Wednesdays at the Rose Household

Usually every Wednesday Doug and I have what we call "Hump Day Happy Hour". This was Doug's grand idea. We began by inviting the people who live in the compound and have branched out to inviting various other groups - one at a time as we don't have a lot of space. They are popular events. It has been an excellent way for newcomers to meet several people in a relaxed atmosphere. Several people who live in the compound are single and appreciate the regular, easy access to company after work. I put out drinks and appetizers, people bring offerings sometimes and I select some CDs to play. People always know it's Happy Hour night in the summer when we put out the flage - Uzbek and American. During the Winter we set out lanterns on the steps and light them.

Last Wednesday we invited our music teachers plus a few more musicians and we had a night of Uzbek folk music. Doug invited his staff to join us. We hired the cafeteria staff to cook the national Uzbek dish of plov. Plov (pronounced with a long 'o') is a spiced rice and lamb dish with bits of carrots and currants in it. It is tradition to make it every Thursday. The men make plov. Hamid and ___ arrived around 4:00 to start cooking on the patio. They brought a special bowl for cooking the plov in which sits over fire. I eat plov every Thursday at the Embassy and look forward to it, but after tasting it cooked outdoors over the fire I now know why the locals go out for plov on Thursdays. (It's like the difference between putting ground beef in a skillet or on a grill.) There is a place called the Plov Center which cooks plov in enormous 'bowls' outside where you can watch. They serve their plov with a quail egg on top. There are many variations.

We probably had between 25 and 30 guests Wednesday. It was pleasantly crowded. One of the men who Doug works with grabbed our camera and took pictures and videos throughout the night. He got some good video of the musicians including when Doug sang and when I sang. We're (translate: Doug is) looking into posting them on a site like Shutterbug or something so you can see them. I'm told they're too big to put on my blog.

I think our house must be known as the party house because all I have to do is approach the guard at the gate with a piece of paper in my hand and whoever is on duty says, "Гости?" (pronounced "ghosty") meaning, "Guests?"

One of the musicians was a doira player (the Uzbek folk drum). At the end of the night he told our teacher that he wanted to have Douglas and I over to his house for Lagman (a delicious noodle dish traditionally made with one very, very long noodle - we're talking yards) and music. I think that music is going to be our ticket to societywherever we travel. It's a bond appreciated by everyone. There are some men who work in a market I frequent who occasionally ask me how my music lessons are coming along. Once they asked me who my teacher was. When I mentioned Marmurjan's name they all smiled and nodded. They knew him!

Once on my way home from the Embassy I stopped to chat with the gate guard. I showed him my music. He started drumming on the desk with his fingers and singing one of my songs. I joined in and we two strangers - a male and a female in a primarily Muslim country - sang the entire song together. That's special.

Our teacher, Mamurjan, is on the right side.

The plov!

To Khiva

Doug and I went to Khiva Saturday. Khiva lies west of Tashkent (about an hour by air) near Urgench. As with much of Uzbekistan it is full of history and beautiful buildings.

 Most impressive to me was the amazing patterns of blue, green and white tiled walls of the madrassas (schools), the elaborately painted tri-panelled ceilings that looked down on these walls and one mosque that was full of 230 intricately carved wooden columns. The artwork is truly stunning. I could have taken hundreds of pictures just to try and capture each pattern represented. Symbolism is rife in the patterns. Our guide, Timur, pointed out that the figure that we, unfortunately, know as the swastika is an old Zoroastrian symbol innocently present long before the nazis. If you looked closely you could also find figures of Hindi gods like Shiva and Ganesh, the Christian cross, Star of David, arms and fingers reaching up in praise and, I’m sure, many hidden symbols - the meanings of which have yet to be disciphered. One column combined the various religious symbols signifying man’s unity. Supposedly the meaning of that was not made known when it was originally carved as that would have been met with ugly opposition. I wish more of our world were ready for it today.

I need to develop a better attitude towards vendors. I tend to shut down when people are shouting at me and pushing goods in my face, even when I am interested in buying something. I wanted to buy some Christmas gifts while in Khiva. Doug and I were looking for some decoratively carved cutting boards we had seen earlier. One young woman started in on us to come closer and look as she named all the things she had - even though they were in plain sight and we were already looking at them. He told her we were looking for cutting boards, which were not in sight. She said she had some. In the meantime another woman said that she had cutting boards. Doug went one way and I went the other to see cutting boards. Though pretty, they were poor quality, barely sanded smooth and unfinished. The woman who was showing Doug the boards kept yelling at me to get my attention. I ignored her as I was with someone in conversation. At one point she yelled in an ugly tone of voice, “Get over here!” She did this twice. We left. Earlier the silk vendor Timur introduced us to came over to us humbly, looking a little embarrassed at the attention and with a slight smile and showed us into his shop. I liked him. Even if I hadn’t been looking for suzani, I would have just wanted to buy something from him. I bought three suzani. I wish I had more language skills to tell that woman why I’d never even consider buying from her. I also wish I had a better attitude towards these people who work so hard, earn so little and are so desperate to prove themselves.

In the week leading up to the trip I read “A Carpet Ride to Khiva” by Christopher Aslan Alexander. He lived in Khiva for seven years and would probably still live there had he not made himself unpopular with the corrupt politicians he encountered. He started a carpet school/shop with high standards of using natural dyes and old school methods of weaving and pattern seeking eventually becoming the largest employer in the area. If you’re curious about the history of the area and life today I recommend reading his book. It is witty and informative without going overboard and helps develop perspective on the differences between our cultures. Some things you read will be disturbing like it’s illegal to beat your wife - in public. The government corruption is so rampant you may find yourself angry for these people. I can understand how lying is so prevalent, understood and accepted here.

I have often found myself wondering, “How, in this day and age, can anyone . . .?” Someone I shared the following story with said, “Well, until they (the Uzbeks) decide that they don’t want to live that way anymore, that’s what they’ll have.” As though they can change it by admitting that they don’t want to live that way. I have a short answer to that. There was a horrible massacre in Andijon in 2005. There was a protest over the bogus arrest of a prominent citizen. The people (mostly women with their children in tow) gathered outside the prison and waited asking for his release. There are many versions of this story. They were peaceful and unarmed. Tanks were positioned ‘just in case’. Depending on whose version you believe, some radicals heard of the peaceful protest and showed up. Eventually gunfire broke up. The tanks were moved in and indiscriminately gunned down everyone they could. Official death toll was 169; eye-witnesses put it in the area of 500-700. Quite a difference. What is unfathomable to us is that people in Khiva (and other parts of Uzbekistan) didn’t even know what had happened for some time. News programs are regularly blocked in Uzbekistan.The people had no way of knowing. The government regularly runs programming that features people (often children) singing songs about Uzbekistan. They are kept ignorant. The writer had access (somehow, that’s unclear to me) to BBC and knew of the uprising. It could be a simple matter of cable being too costly for the average citizen, I don’t know. I do know that certain internet sights remain blocked. Today news sights that have news of this area are blocked, Google maps is typically blocked, some American newspapers are blocked (sometimes by article; sometimes the entire sight), local newspapers are about four pages long and are full of editorials that pass as articles about how good the Uzbek government is. For their recent 20th Anniversary celebration a program was run on (and on and on) television of a split screen; half showing riots in France, half showing people picnicking in a Tashkent park, half showing the twin towers being attacked and half showing people playing music on the street in Tashkent. The message: life is good here; you don’t want to go there. It’s really unbelievable, but it’s true.

