I know. It's been about two months since I last posted. Forgive me. We are now in Falls Church, Virginia just outside Wahington D.C. We have started our German language training, albeit late due to Hurricane Sandy.

I wanted to write a nice closing post for Back to the Desert. I kept coming up blank. I'm still pretty empty. Partly because my mind has been on (in this order) leaving Tashkent and returning to the States, visiting all my friends and relations, Doug's and my road trip to Virginia and starting German language training. Maybe I didn't want to close the blog because I realized that living in and writing about Tashkent was just a small chapter in this new life (it still feels new, by the way) so it's really not over. Perhaps I've just been lazy. Take your pick.

Doug and I were given a very nice send off from Tashkent. The Ambassador offered to host a farewell party at his residence. We invted as many people as we could. In attendance was our music teacher, Mahmurjon, and some musician friends of his. We gave a farewell concert that included most of the songs Douglas and I had learned plus some wonderful instrumental pieces.

One of the guards at our housing compound with whom Doug and I became quite friendly wanted to give us a farewell dinner. We showed up at the guard shack after hours and found that he had grilled shashlik (shish kebabs). These were the best shashlik we had eaten in Tashkent. We practically didn't need our teeth, the meat was so tender. They must have marinated for a week, they were so flavorful. Thank you, Kudrat.



Kudrat and I enjoying the shashlik.

I went on a final hike the Sunday before we left (which was early Monday morning). The hike was a good one, which I had hoped. I wanted to be worn out for the 16 or so hours I had to sit on the plane. All told, it took us about 22 hours to get home.

What was the first thing we did, you may wonder? Well, I had to go out and buy underwear. All our baggage arrived except the one with all my underwear in it. Yes. That's what I wanted to do first back in the states. Try on bras.

Then I went to Taco Bell.

We enjoyed home leave, but it was exhausting. In my past, I remember being so jealous of the popular girls in school. So many people wanted to sit by them. They got invited places. After the few weeks Doug and I spent being the center of attention, I wish I could go back and tell my young self, "You don't want to be the popular girl, Laura." I loved seeing everyone. I wanted to spend time with them. And it was mentally trying. We gave a couple of presentations to two groups about our travels and I went to my friend Lulu's school to talk with her 8th grade Geography class about my time in Uzbekistan. Fun.

And we shopped. We need to get used to spending lots of money all at once rather than spread out over the years. For example, we stocked up on clothing and consumables for our two years in Uzbekistan. Having arrived home, we realize that much of that needs to be replaced. Already, I have spent over $1000. on clothes as has Doug. We both need new computers (his isn't working well and mine is 12 years old). We had to buy a car to use the year we are in the states. (Our has been shipped to Antwerp to await our arrival in Munich.) Ka-CHING! I think that if we had never left home and bought all this, we wouldn't notice as much. We hear Munich is expensive, so we are going to want to bring enough clothing and things with us so we don't need to buy it there. It hurts to spend it all at once.

We had a lovely road trip from St. Paul to Falls Church. We went to many of the Lincoln sights - his childhood home, another of his homes, the courthouse where he worked and a museum. We arrived in Virginia just about three days before Hurricane Sandy.

That catches you up in a nutshell. I hope you enjoy my new blog, As I Rise which you can find at:
rosestales.blogspot.com

20 Years of US-Uzbek Relations

The countdown continues: only one more Marine house happy hour, 9 more work days for Douglas, one more book club meeting for me and two more hikes. Here's another old post that I never published. I hope you enjoy it.

Ambassador Krol hosted a reception at his home on Monday the 20th of February in honor of 20 years of relations between the United States and Uzbekistan.

Briefly, Uzbekistan was part of the former Soviet Republic which broke up in 1991 (when Doug was in Moscow!). We recognized it as an independent country and are working to keep good relations with it.

Ambassador Krol came to Douglas and I a few weeks earlier and asked us if we would perform some of the Uzbek folk music we've been learning at this reception. Doug, sadly, had to decline as he would be in India on a yoga retreat. Ambassador Krol still wanted me to sing. I started working intensely with my teacher, Mahmurjon, to perfect a few songs I've learned. My goal was to memorize them, but, as they are in Uzbek and learning Russian is hard enough, that didn't happen. I did, however, learn them well enough to not have to stare at the music and lyrics.

