinkali? What's her age? Do you like Georgia? You don't like meat? [finally realizing, after asking my CP and listening to me answer for myself multiple times that, I do understand simple questions.  Then...] American people are cold," without losing all willpower against clumping all Georgians into one category, that of ridiculous goimi, and answering their questions with the same tone they are asked.  That tone would be the one you use with slow children.

But anyway.  I also met a Fulbrighter yesterday when picking up some ice cream before getting on the marshutka headed the opposite way of Ortachalla station, where I wanted to go to catch the marsh home.  He was amazingly helpful in providing resources and had really cool research, and encouraged me to look into Fulbright.  But... as I stop and think, I really haven't done much to impress people I will solicit employment from except "put a good effort in going through the motions of teaching, even though the best of her students still write things like 'I will poor.  I will not steal because I will not like steal.'"  No extra activities, not for Earth Day (local bio/geo teacher/host fam member planned that on her own), no SPA grant or progress since Project Design and Management training... no nothing.  I barely manage to keep up with visiting the neighbors and helping the FFG advisor teacher download flash to get Farmville to work.  And I've felt like I've been off gallivanting with my friend Ana a lot and neglecting the fam.  More stress on myself.

So why was I in Tbilisi on a weekday in the first place?  Well, this past weekend I've been chilling at home.  So I decided I'd help out with some of the garden work.  I learned გამარგვლა (gamargwla [weeding]).  I also planted potatoes.  A whole friggin field of potatoes.  Mind you, I really don't like potatoes.  I'll eat them when I haven't had enough bananas for the potassium, but, really, my starch needs are covered.  Whatever.  The point is, the day after weeding, my pinky slowly swelled up to the size of a hefty cigar, with the same amount of flexibility.  Also there was a red line from my pinky to my elbow.

Called the doc, got a blood test, an x-ray from the cool Russian guy who x-rayed me before, spent the night at the PC-approved hostel (if I knew it was gonna be an overnight, I would have brought extra underwear...), and got put on antibiotics.  But my finger was starting to heal itself, so whatev.

I became the impromptu PR for the docs to get G9s to present at PST sessions.  I may participate in a couple of their sessions as well as (hopefully) "Host Family Integration" and "Avoiding Unwanted Attention."

I also got to see my old LCF and awesome friend Ana, which made my indeterminable period of time.  And met some PCVs from Armenia and Azerbaijan who were in town to judge Writing Olympics, trans-Caucasus level.

Also, ice cream is back in a maghazia near you.  Praise be to-- well, you know.

Speaking of which, I was Baptismnapped today while attempting to plan lessons.  My CP was asked to be an emergency godmother, because the grandfather died so the kid needed to be Baptized STAT (or something like that), so we went to the baptism, at which the child screamed bloody murder when the priest brushed oil on her forehead/cheeks/feet.  We then went to the obligatory supra.  Neither of us really wanted to go, but it's tradition and The Right Thing To Do.  And when the natural progression turned to the unique topic of "You Should Marry a Georgian," I calmly explained to them that I would only marry a man who "knows house's work, like washing the dishes and cleaning, because there are men like that in America, and we usually share the chores."  Usual rounds of laughter from the men, and a "Georgian men--UGH!" from like the main lady there.  Hooray!

So, like I said, nothing remarkable going on in my life.

Top 10 Ways to Occupy Oneself During Medical Leave.

10. Sleep.
Although this is difficult with a gash on back of your head and lovely bruises on both elbows and your gluteus growingevermoremaximusingeorgicus.

9. Read.
This improves your morale when you think, "Wow, Vanya Denisovich was thankful at the end of HIS day, and I haven't frozen my butt in Siberia slathering mortar on concrete blocks for 6 oz. of bread lately."
Also may build your desire to go to India after service (sans the joining-the-Indian-mafia bit).

8. Eat.
Compounding on last reason.  However, remember to tell the hostess that you don't like meat (lest you get meat and noodle soup and chicken sticks for lunch), and don't try to go out for dinner with visiting PCVs, as this is a stern no-no.

7. Catch up with people back home.
Lots of get wells for you guys who are concurrently recovering from surgeries and various ailments.  And it's sweet to hear you're doing things like learning knitting and working at book publishing companies and having senior recitals and jazz.  Also, BIG thanks to Kayleigh for my new theme song.

6. Waste time on the Interwebs.
The final frontier knows no bounds.

5. Listen to some new music.
Kyle would approve, and Steven Flaherty would be proud. (?)

4. Resolve to demand dance lessons.
Time to take a stand against the winter blues and that gluteous growingevermoremaximus.

3. Take warm showers.
Neck down or full body, enjoy it while it lasts.  Also the sit down toilet, now only seconds away from your bed!  Also central heat, when it doesn't go out for some unknown reason.