Ignorance here goes deeper than political and world news. I asked a woman in the gym bathroom recently how her exercise went that day. She said she didn’t exercise because she was on her period. I just said something like, ‘yeah, sometimes I don’t feel like it either.” She waited a minute then asked if it was okay to exercise when on our period. Yes, I assured her, we can. This woman was about 30. I have often alarmed the cleaning crew when, after I exercise, I stand in front of a fan to cool down. They worriedly tell me that I'll get sick. Every time I cough, my Russian teacher feels how cold my water is because they believe drinking cold water will make you sick. Sometimes it's funny, but, really, it's sad that they are kept ignorant to a large degree.There are some horrifying stories in the book about medical practices here.

Since leaving Khiva I have learned that some of Uzbekistan (excluding Tashkent) is limited to two or three hours of power per day. This goes on while the government sells power to neighboring countries. This goes on during the scorching summers (most homes have no air-conditioning anyway) and the frigid winter.

It amazes me that they not only survive, but they can create such beauty as we saw in Khiva and as we see in the local bazaars. I wish that the players of the Uzbek folk music with the rapid fingered rhythms of the doiras, the singing and whining of the gidzhak (a small violin-like instrument played in the lap like a cello) and the strumming of the dutar (a long, narrow, two-stringed guitar-like instrument) and the dancers didn't have to put up with this nonsense. And I wish that the people I've met at the Embassy, our compound and the nearby shops had the freedom to access information so they can have the knowlege to form informed opinions and safely voice those opinions.

Mostly, I wish that our world's leaders would know when it's time to step aside. I wish this could be seen as an act of wisdom instead of weakness. (Think of George Washington when he said, after being asked to serve a third term, that two was enough for one man.) I look forward to a day when the power of wisdom eclipses the power of might and the influence of wealth.

I Know an Old Man

I know an old man who’s quickly aging. His eyes won’t see what they used to see. His ears won’t hear what they used to hear. His knees are tired of supporting him. His breathing weakens when it used to be strong. Of course this didn’t happen all of a sudden, yet it did.

When his car doesn’t work, he has no problem taking it back to the dealer and paying to have them fix it. When his body doesn’t work he waits for it to fix itself. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. I hope he’s learning to take his body’s concerns to his Maker and his Maker’s assistants (otherwise known as doctors) even though it’s not easy.

It’s okay today for a man to acknowledge fear, but he’s still not comfortable admitting his fears. It’s okay for a man to be sad or frightened, but it’s so much easier to be angry.

I wonder if he remembers all he’s seen through those failing eyes. I hope those pictures are alive in his sharp mind. I wonder if he remembers all the voices and sounds he’s heard through his deafening ears.

May the music of his life play on in his mind to the end of his days.

When his strength is gone will he recall all the jobs he labored at? All the sports he played? Does he know that it’s okay to rest now?

Does he know how vital he still is? Does he realize how many people want to hear his stories? Does he really believe that it’s never too late to learn? What a difference he would make in the lives of others by setting such an example as taking a class.

When he considers his regrets in life, does he realize that he can still repair some relationships or do some deeds left undone?

Does he know that seeing apology as weakness is old school? That we’ve evolved past that and realize the strength it takes to admit wrong doing and say “I’m sorry?” I hope he knows by looking at others’ lives that sometimes one’s regrets are regrets to them alone; they don’t affect other people as may be feared. Even genuine regrets may have some good repercussions as we learn from each other.

I think he grew up in a time when a man worked hard for a good life; now he sees so many people with easier jobs and fewer home responsibilities that require their own hands and time. While that’s encouraging and impressive, I think it can brew some bitterness. I hope he knows that it’s okay to let someone else help him around the house today.

I hope he knows that in accepting help he’s also helping.

A busy month

October was a busy month at the Embassy. Earlier there was a concert by a popular group that has been performing together in Uzbekistan for something like forty years. Many people were invited and hundreds showed up for the outdoor show on a perfect weather day. I learned that I have a long way to go if I really want Doug to become an Ambassador some day. I need to work on my public face. The first song performed (by a warm-up singer) was New York, New York. It was so schmaltzy and sung to pre-recorded music (a pet peeve of mine). I was glad that I was seated behind the stage while I laughed and reached for my earplugs. Why was I seated behind the stage, you many wonder? Because the Uzbeks (as well as Americans and probably the rest of the world for all I know) have one volume for music and that is ear splitting, skull cracking, teeth rattling LOUD to the point of distortion. There is absolutely no pleasure in listening to it even if it’s good music well performed. Then out came the dancers! I just had to go look. Think of your average upper aged, sheltered, traditional housewife doing an interpretive dance to Dr. Phil and you’ve got a good idea as to what I saw. To be fair I should mention that I am not a dancer for many good reasons and I don’t attend dance shows so my knowledge of dance is very limited. Many people love the traditional Uzbek dance and these young women did it well, I think. It’s just not my thing. I can’t watch it with a straight face yet. I imagined myself as the wife to the Ambassador who some may be looking at to see what I thought of the performance and I tried to put a light smile on my lips. Then I remembered that I’m not the wife of the Ambassador and why torture myself? At least the main group performing had instruments to play. I heard rumors of lip synching, but who knows? So far, outside of Doug’s and my music lessons, we have only heard one performance without an electronic 70’s disco drumbeat thrown in. It’s sad because the traditional music has such appeal.

I’m writing this on Sunday, October 23 (posting it on Thursday November 3 - I'm slow). This morning the Embassy had its second visit by Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. She was in town from Afghanistan and Tajikistan to meet with President Karimov. She also met with some local civil rights groups at the Embassy and visited a women’s wellness center the opening of which she attended as First Lady. She was late in getting to the Embassy. We had a long wait and I was glad that I brought some homework to do. I was amused at one of the hold ups. She was given a gift in Tajikistan just before departing. She was given a gift of 1,200 pounds of fruits and nuts. On the one hand, how kind and generous of them. On the other hand what in the world did they think she would do with such a gift? If she had been able to take it on the plane with her everyone would have had to eat, I don’t know, 30 or so pounds of fruits and nuts each! She offered to pass it on to the local U.S. Embassy, which apparently offended the gift givers. I don’t know how they got out of that one.

The weeks leading up to such a visit are quite busy at the Embassy. People’s work loads increase greatly. People step in to do extra jobs to prepare for the visit. They attend to the pre-arrival staff of Secretary Clinton, set up a control room where she and her staff will be staying and keep in close touch with Washington and her staff which means people like Doug checking his Blackberry whenever he awakens during the night. I walked into his office one day and he had two phones, an active radio and his Blackberry – three of which were going off while I was there. He was sort of rewarded this visit, however. Last year his boss was out of town and Doug was so busy running not only his section but others that he never even got a glimpse of Secretary Clinton. This year it was requested that he ride in her motorcade. I think all that meant was that he got to glimpse her several times while he ran the motorcade, but at least he got to see her.

That night we had what is called a ‘Wheels Up Party’. After everything is over with at the Embassy and their responsibilities with her visit have come to an end, we celebrate. 

