To Georgia, with Love

There is something in the guttural

sounds of the words,

or the frenzy of traffic

that’s moving in herds.

You might hear it or smell it

or swallow it whole,

but you’ll never quite grasp it

or clasp it in full.

You can squiggle your eyes

and twiddle your toes,

waggle your tongue

even crinkle you nose,

but it’s far beyond senses

and fences and prose.

When your catching your breath

between dozens of toasts,

when your vision is blurred

so your host becomes hosts,

it’s then that you just might

gather a glimpse,

of a spirit that’s moving

in staggering limps…

Wait that’s you (!) that is straining

to hold it together,

that’s raising your glass without

care about whether

you’ll wake in the morning

and make it to school

or pass out on the table

in a heap like a fool.

And maybe you are one

for starting to think

you’d keep up with the Georgians

in food and in drink.

Still there’s solace in knowing

that whenever you rise,

it will all make sense,

it will even seem wise,

that you’re breakfast consists

of congealed French fries.

No you’ll never explain it

as hard as you try.

Whatever you say will

come out as a lie.

But as far as you figure

your brain can surmise,

this terrible hangover

is somehow your prize.

So you walk to the street

and you wait for the bus,

you look to the ground

and you try not to cuss.

Through the nausea you sense

that the day is beginning.

The stray dogs are howling,

the world is still spinning.

Four children go by

hand in hand in a line.

The sun on the river

is beginning to shine.

The merchant is sweeping

the dust from the walk,

the farmer is guiding

and chiding his stock.

The wind is running the

length of the street.

Here you are studying

the tops of your feet.

And it’s then you remember

that something was said,

last night between mouthfuls

of wine and of bread.

It had something to do with

good health and good family.

It’s hard to recall

it was winding and rambly.

But whatever it was

everybody agreed

that it was something to

stand for in word and in deed.

That was all fine and good

but now you can feel it.

Look around, it’s all here,

nobody can steal it.

It is pulsing, convulsing,

inside your head,

from your heart to your heels

starting now til’ you’re dead.

If it hurts that’s okay

least you know that it’s there.

There’s no secret or trick

everyone gets there share.

So you raise your gaze

and flag down your ride,

climb in to the crush

of humans inside.

And it smells and it’s hot

but you’re traveling fast,

contorting your limbs

in a way that can’t last.

Swerving upstream making

dangerous blind passes,

inhaling the sweat and the

germs of the masses.

You’re trying to swallow

your bile and your pride,

accept that your stuck and

along for the ride,

when suddenly lurching

you come to your stop,

the hiss of the door

drops you out with a plop.

And now you have paid

and now you’ve arrived

now you can even say

you survived.

But that’s not enough to get by,

its not even close

though this country has served

you a near lethal dose.

Your job is to teach

something you know:

surviving’s not it

because no one’s a pro.

So you walk up the steps

trying to figure the score,

what it is about Georgia that

makes you want more.

It’s far beyond thinking and

breathing and saying.

Too much to afford

however you’re paying.

Whatever it be it’s

around in the air,

hidden from sight

so long as you stare.

Raise your glass, close your eyes,

forget what you know.

Head to class, head to work,

in the rain or the snow.

Speak up in that language,

forget all your woes.

What you mean will be clear

when you say Gaomarjos!

Back Home (Far Away)

At the Turkish border, The Black Sea looking blue.

Well I’ve certainly been neglecting this blog of mine, and I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t had the time. Although they drink faster and drive faster in this country (usually in that order), the days tend to move wonderfully slow. Yet as those lazy afternoons add up, the weeks and months run by with abandon.  The green has come to the hills—first in patchwork fits and starts, then all at once as a wave. The snow has retreated to the rocky summits, as the rivers swell with the melt. And would you know it, I’ve turned 26  along the way.

So if I have any excuse, it’s that life here has been happening in a way that defies the recording of it. I’ve been immersed in the rhythm of this place and these people. Nonetheless, I’ve captured a few pictures of  it all, so I’ll try to tell the story with them.

You’re looking at two things that you won’t find anywhere in Georgia. I brought them both from home. Of course my host family thought the maple syrup was some kind of liquor and they were more than a little disappointed to find out that it went on the pancakes and not in a shot glass. This was my first attempt to introduce a little American cuisine. The result was good enough to convince them that men are actually capable of cooking but not so good that they were willing to eat more than one pancake apiece. That left most of the batch to me. An hour later my last Jiffy-infused taste of home was gone.

Let me Introduce the Team Batumi Starting Lineup

(or at least the ones I have pictures of) 

Raines Taylor (center) strikes his natural pose:

Born and raised in the other Georgia, he’s a classically trained opera singer whose clever one-liners are known throughout the region. He’s been on a mission to find the best coffee and non-Georgian food that this country has to offer and we’ve been all too happy to follow his lead. He’s got an electric smile and when he teaches there are fireworks in the classroom. No seriously, the loud scary kind, hidden in the kids’ desks and then thrown across the room. His hearing might have been permanently compromised.