2. Reassure Akhalsopelians.
I'm okay; I'll be back Tuesday; yes, I'm taking medicine; I'd love to go walking with you when I get back; and thanks for the wish to find big and nice love in life.

1. Thank those who are that big and nice love.
Chemebi.  You know who you are.  Happy Valentine's Day, guys.

To do without.

Just because, post's composition lack of action words for point.  Possible.
And lots of down time.

Wednesday, after ice without footing and head WITH bottom stair, anti-azeri-not-knowing-georgian ambulance driver's 30 minute tea at the homestead with my head and blood all over the couch, much time.

Time in ambulance half reading A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, half kartuglish with other doctor in ambulance (Gurian, war experience, English so-so, coworker/friends in Haiti relief).

Finally Tbilisi, swanky hospital, and CT scan.  No amnesia, no loss of consciousness, no brain damage (maybe).  Head cleaninPAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIN!!!!!!!!!!

Educated doctor: "Shes name Salome." (The nice night nurse.) (And doctor's name...? : / ) Buttload of food.  Butt pain + elbow pain + head pain + drugs = sort-of-sleep + not-quite-coherent conversation with sister

Thursday:
Hospital Ritz's check-out.  Hostel Nika's check-in.  More checkups.  House arrest.  Surprise!! Visitors!  Online conversations with sister, G9, and G10-to-be.

Friday:
Still house arrest.  The Office catch-up.  "Sunday best" Paula, minus shower.  Phone interview for FLEX program-- ise ra.  Blegh for phones.  But with 11 other friend applicants, nonplussed.  Rest of day: online nonsense, talkin' with Kyle-i, Georgian lasagna, shower from neck down.


Summary:
Visits from non-medical personnel: 3
Phone calls/texts from Akhalsopelians about my health: 6
Comfortable sleeping positions: 0
Time from village to Tbilisi: with blood on your head, longer than necessary
Future plans: 2 books, 3 Office episodes, James Bond movie, chocolate, showers (multiple, hot).
 Demands for dance lessons.
 Reclamation of thwarted plans to visit neighbor/friends.
 T-shirt-- front: "Life is like Eurasia." back: "Your mom is like Eurasia."
 Grad school for linguistics?

Recent brushes with death and realization that my life < aprovechado : 1

Gilotsavt Barbaroba! And mamidas dabadebis dghe. (and tsudadoba.)

For those of you who are not fluent in Georgian (definitely felt today that is NOT me), Happy St. Barbara's Day and my aunt's birthday (and sickness day).

The day, for me, involved going to school and encountering classes of 4-8 students, then leaving school after 3rd lesson to go on a hike up the mountain to Barbara's church with most of the students.

Going there was okay.  I ate more lobiani than I've ever eaten in a day.  Lobiani's the traditional dish of the day and each of the students brought their family's own variety, so I had to try them all.  And some cookies.  And a mandarini (tangerine).  And a blinchiki (fried pastry with cream).  And some boiled pumpkin.

I also got to talk with some of the more talented students in English (and thus butchered my Georgian more than usual today).

In trying to come back, the students ridiculously decided to hike through the river bed rather than cross the bridge that we'd crossed in the first place (because the closer one is gapuchdabuli from the last big storm that came through, and Georgians are lazy).  I protested and hiked farther north with some of the students, but eventually failed in my efforts and had to cross two makeshift log bridges rather than one.  These kids are impressively adept at making log bridges, and one of the girls absolutely refused help in crossing and then told the boys, "See? I am clever!" (in English).

Now, I somehow ended up alone with this group of 7 seventh graders.  While we were hiking back into town, one of the boys realized he forgot his bag, probably at the church.  Which was like upwards of a half hour hike from where we were, one way.  FML.  Paula the indecisive is forced into the Responsible Adult role.  What do we do?  I, of course, was wishy washy.  First we waited.  I called the homeroom teacher of the class I was with who I'd gotten separated from (but not after calling my Georgian teacher of the same first name who was celebrating with her students in Baghdadi.  Whoops.) and told her we'd be late.  She told me the parents were worrying.  So after more waffling, I decided to lead a group home. Partially because of the parents, and partially because I needed a bathroom due to the anti-constipation meds and digestive enzymes circulating my system.  The boys stayed to wait for the other boy.  When we got back, my host mom and the homeroom teacher both said the boys would be fine, and I know they would be, but it's the principle of the thing.  When I asked the boys if they wanted to leave, and one said yes, the other asked him, "Are you heartless?"

Yikes!  I don't want to be heartless.  But I also didn't want to lose any remaining scrap of dignity.  Whatev. 