We were asked to perform four songs - two with vocals and two strictly instrumental. There were to be four instrumentalists at the performance. My teacher plays a violin held like in his lap like a cello called a gidjak (sounds like "geed-jock"). A gentleman from the Embassy, Fatakh, plays the dutar - a two-stringed long-necked instrument. Ilyoz, a long-time friend of my teacher who often attends our lessons, also plays the dutar. And a gentleman named Bakhodir plays the Uzbek folk drum that Doug is learning, the doira.

Other than practicing in lesson, we arranged for one full rehearsal the afternoon of the day of the performance. Fate stepped in and I came down with my first bout of what the Americans call, not affectionately, Tashkent Tummy. I was stricken Saturday morning and was up all Saturday night. I've never been so glad that Doug was out of town. I got lucky Sunday and our Medical Officer was at the Embassy and told me to come see him. He put me on antibiotics and I think they sped my recovery. But I still didn't know if I could perform. My voice was fine. It was my body I was worried about. It would all come down to timing . . . if you know what I mean.

We rehearsed at our house Sunday afternoon and all went well except that I sweat profusely.  The men were in suit coats and not at all hot. Not a good sign. We agreed on song order and even chose two alternates in case we brought the house down; we would be ready with encores.

When I arrived at the Ambassador's residence I felt fine. There were some amazing people in attendance. I was introduced to the widow of the first Uzbek Ambassador. She was a true lady. She was nicely dressed, pretty, intelligent and charming. She studied Indian Literature and got her PhD while living in India.

This picture was taken at our house, not at the party at the Ambassador's house. These are the same men who played with me that evening, however. I'll try to get a picture from that party. There are security issues . . . Our teacher, Mahmurjon, is seated at the far right.


The performance went well. We played our encores, not because people were screaming for them (most were obliviously chatting), but because we wanted to. This was one of those opportunities where I felt priviledged to be in the company performing with such talented musicians.





I got very good compliments from a few people. There is a man who works in the Ambassador's house whom I've met before. He heard the music begin and thought, 'Oh, they've hired an Uzbek singer.' Then he realized it was me. Apparently my voice lends well to this style of singing. In attendance that evening was Minister Kamilov who, in rank, is equal to Hillary Clinton's position in the States. He approached me with our Ambassador to tell me that he not only enjoyed the singing, but that my diction was excellent. That made me feel good. My biggest fear of singing in Uzbek is mispronouncing something so that it comes out rude.

A few weekends later, Douglas and I had lunch with our music teacher, Mahmurjon, and some other Uzbek musicians. Ilyoz was there as was Bakhodir who brought his doira. Douglas got to jam with Bakhodir and held his own well. Bakhodir gave Doug a base rhythm to keep while he played various rhythms and sounds. Two young women were there one of who sings with a local opera company and the other in a local choir. They sang in trio with a young man whom we've met before. They sang in English, "Love Me Tender" in barbershop quartet style harmonies and "The Way You Look Tonight" in jazzier harmonies. Doug and I sang the Scottish songs we sang at the Robert Burns' night and I sang one of my newer Uzbek folksongs plus an old favorite. It was fun sharing music in an almost "Battle of the Bands" style afternoon. A very loud thunderstorm moved through as we ate and sang, but it was cozy in the restaurant with our new friends.

I Swear, it's True

It's countdown time here in Uzbekistan. Doug has 17 more work days unless the government calls another surprise holiday like they did last Monday. I have seven more Russian classes, four more hikes and two more Marine house happy hours. I'm looking over old blog posts I've written, but never posted. I hope you enjoy this one. Mother, you may not want to read this one.

I have fallen into the unfortunate habit of swearing. I am grateful that it is only when I'm alone. Well, sometimes poor Douglas is within earshot. I'm not sure how or why I wound up here. I have never liked hearing it except when used smartly and sparingly, which seems rare. Sometimes, I admit, I feel better after letting a few words fly, but I honestly believe that it's just the outlet that I need and not the words themselves.

I'm glad you cannot hear me as I sit here editing this post for publication. As I mentioned, I have a few unpublished drafts, so first I looked at another post for potential publication. It consisted of one short paragraph that was poorly written so I selected to return to the previous page where I could delete it. I clicked on the back arrow key, a message came up telling me that I had unsaved changes (wrong) that would be lost if I navigated back to the previous page. Did I really want to go back? Yes, I answered. It gave me that question four times before I finally exed out of the entire
f&%*#ing blog site. Then, while working on this posting, I highlighted a paragraph then attempted to drag it to relocate it. Instead of relocating it this sh#($$)y box highlighted everything in its path. (Yes, I released the highlighting function before I attempted to drag it. Duh.) It's a good thing I rarely drive here in Tashkent, that's another swearing trigger for me.