More about Italy

The excitement of being in Italy was enough to keep me high our entire trip, but it's the details that stay with me in my memory.

These cities are so old and contain so much charm. I took several pictures of doors and their decorative knobs and elaborate knockers.

The people who live and work behind these curious doors must have lots of patience and love for humanity for every day they contend with driving their cars through these twisting, steep streets full of oblivious tourists. I never heard a cross word nor did I see an exasperated face. Maybe if I could eat like they do every day I'd be alot more patient, who knows?

We looked inside the Temple of San Biagio that sits at the hill of Montepulciano. Here's a wide view inside:

The streets are cobblestone. There are a few old stone gate entryways scattered about of which Doug took pictures.

Notice the window above as evidence that someone lives there. How would you like to be about to tell someone you live above the east gate in Montepulciano, Italy?

The streets run between tall, old, stone and brick buildings but every once in a while there is an alley down which you can see The View, similar to this. The pictures I took down the dark alleys leading to views like this didn't turn out.

We arrived in Montepulciano under a full moon so we usually took a walk after dinner to take in these views under the moonlight. Very romantic.

We were not always out running around. We spent plenty of time in the room, the courtyard at the hotel or sitting in a park reading. We started one day doing some yoga in our room. I was reminded that poses, like Mountain, are active poses. (For those of you not familiar with yoga, Mountain pose is a basic standing position, hands held open and muscles engaged for balance and posture.) This reminded me that I can be active in life without being physical. This is something I know, but should realize more often.

There was a artist's exhibition in a building next to the park that we went to see. The artist carved figures from olive trees - only fallen, naturally lost olive trees, none were cut down for this. The most striking display, to me, was The Last Supper in which each disciple and Christ were represented by their hands alone. The thought this man put into what Peter's hands would look like in contrast to Bartholomew's was interesting.

One of our walks led to a cemetary with a huge, old, rusted iron gate at the entrance. We walked around and noticed, humorously, that the rest of the cemetary was surrounded by a very short wall that anyone could have climbed or hopped over. I can't express how much I loved taking walks there. It was always accompanied with an "if my friends could see me now" feeling of excitement. I even asked God once if He could see me! The last time I felt this was on a beach on the Aran Island of Innishmore off Ireland. The moonlight shone on the water and I wept, it was so beautiful.

The beauty of the agriturismo we stayed at near Volterra (Marcampo) was very different than Montepulciano. It was not as green. It still had rolling hills, but the hills were covered with what looked like cut hay. I walked and walked over and around these hills. There was a huge grove of trees that I wanted to walk around, but, as I tried, I realized that the grove just kept going with no break and after a couple hours or days (I lost track of time in fear of becoming truly lost) I gave up and went back to our room.

 I got up twice at sunrise and walked to see the shepherds with their sheep. They talk and whistle to them and I loved listening. I tried to record it, but between the wind and the distance it didn't turn out. The first morning I saw them I was on the hill and they were in the valley below. I kept glancing over listening an watching. Soon I realized that the watcher was being watched. I raised my hand in a wave and in response I heard, "Ciao!" "Ciao" I shouted back. More chat was volleyed back, but my Italian was exhausted. I can still hear them in my head, I really wish I could have recorded it successfully. It sounded much different than the Uzbek shepherds and goatherds I hear in the mounains of Uzbekistan.

When I go on trips like this that I so thoroughly enjoy I wonder how I can take some of it home with me. One way to bring Italy home is flowers. Flowers spill off every doorstep, dangle off every wall and, sitting in pots, fill every street. On one walk, I saw one tiny flower in a very small pot that was quite dry. All we had with us was our Camelbak so I sucked in some water, spit it into the soil and repeated enough times to give it a good watering. I enjoyed the flowers so much I somehow felt obligated to help the little guy out.

Perks

There are many perks in serving in the Foreign Service besides the obvious of living abroad and gettng the extensive training available. One is R&R. Some posts, like Tashkent, are considered remote and those serving there are given paid trips once a year (if they serve the full two years at post). The R&R destination for Tashkent is Rome, Italy.
On August 11, Doug and I left Tashkent for Doug's first vacation in over two years.
We flew into Rome and immediately drove up into the Tuscany region anxious to get out of the big city. We spent nine nights in Montepulcciano - an old hilltop town overlooking vineyards and olive groves. We quickly fell into a nice routine of exploring Montepulcciano in the morning, lunching, enjoying gelato after lunch, taking one last walk then escaping the heat by reading and napping in our room. I usually took an afternoon walk, sometimes Doug would join me. For dinner we ate at the same small cafe every night which was right next to our hotel. Every other day we'd leave Montepulciano for a short drive to a neighboring city (also hilltop) to look around and hunt out the best pasta, pizza or panini and, of course, gelato.
Montepulciano was charming as were all the cities we visited. It was divided into neighborhoods marked with flags, each flag representing a family. There were many fun shops including leather shops mostly filled with bags, a shop full of hand knit wear, a paper and pen shop, one full handmade leather bound books and a wall full of ornate wrapping paper sold by the sheet, one of those knick-knack shops full of things you don't need and maybe even don't want, but you just have to stop and look, artist shops with paintings, mosaics (we go to watch him work) and a shop full of very old drawings of Italian scenes from the land and life and maps. We played an ongoing game "If we had all the money in the world we'd buy . . ." Boy do you wish we had all the money in the world; we really "shopped" for you!
We mostly saw outdoor sights like the old city gates (of which Douglas took many pictures), old fountains still in use, wells, doors ornamented with decorative knockers and/or knobs (of which I took many pictures), churches and narrow alleys winding between people's homes at which on every doorstep and window ledge sat pots of trailing flowers. Upon following these alleys we'd often come upon another view. Every view was breathtaking. I wanted to take a panorama of every hilltop view over that beautiful land. Panoramas take up lots of memory, I almost got cut off by Douglas. Speaking of pictures, we are looking to post all of our pictures on a sight so you can go there and view as many as you want. I'll let you know when we (Douglas) does this.
The walks we took were my favorite part. Each walk began downhill. We had our pick of a few roads leading to more major roads or lesser roads threading between vineyard, orchards and homes. We saw, of course, grapes growing everywhere, acres and acres of olive trees, apple trees, plum trees, pear trees, some berries and at least one fig tree. It was hard to resist dashing into the vineyards just to taste. We were good; we didn't. We did, however, have some plums and pears. These had fallen by the wayside along the road and we figured they were fair game. They were so sweet it was a shame to see them just laying there. The walk back was, naturally, back uphill, but it usually resulted in a meal which we were very ready for. After our nine nights in Montpulciano, we drove to Volterra and stayed in an agriturismo nearby. It, too, was on a hill so all our walks began downhill. One night at twilight we were walking down a road and saw what we thought was a very strange looking dog sitting in the middle of the road looking at us. We stopped and soon it's brothers and sisters came traipsing out of the bushes. They were wild boar piglets (wild boarlets???). Soon after came mom and dad and another adult or two. We froze. Thank God, the adults never noticed us, they just bolted across the road. The walks were very different in Volterra. The land was not full of vineyards. The surrounding hills were covered with cut hay so it was colorless compared to Montepulcciano. But the walking was good for me as these hills were smaller and so to walk it was constantly up, down, up, down and it was pretty steep.
The food. Ah, the food. The popular pasta in this region is hand made picci. It is like spaghetti, but much thicker - almost as thick as my pinky. It is so chewy, it is a pleasure to eat. They cook it in such a way that the flavor of the sauce soaks through to the center of the pasta. It was usually served in a ragu sauce. I also tried a cheese stuffed ravioli in a buttery cream sauce with sage. I never saw my favorite veal stuffed ravioli. I had a pasta with wild boar sauce which was very tasty. I wish I had tried more wild boar - sausage, for instance. It was very popular there. A few times we settled for less expensive, but no less satisfying, pizza. And we each had a panini which were okay. Doug fondly remembers some kebabs he ate with bacon, aged pecorino cheese and figs as well as a salad with apples, walnuts, cheese and greens. The pasta ruled. Every night I ate lighter so I didn't gain a bunch of weight so I usually had a bruschetta at the cafe next to the hotel. In Volterra, we had an apartment so we shopped at a grocer and made a lot of our own food so we wouldn't go broke. An average dinner at the cafe of bruschetta, a glass or wine, one of beer and a salad was around $40. Lunches were similar unless we had only pizza. The average plate of pasta was around $9.
The wine. Excuse me, I just wiped a tear from my eye. The wine was delicious. As we were told, even if we ordered the house wine, it was very good. Our favorite was the Nobile, a red wine that came in a few different forms from very drinkable to a rich, thick sipping wine. We went to no wine tastings though almost every meal was accompanied by a glass. Very common there was to not offer a glass of wine, but to offer a liter, half-liter or quarter-liter. I ordered the smallest the first time I saw this offered and drank three glasses of wine. I think their measuring system was quite in favor of the customer. Usually a quarter liter got me a glass and a half. We got to go through a cellar or vault called the subterranean city where wine was stored in huge barrels. It ran underground the span of a shop and restaurant.
I think we are still going through gelato withdrawls. Between the two of us, we ate strawberry, chocolate (guess who?), vanilla (NOT me, wouldn't waste my time), caramel, pistacchio, sour cherry and cream flavors. The thing that amazes me about gelato is the satisfaction I get out of such a teensy serving. It is so rich and creamy that I just want to eat it in tiny bites so it lasts a long time. If I were dishing out ice cream, I'd have at least twice as much.
I have much more details written up about our trip. I'll be posting them in the coming days.
While we were in Italy Doug got the news that his next assignment is going to be in Munich! That was, like Tashkent, his number one pick. We look forward to our last year in Tashkent and don't want to be too distracted with thoughts of living in the Christmas/beer capital of the world.