Then, naturally, it's the aunt's birthday today.  So we went to her place for the party tonight (after stopping by the store last minute to pick out a present--a rose patterned cake plate, server, and plate set that cost 38 lari that the giftee probably does not need. Huzzah!).  And the family commented I don't eat.  Really.  I'm getting sick of this.  I was stuffed from earlier today, and I can't really eat bread, cheese, or alcohol, all of which were present and offered to me.  But I accepted the homemade pickles, juice, pepper/tomato stuff, and preserved peaces.  And a walnut nom nom square that wasn't that great. Hm.  I'd say that's pretty good for being drugged up and worrying all day about school and then missing students.  And Putin was on the news--his questionable orientation is in the spotlight, and the family collectively "ewwed" when the TV showed a picture of two men kissing (as my host bro affectionately snuggled with his uncle, arms and head resting on him, closer than most Americans would be comfortable with.).

As one of the boys said when I was silently panicking whether to stay or go, "Well, this is a day you'll remember.  When your friends ask you what you did for Barbaraoba, you'll have a story to tell them."

(or something like that in Georgian.)

Medicine in the Great Land of Sakartvelo.

So.  This shall be a small update, as I am feeling sicker than a dzaghls.  So, I think an appropriate topic should be a step-by-step guide on how to take care of yourself in the wonderful land of Georgia.

1)Burns.  Anything from a large burn covering most of your foot because you tried to can something with a used glass jar that has a crack on the bottom--to a small burn on your hand because you spilled scalding water from your teacup (if it's not scalding, it can't make tea. especially since you only stick the teabag in the water for a good three seconds, tops, then share the same chaisperi with the rest of the family.)
Should you receive such a burn, immediately cover your burn in oil, cry in pain while reluctantly applying aloe gel offered to you by your American boarder, and cut open any blisters formed.  Then, cover with mysterious yellow mousse-like substance that resembles spray foam insulation.  Call local doctor.  Let American listen to doctor speaking on telephone, saying, "Yes, they already cut it," (or something like that in Georgian).  Be prepared to be unable to walk for weeks and know that your work friends will ask the American about your health on marshutkas.
Should the burn be small, skip all steps except for the application of yellow spray foam.

2) Nutrition.  There's a lot to be said here.
Basics include: look strangely at your American if he/she doesn't eat bread and potatoes and khatchapuri and other starches when they're all offered.
Drink 5+ cups of coffee a day; instant, Turkish/remain-y, and/or American brewed.
Eat plenty of cheese but never have constipation.  (Riddle me this.)
Snack constantly.

To my family's awesomeness factor, they're totally cool with me limiting myself to one cup a day, though they still ask me every time if I want coffee.  I think this is just the hospitality factor; it'd be rude not to offer.

3) Stomachaches.
Causes: Wearing thin slippers and getting cold.
Not wearing slippers and getting cold.
Not wearing a scarf and getting cold. (though I now realize I've never been yelled at for my lack of hat.)
Not wearing enough layers and getting cold.
Treatment: "tea" made of fruit muraba (syrupy jam).  Mineral water.  Warming up by the petchi.

4) Headaches.
Treatment: not Ibuprofen.  That's only for shots.


I keep thinking I live in a different country than the rest of the volunteers.  My counterpart (one of them) is motivated and wants to work.  I eat fresh fruits and veggies, usually.  Now, of course, it's a bit sparser pickins, but we've got plenty of muraba and compote (which also unnecessarily ups my sugar intake, cause I eat buttloads of chocolate and nom nom squares.)  I get along with my family and spend a lot of time with them chatting and yukking it up over racking up frequent buyer points on pharmacy reward cards by bringing in real daisies (cause the cards have daisy pictures on them).  My students say that girls can't always do what guys do because of physical inability.  I'm inclined to agree with them to a certain extent, but managed to protest enough until they agreed that girls and guys could do "each others'" work if they had to.  My counterpart and I talk about scrapbooking and taxis and xerox machines and good and bad advertising.  Some of the teachers in the teacher's lounge rolled their eyes when I was interrupted from a normal conversation by a demand from a P.E. (read: male) teacher to say "bakaki tskalshi kikinebs" for his amusement.  That same teacher also asks me every day, without fail, how I am and if I'm cold and when I want him to "warm me up" by feeding me wine. (not bad, it's winter, and after lessons).

Then there's the interactions in the store when I ask for the price of a glass pan that looks the right size for lasagna (40 GEL? Ew.) and actually get the "You're a foreigner?  You speak Georgian?  You teach English? Are you married?  Oh, you should find yourself a nice Georgian boy." Ick.

But life in the village continues on rather normally.  We have no heat in the school yet, because we're supposed to get central heating.  By the middle of January.  Normally, I wouldn't believe that date.  Remember when my school was supposed to open a month earlier than it did?  But they're working on the heating.  During my lessons.  I had a chunk of wall fall near my feet when I was trying to lead a failed impromptu game of pictionary/charades in seventh grade (brought into existence because the xerox wasn't working, so we couldn't make copies of the test scheduled for that day).

It's usual in Georgia.