Michelle Le puts her pockets to good use:

Hailing from the lone star state, she’s a crack shot with a beach stone and a secret font of all things mythic. She once bartered for boots she only later realized were a size and half too big, and when she’s not drinking beer she’s usually eating candy. Recently her host family poisoned the mouse that was searching for sweets in her room but the family cat ate that mouse and died. She feels bad about it.

Elizabeth Tomlinson contemplates the meaning of life:

She’s a Mississippi girl with a Former Soviet Union problem. That is to say, when she’s not at home in the South, you can find her somewhere in the old CCCP speaking Russian with a hint of a drawl. Here in Georgia, her host family won’t let her leave the house without a 5 kilo bag of their home-grown mandarins. Heavy for her, good deal for her friends! She’s learned the hard way that invitations to her students' houses usually lead to slumber parties that include lots of alcohol…even for the students…even when they’re fourth graders. Don’t put sugar in her coffee.

Jackson Tse expresses his most deeply held beliefs: peace and love:

As a very tall Asian Canadian in an extremely homogeneous country, Jackson usually tries to blend in by striking this pose. Georgians don’t smile too much on the street but Jackson’s trying to change that. He loves chocolate and Rom-Coms and his student Giga just got 5^th place in the national spelling competition. That means he learned how to spell 1,500 English words that you and I have never heard of. When he’s not dancing with a sword (seriously), he’s wandering about Cypress checking whether the ATM’s there really work. Wherever he is, he’s probably smiling.

Erekle Chikvaidze offers me some tree sap to chew on like gum:

From the village of Vaio in the district of Keda, he was named after a powerful Georgian king who wielded a 15 kilo sword. He’s just as badass as all of that would suggest. He tells me that he had a reputation in school for breaking window and I believe it. Despite all that, he’ll win you over with his ridiculous laugh and his ridiculous Georgian expressions, none of which could be appropriately reprinted here. When the Russians invaded in 2008 he was 15. While jets flew over head and the streets emptied, he hitched a ride to town just to walk around and see what he could see. When it comes to drinking, he prefers whatever is the strongest option.

Portrait of a Georgian Family

Erekle and Maya were gracious enough to invite me and Michelle to their beautiful village of Vaio. There family welcomed us with a glorious feast and some of the finest wine I’ve tasted in all of Georgia. Here they are with a friend.

And here they are again, this time with a little extra flair.

Even in the depths of winter we could already sniff the first hints of spring coming to the valley.

Nightfall in a little piece of paradise.

Valentines Day Georgian Style

My 6^th grader’s working hard on their valentines. I swear this wasn’t posed, they’re actually this focused and hard-working…sometimes.

Good work boys. Those two half-smirks in the first row are the closest things you’ll see to smiles from the young Georgian men.

Can you guess who the terror of the first grade is!?

If they’re trying not to smile, they eventually lose that battle.

An Excursion to T'bilisi and Gori a.k.a. Meeting my Namesake

This is the expression you have when you just got off an overnight train that had the heat on full blast—where the conductor woke you from your fitful sleep with a yell. This is the expression you have when most mornings with your host family involve one of a thousand different combinations of bread and cheese. And this is the expression you have when you’ve just discovered the best almond croissants an Americanos in the entire country for the equivalent of 3 dollars!

Soon after arriving in this country I realizaed that my name was a bit awkward for the locals. Every Georgian name ends with a vowel, so Sam becomes Sami. However, without the nasally version of the “a”, my name came out as Semii or Saami. The former sounds strange and Scandinavian, the latter is the same as the number 3 in Georgian, which is just confusing. Thankfully for me, my host brother freed me from name purgatory by deciding that I should be called Soso. Not only is Soso an awesome sounding name, it also turns out to be the original name of the most famous Georgian in world history, Josef Stalin (born Soso Dzugashvili). It was only right that I visit the museum (more like a memorial) and birthplace of my namesake.

Stalin’s childhood home still stands, though they tore down the rest of the neighborhood around it long ago.

Looking North from the town of Gori toward the Caucuses.

I wasn’t lying when I said that Jackson spends a lot of his time dancing with a sword. We were fortunate enough to see him perform in T’bilisi. He and the rest of his troupe performed beautifully and bravely. As far as I know, despite a couple dozen acrobatic warriors on stage, there were no broken fingers or lost limbs on this day.

Traditional Georgian dance

If you’re curious, you can find plenty of Georgian dance on youtube, there’s a different style for every region of the country and they’re all awesome.

Another Batumi Beach Sunset