Here's one of the beautiful views from Montepulciano:

Here is Marcampo where we stayed near Volterra:

Moving and Quaking

First, I apologize for taking almost an entire month to post. My goal is every two weeks. I haven't really had much to say. I could tell you that I'm still exercising and studying Russian, but I want you to keep reading so I waited until I felt I had enough news.

I am appreciating my non-job status even more these days. Jennifer is a friend of mine here in Tashkent and was Doug's and my social sponsor when we arrived. Social sponsors help the new comers learn their way around, introduce them to people and check in on them to make sure they are adjusting well. She did a great job. She's moving back to D.C. to go through training to go to Afghanistan. We will miss her. Pack out is a huge ordeal. This is when movers come in and pack up all your belongings into different shipments. Hopfully they do this correctly. I told Jennifer that I could help her on her pack out days if she wanted. She wanted. For Jennifer there were three shipments: long term storage (this is stuff you won't see for years), unaccompanied baggage (this is stuff of hers that is sent by plane to arrive sometime after she gets to D.C.) and Kabul (this is what she will have with her in Kabul when she arrives there). My job was to watch and make sure they packed well (they did), that they didn't mix up shipments (they nearly did) and I was to watch and note as many items as I could in each box on Post It notes. That last job was harder than I thought as I had anywhere from two to four packers to watch at a time. Sometimes they'd put an item in a box, I'd write it down then a minute later I realized that they had taken it out to fit something else in. Packing is a big game of jigsaw puzzle meets tetris, you know. I was grateful that I was available to give up a couple of days to help her. I was partly paying back and partly paying forward. I hope we have help when we have to pack out.

Speaking of packing out - that won't happen for another 14 or so months - Doug got what is called the Bid List. This is the list of upcoming available posts. There are 155 listed and Doug has to bid on 30. I'm not allowed to tell you what they are which is making me crazy! I will say that of the 30 he is looking at, I'm excited in different ways about 28 of them. I'll tell you more as I'm allowed.

Back to Jennifer. When people pack out they start to realize how much stuff they have accumulaed and they start selling it and giving it away. Since I helped Jennifer, she unloaded much of her wine and liquor on me - Oh, Boy! Well, we've been having Hump Day Happy Hour here at the Rose house for a couple of months so it will be drunk, but not by me. Not all of it anyway. About a week ago Doug and I were putting bottles of wine in our small, wrought iron wine rack. They sit slightly tipped forward which made us nervous. When we finished I jokingly said, "I sure hope we don't have an earthquake tonight!"

Three hours later - THREE HOUR LATER! - we awoke to the bed shaking. We were having an earthquake. I shot up and exclaimed, "The wine!" Yes, folks, I have disturbingly misplaced priorities at times. It turned out to be centered in Kyrgistan near the Fergana Valley and was 6.2 on the Richter scale. In Tashkent, it registered at 5.0. I've only felt two or three quakes in my life, but this seemed awfully gentle for 5.0. Then I later found out that we must have slept through the bulk of it. People were reporting hearing thunderous sounds and very large shakes. What Doug and I felt was what we used to feel in the roadside motel when you stick the quarter in the bed. Magic Fingers, was it called? Anyway, all is well; no damage. A long meeting was called the next afternoon at the Embassy to review emergency procedures. The meeting went quite late which made everyone late for our Hump Day Happy Hour.

I don't think I've told you about Hump Day Happy Hour. This was Doug's idea. When people walk home from the embassy to their house in our complex they walk right by our house as we are the first house on the corner near the guard shack and gate. We decided to offer people refreshments every Wednesday. So people are coming in for drinks like frozen mixed drinks, smoothies, wine, juice (Tashkent has delicious juices) and appetizers like homemade ice cream, mini quesadillas, meatballs in barbeque sauce, sausage and cheese and homemade cookies. This has been very welcomed by several of the single people who live here who would otherwise have to go out or stay home in an empty house. I'm glad I have the time to prepare for this every Wednesday, it's fun and I see what a service it is.

Understanding people's ways here continues to be challenging, but I'm glad to report a good attitude on my part. One of the workers here in the compound asked me if I'd spend time with his daughter and speak English with her. She's learning a little in school and he wants her to learn it well. I agreed. We have set up three different times for her to come over and she never shows up. The first time was understandable; she had a toothache and went to the dentist and that took longer than expected. The second and third times I was flatly stood up. I talked to Milana, my Russian teacher, about this to see if I could gain any insight. Her thought was that when I made the followup offer of a time for the girl to come over, he said yes because to say no would have been rude. What??!! I don't understand how it's rude to say, "Thank you. I'm sorry, but she can't make it that day, she'll be at her grandmother's." Is it not rude here to stand someone up? I don't know. It upsets me because I think ill thoughts of them before I think, "I hope everything is alright." I did mention a good attitude, didn't I? Yes. I pray for understanding. This includes understanding that somethings are not yet mine to understand. One reason it upsets me that she doesn't show up is that I agreed to spend time with her and I have not. I know that my conscience is clear because of my offers, but it remains that I agreed and it hasn't happened. That hangs over me. When she didn't show up last week, I made sure that I said a quick prayer that all was well then I went looking for her father. I found him and asked him how she was. Fine. I then asked him where she was. At her grandmother's. No apology offered, no reason as to why she wasn't at my house as planned. This is odd to me because, if you remember, when the young woman from the Chai Chat wanted to go shopping with me, she pulled out he blackberry and said, "Tomorrow?" "No." "Sunday?" "I'm hiking." "Monday?" And on and on until I agreed. If I keep up interactions, maybe I'll figure this mystery out.