Okay, that's all the steam I'll allow myself to let off. All this happened in the space of two minutes. This is a typical computer encounter for me. This is why I'll (I'm typing this sentence for the second time as somehow it disappeared while I was typing below) NEVER join Facebook or any new site the techno torture masters come up with. I was dragged kicking and screaming this far. I've drawn my line.

Frankly, when I think of the definition of the few popular swear words we use in English in America, why would anyone want to say most of them?

Let's start with the one that rhymes with 'duck'. Consider what it means. To have sex. (In checking the etomology, it also has carried he definition of strike or push.) How did our society get from "to have sex" (f*ck) to "I'm so ticked, I can't think straight" (F*CK!!!)? Sex is pleasant (usually); being aggravated to the point of verbal assault isn't. Where's the connection? I try to resort to the olde verson, fie.

Now let's look at shit. Not literally, though Dr. Oz would be proud of us. Shit, excrement, bowel excretions - have I written enough? Yuck. This word matches the mood of the situation, granted. But to shout it in anger (particularly in front of innocents) just perpetuates the situation. And it's just plain ugly.

I do understand exclaiming God and all titles referring to God and Jesus. I don't like it or condone it (especially when He's on a crutch), but I understand it. We believe God can solve everything and prevent everything so we call out in want, need and frustration. I'm not sure it does any good. I know I'm more responsive when someone calls my name nice and gentle like. But that's me.

Of our choices, I like good ol' damn. That says it, unless you're directing it at a person, then I think that's taking it too far. To damn things to hell feels good and, in the case of this box with the keys sitting before me into which I'm putting these words, appropriate. (Note: It's already on strike two today. One more and I'm not going to post today. No sir. Won't happen.) I do believe that we need to leave the damning of people up to The Almighty. Which brings me to . . .

. . . the ever satisfying primal scream. One that starts in the depths of my soul works it's way past my diaphram, through the lungs and up and out the throat. Ahhh, yes, that's satisfying in the most tense moments. It satisfies physicall and emotionally. It wakes me up out of my anger stupor. I'm ready to act after a good primal scream.

I also like, "A pox on you." An oldie, but goodie. It can also defuse a tense situation, it's so outlandish. One of my friends favors, "Mother pussbucket." Watch Craig Ferguson for some creative editing of their guests verbal choices. An ex appears over the mouth of the offender (for you lip readers out there - you know who you are) and you'll hear a cartoon-like voice exclaim, "Juicy Fruits" "Ay Caramba" and a variety of others. Send me your personal favorites, please.

I don't think swearing should be eliminated, I just think we need to use it like we use perfume, spice, bright colors or clashing harmonies in music: thoughtfully and sparingly for effect. I love music that splashes in the tightest harmonies - non harmonic, really. In the context of the other notes and full melody it's enticing. It makes me listen. I can't stand atonal pieces. They don't make sense to me. I'm sure we've all been around someone who swears so freely to the point that they don't make sense. That  is like taking delicious garlic and smothering the dish to the point that you practically burn your tongue. I loved the movie, "The Princess Bride" for many reasons. One is there is a single swear word in the entire movie and it is well placed. Inigo Montoya has been searching for the five-fingered man to avenge his father's murder. When he finds him at the end of the movie, the five-fingered man pleads for his life. "I'll give you anything" he says. "I want my father back you son of a bitch."

I just don't like seeing potent words lose their effect. Doug and I had a funny conversation the other night. I saw a "Trespassers will be prosecuted" sign on television. I said, "If they really want to keep people away, they should post, "Trespassers will be vomited on." He did me one better. "Trespassers will be shat upon." Now that's effective.

Full Circle

Doug and I have packed out (except unaccompanied baggage, which is what will be awaiting us in Virginia) so it’s countdown time for us to leave Uzbekistan. Things have been happening lately
that make me feel like I’ve come full circle with my stay here. This will be a long one, so settle in.

A friend of Doug's, Liz, visited us to see some museums. We went to Samarkand for two days. I told our guide that I'd like to find a suzani (hand embroidered fabric) with animals on it. More popular are flowers and pomegranates. When I first arrived in Uzbekistan I went to an art bazaar and met a vendor who spoke good English. He sold suzanis and was telling me all about the symbolism of the different animals. If I remember correctly, the snake symbolized fertility and the scorpian kept you safe from the Evil Eye. I didn't buy anything from him, though I wanted to. I was new to Uzbekistan and didn't know what else I'd see to buy, I didn't know what a fair price was, etc. I never forgot that man and all his enthusiasm. I also never saw animals on suzanis again.