My Tashkent Birthday

This is a little late because I accidentally posted it on my old blog. Glad I noticed.

My birthday had everything to make a great birthday: surprise, warmth (and I don’t just mean the weather), good company, good food and great gifts.

An employee of Doug's was distressed that he had not bought me flowers for my birthday so he bought some for me. As you can see, they were about two and a half feet long and there must have been about 20 - make that 21. You must give an even number of flowers for special events like weddings and birthdays; an odd number of flowers is for a funeral.

Tradition here (at least at the Embassy this is what they do) is you bring treats on your own birthday. So I spent the day before my birthday baking Mrs. Field’s brownies. Two batches since I had to share. They turned out perfect. I passed them around to some very appreciative people who have been good to me in various ways like helping me with my Russian skills or lack thereof.

I started the day early with Doug and was able to go home between exercise and my Russian lesson to clean up. On my way back to the Embassy two elderly women stopped me to talk. This is very unusual. Most people don’t even say “hi” let alone actually talk to a stranger on the street. It got even better. From what I understood she was giving me many well wishes as in a toast or a blessing. I’m sure my jaw dropped as my eyes searched the heavens – “Is this an angel?” She wished me health and peace and a multitude of other things I did not understand. And this happened to occur on my birthday of all days. When she finished, I told her that I understood some of what she said, but that I didn’t know a lot of Russian. I thanked her and wished her long life and health and peace. I don’t think my feet were on the ground the rest of the day.

During my Russian class I got a phone call from a young woman I had met at the Embassy who no longer works there. We enjoyed talking as she speaks very good English. She was also very good to my mother by buying her two scarves/shawls with her name embroidered on them. My mom wrote her a thank you card which I was to give to the young woman. Unfortunately she lost her job at the Embassy. andI didn’t know when I’d ever see her again. Then my phone rang. That, too, is rather unusual because I usually don’t have it on, particularly during my class. She was calling me to tell me that she was at the Embassy and she wanted to meet. I was able to catch up with her, give her the card from my mom and meet her husband. Meeting her husband gave me peace. After she lost her job I feared that she may be married to the kind of man who would be angry at her and possibly hurt her. I just didn’t know. She is in good hands.

I learned to appreciate my good attitude during that little meeting with her. I told her about the old women on the street. She suggested that perhaps they were Jehovah’s Witnesses and asked me if I’d ever heard of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Now, if you ask most American’s if they have ever heard of Jehovah’s Witnesses I think you’d get some eyeball rolling, deep impatient sighs and perhaps some choice words. I came to peace with Jehovah’s Witnesses long ago so I could easily just answer “yes” even somewhat appreciatively. It turns out she and her husband are Jehovah’s Witnesses! Whew!

To make my day even better, a classmate of mine from the Institute in Virginia was in town and my birthday was his day off! We met for lunch and chatted at length. I brought him to our house for brownies. He likes to eat just as much as I do. I just have to share this little story from our class. We were learning restaurant vocabulary. One of the phrases we talked about was “finger licking good” (in Russian). Our very proper teacher said, “Now please remember to never lick your fingers in Russia. It is considered very poor manners." This distressed my friend. He asked, “But I can lick my knife, right?” One of the other students said, “No! You’ll cut your tongue!” Our teacher sat up and, with her eyes downcast, said, “In Russia, we do not lick anything.” On our last day together as a class with her I recalled that story. We all laughed and laughed. Anyway, I digress. I then drove my friend to a beautiful park where we walked and talked some more. This was quite a feat for me as I did not follow any written directions; I was able to find my way!

I was able to squeeze in a nap before getting ready to go out to dinner to an Italian restaurant frequented by the staff of the Italian Embassy. Must be good. And it was. I ate four-cheese gnocchi which was so soft I didn’t need my teeth.

This last picture of me with the flowers was taken just before we went out to dinner. Flowers are a huge tradition here. Douglas was given a bad time by this same employee for not buying flowers to greet my mother with when she visited. I'm trying to picture my poor mother trying to carry these flowers around the airport. Anyway, I told the man that there were so many flowers that I had to separate them to fit them in vases. He asked me if I counted them to be sure I had odd numbers. I had to confess that I did not.

Well, this is Awkward

I met a couple of young women at the Chai Chat where I did storytelling at the Embassy. One of them invited me to her home and the other invited me to go shopping. I said something typically American in response to each invitation, "That would be nice." Well, that started the dominoes clapping each other on the back.

"Can you come over tomorrow?" Nigina asked me.

"No, not tomorrow. It's Saturday, I spend Saturday with my husband."

"Can you come over Sunday?"

"Sundays I hike."

"Monday?"

And on it went until I gave her a specific day and time.

The same conversation began with the other young woman, Yulia, after I had just had it with Nigina so I told Yulia to e-mail me and we would pick a time. This next part of the story I know a few of my friends (Julie, Howard) will particularly enjoy. I followed through and e-mailed her and suggested a time to shop. I never heard from her. I saw her standing outside the Embassy the next Friday and she asked me if I remembered about shopping with her.

"Yes," I said, "I e-mailed you."

"Oh," she replied, "I didn't check my e-mail."

So we set a time to shop.

Nigina told me that she'd meet me at the Embassy and take me to her house. That was very nice of her since I still don't know where much of anything is. We hired a taxi on the street and about 20 minutes later were at her apartment. It is a very large building made of chipped cement, maybe six floors, that is not well maintained on the outside. Clothes hang outside windows, some windows have bars, some are open, some framed with wood or brick. Inside, however, it lookes quite nice. Nigina's family was most excited for the visit from the American. Her little sister was peeking out the window and neighbors were watching. We sat in the living room which was cozy. The coffee table was layed out with cherries, raisins, cookies, candy and juice.

The first awkward moment was a result of my big mouth. We were told by the medical officer to not eat any fruits or vegetables without soaking them in a mixture of bleach and water for about 10 minutes. Raw manure is used in the soil and traces of it are often found on food. It was early spring and it had been so long since I'd seen cherries, I exclaimed "Oh, those cherries look so good!". Oopsy. Now I had to eat some.I said a quick prayer and ate a few after discreetly rubbing them on my pants (like that would help).

Second awkward moment came with the homemade apple juice. We are not to drink the tap water. Period. Once the word 'parasite' came out the medical officer's mouth, he had my attention. I didn't know if they used tap water in their homemade apple juice or not. I didn't know how to ask without seeming insulting. People here are not shy to ask, "Why?" "Why don't you drink the water?" ("Why don't you eat the fat/gristle?" "Why do you wash the fruit/vegetables in bleach water?" "Why do you wash your hands so much?")And they are more informed than I am. "I drink it, it won't hurt you." Thank God, on the table was a store bought bottle of juice which I managed to pour before the homemade juice was brought out. No one seemed to notice.

Next awkward moment was the soup. I was told by the medical officer to go ahead and eat vegetables if they were cooked and served hot. The soup was a yogurt based cold soup with vegetables. Uh-oh. As soon as it was place in front of me Nigina's friend, who was sitting beside me, smiled shyly and said, "I made the soup. I hope you like it." I caved to social pressure. I ate the soup. After praying, of course. I must have looked quite holy that day! (By the way, I remain - as far as I know - healthy.)

I was truly on display that afternoon. The neighbors dropped in to see the American. Long lost relatives(no kidding) dropped in to see the American. And everyone wanted their picture taken with the American. It was touching. I told them that I remember when I was young, my sister brought home a foreign exchange student from Germany. I remember watching every move she made. What will she eat? What is she wearing? Is she looking at me? And I loved hearing her talk with her accent.

Nigina asked me if I wanted to see her bedroom. So I got the tour of the apartment. It was much larger than I expected. She shared a room with her younger sister so there were bunk beds in it. There were also notes stuck to a wall with English words and phrases. She showed me the few English language books she had won at the Embassy (Moby Dick and a collection of short stories are the two I can recall). They had a walk in linen closet which was full of what I would call comforters. They weren't quilts, but they were as thick and soft as quilts. When they have guests, they pull out a few to pile up for the guest to sleep on. They were colorful and looked very inviting. Her mother's room had, next to the bed, a crib where her youngest sister (about six years of age) slept.

When we returned to the living room, her mother brought out a huge plate piled high with the Uzbek national dish of plov (pronounced with a long O).
Plov is spiced rice and meat with raisins or currants, chickpeas and, depending on who makes it, a variety of other ingredients including a slice of horse meat (delicious, I'm sorry to say) or a hard boiled quail's egg. Spoons were laid out and we all ate off the same plate. It was very tasty. I, unfortunately, had already eaten lunch much to Nigina's disappointment. I ate lunch for two reasons. 1. I was hungry after my music lesson which ends at 12:30. 2. I was uncertain as to what would be offered to me that I could safely eat. Perhaps in time I'll relax more with food, but I'd rather be safe than have to deal with a tape worm living in me.

The final awkward moment was the serving of the tea. Everyone in Uzbekistan drinks tea except me. It turned out to not be a big deal, I just didn't touch the tea and no one said anything. I was told that it was considered impolite to not drink it. I was also told that, if I did drink some, to be sure to not finish it or they would refill it.

When I left, the girls helped me get a cab and set a fare. I was glad I went. I was mentally drained between trying to speak as much Russian as I could (Nigina's mother doesn't speak English), politely navigating the food selections, smiling and trying to remember names. I hope I can visit another home and manage to relax a little more.

A week later, Yulia and I went shopping with her friend and her friend's husband. They picked me up at the Embassy. We had a miscommunication. We were supposed to meet at 1PM, but they didn't show up until 1:30. I had decided to give them until 1:15 then leave. I stopped at Doug's office to tell him I was going home (with some relief) instead of shopping. He quickly checked my e-mail which said they'd see me at 1:30. I can't say exactly why I was upset. I think it was just my level of discomfort in these new situations. So back I went to meet them. She had told me all these places she wanted to take me. I let her know that I'd only have an hour or two. She was so disappointed, but I wsnted some sort of limit on the situation.

I'm not a big shopper. When we go to the bazaar there were rows and rows of clothes and shoes shops. They all looked alike to me. The clothes were, let's just say, not my style. Not that I actually have any style. But these clothes had bows and fabric flowers decorating them, they were made of fabrics with huge prints in loud colors, or they looked, frankly, whorish - all of which I found interesting considering the fact that all the young Uzbeks I see on the streets are wearing black. The older women wear skirts of one print, blouses of another print and contrasting socks with sandals. Maybe that's the look these girls were going for for me. I could not even feign interest.

The awkwardness came when they kept asking me what I wanted to look at.

"I've never been here." I said. "I just want to see what's here."

That, apparently was no answer.

"We came here for you. Do you want to go in this store? In this store? In this store?"

Truth: No, no and no. What I actually said, "It's not really my style."

"What is your style?"

Now, I should mention that, for some reason, I chose to wear a pair of capri pants that were about 19 years old with a sleeveless blouse that tied around the waist. I looked like Laura Petrie. So I tried to explain the concept of window shopping to them. No good. I gave in and said I like skirts. From that point on every skirt came off the rack to be displayed for me.

"Do you like this one? This one? This one?"

I felt a headache coming on.

I tried to change the subject.

"Are you able to try on clothes?"

I asked this because I saw nowhere in any of these shops to do this. It turned out if was just hidden. Imagine this: You are standing in front of a rack of clothes that is against a wall. There is a curtain hanging between the wall and the rack. THAT'S where you could change clothes. You have about a foot a space between the wall and the rack.

I then asked if you could return clothing you decided you didn't like or want. No.

Then I thought I got smart. I had just dropped and broken my sunglasses that morning. Sunglasses! We could shop for sunglasses! Okay. Off we went in search of (easy to find) sunglasses. I started trying them on. Everyone kept handing my pairs to try on. The problem is that I'm fussy. I don't think I look good in glasses. I'd see a pair that I thought were okay, then when I pulled them out saw that the sides of the frames (the bows) were covered in sequins. No thank you.

I really wanted to buy a pair from the last man whose shop we stopped at. Why? Because he really was helpful. First, when I pulled off a pair of glasses to try on, he took them from me and cleaned them. Customer service is pretty rare here. I don't want to insult the Uzbeks. Remember: it's not right or wrong; it's different. Typical service is like my encounter with a young man behind the meat counter. He was half standing, leaning on the counter with his head down on his hands. I was trying to him for a particular kind of meat. Without moving he tried to understand me and answer me. We had several exchanges until he finally signed deeply and managed to stand up and get someone else to try to talk to me. So this man who cleaned the glasses and polished the lenses really impressed me. I tried on lots of pairs. I almost bought a brown tortoise shell framed pair but I couldn't handle the faux mother of pearl bows.

I had told them that I had to be back at the Embassy by 3:00 so it was time to leave. Yulia was so disappointed. Then came the invitation to her house. She wants to have Doug and I over for a real Uzbek dinner. She wants us to meet her family. She wants to know - RIGHT NOW! - when we can come. I try to explain to her that with Doug in charge of the Fourth of July festivities and his boss out of town for about two months along with other directors he is quite busy and won't be able to for at least two months. Again, disappointment.

"Can't you come over after work? On the weekend?" It turns out that she lives outside Tashkent near the mountains, no small drive. I didn't feel like explaining our concept of down time right then so I just said no. I felt rude, though. I have since written her an e-mail (I declined to give her my phone number, again feeling rude) telling her that I appreciated her invitation and that, in time, I'd let her know when we were available.

I hope that I adjust to all these feelings. I don't think I did anything wrong that afternoon with Yulia, but I walked away feeling selfish and mean.

It's Hiking Season

I’ve never seen such busy, happy dung beetles as I saw on a hike I took Sunday the 15^th. Oh, boy! There was so much work to do on the trail what with all those sheep, goats, cows and horses roaming around. And I learned something about dung beetles. Their job is to return the dung to the earth from whence it came. Done properly this allows for preferable growth that the livestock enjoy eating. Left undone this opens the window to undesirable growth that the livestock do not like to eat. Go, dung beetles! (Is it just me or whenever you hear “dung beetle” do you picture the scene in “A Bug’s Life” that takes place in the street café? The waiter brings out a tray he holds high and shouts, “Who ordered the poo-poo platter?” All the dung beetles at the table wave their little arms.)

Spring in the mountains is so pretty. You see so many varieties of flowers with each level you pass. Anyway, for the first 15 minutes or so we passed clusters of wild Irises growing along the side of the path. They weren’t very colorful, sort of a dusty purple-gray, but their painted patterns were a joy to see in nature. The mountains were very green and lush. The herds of cows, goats, sheep and horses we saw were being well fed. Water ran freely from the various springs and runoffs and kept us company a short part of the hike and when we stopped for lunch. At least three hikers drank from the running water.

I liked Sunday’s group. There was a researcher (researching global warming) from Germany, two Americans and one Mexican from General Motors and Kim (a friend from the Embassy) and I. Usually Boris (our guide) has a second guide with him to take up the end of the string of hikers. He did not Sunday and we had to wait quite a while for a slower hiker to catch up occasionally. This did not really bother me. I was there to be in the mountains; I was in the mountains. The weather was perfect, I was comfortable, I listened to the birds (which reminded me of camping and how you could tell what time of day it was by how the birds sang), I watched a couple of curious herders of some sort watching us from a distant rim. They were just silhouettes, but it was so quiet we could hear them talk.

I hiked again the following Sunday and discovered that a rock can be such a cozy place to lie upon – that is, when one has been climbing for 3 hours. And I had a first on this hike. I was the last person to arrive to our destination. That was one of my fears before joining these hikes. It’s not that I mind being last, I just didn’t want to be holding  everyone else up. I almost didn’t climb to the top of Diplomat’s Peak at all. I was very tired. My body was tired, I was sick and tired of climbing and my mind was psyching me out. Two things got me to the top.

1. I told myself that I didn’t come all this way to stop early.

2. I overheard Boris saying that the women could wait here while the men went on up.

Uh, nope. That did it. Onward and upward. To the death! (Too dramatic?) When I reached the top, I took a shaky panoramic video then, after arranging my backpack just right, collapsed on a rock and shut my eyes for 30 minutes or so.

                                                The view from atop Diplomat's Peak

What led up to this? A long climb, of course. When we began, Diplomat’s Peak looked down beckoningly to us. It was splendid, it was inviting. After two and a half hours or so, it was looming over us. It was daunting, it was laughing at me.

                                               Diplomat's Peak (in the background)

During our hike we saw a lot of life. Wild garlic and mint are just a couple of the herbs that grow in these mountains. A few of us tasted them as we hiked. A German man commented to me about the odor the herds of sheep and goats release when they cross our path. It took me a while to realize just exactly which odor he was referring to. I, a reluctant city slicker, thought he was referring to the odor of which the sheep and goats themselves carried and relieved themselves. He was referring to the trampling of the mint, garlic, etc. It did fill the air magnificently.

About two hours into the climb I started getting a little grumpy. I was sweaty, I was, again, sick and tired of climbing. It was at this point that the gnats and bees  and other assorted flying critters became fascinated with their reflection in my sunglasses. Gnats you can swat at; with bees you have to be a little more creative and patient. At one point, something flew up my nose as I gasped for air (properly – through my nose). I had tissues, but it took a little work to free it. Poor thing tried to get out. It went the wrong way. Yes, I felt it. Did I mention I was already grumpy?

                                           Dog Roses and a narcissistic flying critter

Somewhere around the four hour mark (we were descending) a favorite scripture came to my mind. “Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low, the crooked straight, and the rough places plains.” I saw the beauty of this coming into my mind when it did, of course, but I couldn’t help but wonder why this particular scripture couldn’t have been fulfilled a couple hours  sooner. Looking back, I think that one miracle for the weekend was enough. We’re still here.

My Worries at Bay

I'm glad that some of the worries I had about being in the Foreign Service have not manifested themselves.

I was concerned that I would be lazy. I am not employeed so I have to be self-motivated, self-disciplined and I am really only accountable to myself. I saw the possibility of myself laying around eating candy all day getting fat and wasting precious time. While I do a certain amount of laying around (while reading) and candy eating (whenever) it doesn't take up much of my time. It has helped that I set goals like learn Russian. Within that, it helped that I had layers of reasons for the goal: communicate here in Tashkent, learn Central Asian folktales and share American folktales. I did not know how much support I'd have around me from the gate guards to the Embassy employees to those of you who write that you are impressed with my learning Russian. I'm grateful.

                                          
                                           My writing room.             

I was worried that I'd sit in the house too nervous to venture out. I admit that it took some serious pushing to get myself out the door, but on the second or so day we were here I walked to the fruit and vegetable stand and bought food. Yes it was uncomfortable, no I didn't know what they said (they likely didn't know what I said), yes I had to practically hand over my wallet to pay because of not knowing what they were saying, but it worked. I am still not thrilled about driving here. I was never a fan of driving in Phoenix or St. Paul either. But I have driven and am fine to drive around again. I heard recently that if you want to build strong neural connections in your brain to strengthen it's power, in addition to doing crosswords and learning a foreign language or a musical instrument (the old standards they always mention), it was suggested that you get lost on purpose. Now THAT'S something I can do! The roads here are not really named. Well they are, sort of. There are no street signs as we know and love. Any street name that is posted is posted on the side of a corner building so you really have to look for it. Streets change names, however and a good deal of the population refuse to call it by it's new name. I'm told that locals don't give directions by using North, South, East and West. They use the metric system so distances are vague at best in my mind until I get used to it. Directions are given by landmarks - this store or that park. Unfortunately, the government regularly steps in and closes shops for whatever reason so the land marks often change. Sigh. More neural power!

I was afraid about my safety. I read some very disturbing accounts about life in Tashkent written fairly recently. I came here scared of the Militsia. I'm told they live off bribes and will shake you down for whatever they can get. Supposedly once they see diplomatic credentials they leave you alone. One day I was waiting outside the Embassy gate for a friend. There is always an officer of the militsia on duty at the gate. So there we stood. I decided to talk to him. I asked him (in Russian) if he liked his work with the militsia. He smiled and said he did. Then he asked where I was from. We talked as best we could for a few minutes. A week or so later, I was walking on the other side of the Embassy and saw him in the middle of a crowd of Uzbeks who were apparently waiting to get in to see a Consular Officer. He glanced up and saw me and smiled and waved. Those small exchanges relaxed me considerably. I think that violent crime is pretty low here. I'd be more likely to be hit by a car than anything.

Another concern I had was of being lonely and not fitting in. While I do miss friends from the States, I cherish the communications we do have. Thank God for Skype (when it works). Some of my best friends here are from Germany, Kenya, Russia and Pakistan. It would be hard to not fit in here with that variety! I'm in the Tashkent Women's International Club where I meet women from all over the globe and attend fashion shows, bazaars and various food related events emphasizing international cultures. I recently attended my first book club. It was one of those where we discussed the book for about 10 minutes, then talked, drank and ate. That was okay; the book wasn't that good. Someone is always having a party so there are plenty of social events. Doug and I are going to start having 'Hump Day Happy Hour" every Wednesday at our house outside on the patio or balcony. Ours is the closest house to the Embassy and everyone who lives in the compound walks right by our house every day so it will be easy to stop off, have a snack and drink then head on home.

                                           Our little bedroom.


One of the only ways I feel like I don't fit in is that I don't work at the Embassy. There has been some friendly pressure on me to take an Embassy job. I've made it clear that I have absolutely no interest in that. But that's not good enough for these caring people. Next I told them that right now people seem to kind of like me. "If I sit behind a desk all day dealing with e-mail no one will like me." I told them. that wasn't convincing either. The Embassy is in the midst of a walking challenge (10,000 steps a day, we are all given a pedometer). I showed one of the men who had been pushing me to apply for a couple of positions my pedometer. At 9:00 AM I was already over 5,000 steps. THAT is why I cannot sit behind a desk all day, I told him. I think the pressure is off for a while.

Another way I don't feel like I fit in is a general attitude I see here in many people. I have to be careful here because I really like and sincerely admire these people. However I do see a pervasive sense of entitlement. I don't think this is unique to this society. For example, we are provided housing which is known to be above average in the Foreign Service. The houses are large here in Tashkent, whereas in Moscow, you'll likely live in an apartment. Since I really want to fit in and get along I'm trying to choose my battles. When we moved into our house it had not been cleaned or painted. Frankly, I hardly noticed I was so excited to be here. Then I started noticing the cobwebe, the white spackle marks filling holes in the walls, scuff marks on the walls etc. The curtains in two of the upstairs rooms are not only warthog ugly, but they don't fit and are not made properly.

                      
                                           Quite possibly the ugliest curtains ever made.


At first, this bothered me. Then I reasoned that our nation is in debt and I really don't need you all sacrificing your earned income so I can have pretty, properly fitted curtains for a couple of years. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people here who insist on this color and that fabric, room addtions and on and on. I understand wanting your house to be your home, but I think there are more important things to consider. I also have trouble with those who find it too much work to recycle their recyclable trash. I carry recycling to the Embassy almost every day. Do I want to? Not really. Is it a big deal. Nope. I didn't come here to leave trash behind.

Here's a funny story I'll leave you with. Speaking of not fitting in. I occasionally shop at a grocery store called Mega Planet. When I go there I always have canvas bags to carry my groceries home in. This perplexes EVERYONE who works in the store. The first obstacle I encounter is the guard who tries to stop me to tell me that I have to put my sacks in a plastic sack he is holding out to me. No kidding. He wants me to put my sacks in a sack. I pretend that I don't understand him, keep smiling, waving, saying "Thank you" and walking. So far he hasn't chased me around the store. He did, however send a plain clothes employee to follow me. I soon noticed and so I started talking to him which, come to think of it, blew my "I don't understand you" cover I initially tried to establish. Dang! Oh, well. Then I get to the cashier who either ignores my sacks and puts my groceries in plastic (which rip immediately - no exaggeration) or, understanding I want the groceries in my sacks attempts to put all the groceries in one of my bags igoring the others OR fills one of my bags and reaches for one of her cheap plastic bags OR (I'm almost through) first puts them in plastic then puts them in my canvas bag. I now bag my own groceries. It is amusing while confounding to all concerned.

Now That's Funny!

It’s an adventure learning Russian. I set a goal for myself to start a conversation in Russian every day of Lent hoping it would become a habit. I’ve always studied pretty hard, but I have shied away from actually talking to people unless I couldn’t get out of it. It has become a bit of a habit, but sometimes I wish I could keep my eager Russian mouth shut. I should say that all I’m about to relate were exchanges in Russian. Read on.

Recently, I was seeking advice as to where to buy flowers to plant in the pots I brought with me as well as in a couple of triangular planters on our balcony. I got the point, but didn’t understand everything. I was told to go to the manager of our compound. He told me that he only had roses. Okay, too tall. I was then introduced to a man who I was told (I thought) had flowers to sell. He would meet me at the gate Monday at 1:00. Okay. I was there; he was not. He was on Uzbek time. He rang my bell at 1:15. I left the house with him and he told me that he’d pull his car around. When he did, he opened the passenger door for me to get in. There were no flowers in sight. Apparently I misunderstood about him having flowers. My first thought was ‘no way am I getting in this car’. My thoughts quickly raced from “I may get murdered, kidnapped or worse” to “Women here get in stranger’s cars every day”* to “You know you’ll procrastinate if you don’t do this today.” So I got in. When we got to the bazaar, I bought flowers, I bargained successfully, he drove me home. Easy. Oh, and he would not take any money from me even though he had to pay to park. When I got home I was ready to get soil to plant. I went back to the gate guard, my helper. I told him what I needed. He called over another man who went to work digging soil for me. I stood waiting with the guard and we tried to talk. After I realized that it was going to take some time, I decided I should change my clothes. I was still dressed nicely from my lesson and lunch at the Embassy. So I told the guard I would change clothes then return. That’s what I thought I said. I actually said that I was going to take my clothes off. He looked at me. I repeated it adding the word for clothes just in case I needed it. He continued to silently look at me. I thought. I reran the sentence through my head. CHANGE CLOTHES! I corrected myself. CHANGE CLOTHES! We laughed. I swore him to silence. Poor man. The Muslim culture is prevalent here. I can just hear him, “Really ma’am a simple thank you will do.”

This is Rustam who helped me plant lots of flowers while my parents were here visiting. He told me if I ever needed anything just call out "Rustam!" I already have.

I will take this opportunity to remind you of the specificity of the Russian language. There is a base verb for dressing; a prefix is added it you want to “get dressed”, “change clothes”, “put on an item of clothing” (this, apparently is different than getting dressed), “take off an item of clothing” and “undress”. I’m not at all surprised I made the mistake, just aghast.

Later that day, after the man who fetched the soil for me surprised me by spending a couple hours planting the flowers for me, I made another mistake. I wanted to tip him so I asked him if I could pay him. He gave me the same look that the guard gave me. I repeated the question changing the pronoun. Same look. I then realized that I had asked him if I could buy him. Oh, dear. I was so flustered I couldn’t think of the verb for “to pay”. All I could think to do was dig out money and hand it to him. He wasn’t sure whether to take it or not then I remembered the proper verb. Whew!

During one of our dinners out with the Embassy staff, I ordered a drum. Yes, a drum. I always mix up the Russian word for drum, барабан, with the Russian word for mutton, баранина, so I ordered a drum. The kind, patient waitress politely asked me, what? I saw Doug’s head shaking in the background. I ignored him and ordered another drum. In spicy sauce. Seeing her grin, I realized something was wrong and, given the fact that I was ordering in Russian, I figured it was me. Doug corrected me and I reordered. Oh, by the way, the drum was delicious.

Remember, I am here representing our country. Thank God for diplomatic immunity!

*Most people who drive a car use it as a taxi to make extra money. It’s like hitchhiking which I was sternly and morbidly warned to never, never do. Apparently it works here.