In our wanderings, I found a suzank with animals around the edges and was able to dicker a fair price with the woman who was selling it. I was so happy. Later that day a man called us into his shop to show us his suzanis. I declined saying I had what I wanted and I'd wait ourside and admire the madrasah. After a few minutes our guide came out and told me that I may want to come in and listen because the man was talkng about animals and their symbolism - he remembered that that interested me. Reluctantly (because I was not in the mood for a sales pitch) I went inside. The more I listened, I realized that this was the man I had met over a year and a half ago in Tashkent.

I asked him if he had been in Tashkent. He answered yes and told me that he remembered meeting me at the TWIG bazaar (he remembered the name of the bazaar where we met). I didn't have the heart to tell him I had bought someone else's animal suzani.

After a while, he pulled out a bedspread sized suzani stitched with flowers and vines. It was gorgeous. My eyes and face must have said it all because Doug was digging in the backpack counting our money preparing to dicker with him. Back and forth they went for fifteen or so minutes. Doug bought it and I was so touched by it all, I cried. The man saw my tears and came over and hugged me (rare for an Uzbek man to a strange woman). He gave us all a gift before we left.

July 22nd I climbed Big Chimgon, one of the (or the highest point in the area). On almost every hike Boris, our hike guide, points out Big Chimgon. It hovers over at us from a distance looking ominous. I have wanted to climb it and was glad to get the chance before we left Uzbekistan. I was also nervous. I was so nervous that I spent most of Friday and Saturday before the hike worrying and psyching myself out of it. (Alas, I was never destined for the Olympics.) The above picture was taken about two thirds of the way up to the summit of Big Chimgon.

I’ve heard some stories about hiking Big Chimgon. One group of hikers was still ascending as the day was growing short. They voiced their concerns to Boris and suggested they turn around to be sure that they didn’t get caught on the mountain after dark. Boris refused, as the story goes and on they went. And they got caught descending after dark. Most people climb Big Chimgon in two days
enjoying a night out in the mountains.

We arrived at the starting point and I posed with the rest of the hikers (with my flashlight in my backpack) for a ‘before’ picture. We started with a gentle climb. Within five minutes I was light-headed. This rarely happens to me; very few times while pushing myself on the elliptical, but never while hiking. I wondered if this was my red flag telling me to turn back to the van (while it was still there) and skip the hike, but no way was I going to sit in a van all day with the driver smoking away, so on I plodded. The light-headed feeling hit me a few more times and I dismissed it. Eventually
it quit. It was replaced with my heart pounding - much harder than on normal hikes, I was certain. Usually my heart pounds only when steeply ascending for a while, but we were still in the foothills of Big Chimgon. I took comfort in the fact that Boris told us that, at a certain point, we could split up. Group One could go on to the summit; group two could stay behind and wait. That’s what I’d to. No
problem. I’d still be climbing Big Chimgon, just not to the top.

Often (too often for my sanity) I have a song running relentlessly through my head. I found it amusing that, as I climbed Big Chimgon, Bruce Springsteen’s “One Step Up and Two Steps Back”was in my head. Probably inspired by the loose rock we were trying to progress over. When I
reached the summit, I was further amused that this song was immediately
replaced with “Pomp and Circumstance”.

One thing that helped the climb was the variety of terrain we hiked on. It began bushy with a small trail carved for us to follow. When we left the foothills and began the steeper ascent, it changed from a dusty path, to the dreaded loose shale-like rock, then to small pebbly stones to rich, dark soil surrounded by some of the lushest greenery I’ve seen in these mountains. I kept thinking I should be
taking pictures, but I was too tired to stop and take out my camera and didn’t want to fall behind as I was already toward the end. At times we had to literally climb over large boulders and rocks. At one point, we were climbing like this and came to a five or so inch shelf (think the balance beam in the Olympics) on which we had to walk avoiding a drop to get to the other side. Maxim (Boris's asistant) stood on something underneath us and held out feet in place. I noticed that we rested more often on this hike which was fine with me. One of our rests was in the shelter of a rock overhang - not quite a cave, but almost. We noticed a plaque hanging outside it with names and writing in Uzbek. We guessed that it was names of those who forged this trail. Nope. It was the names of those who died attempting to climb Big Chimgon. Not very encouraging for Laura.

This hike was different in so many ways. I drank more, ate less and ate later. Usually I’m into my sandwich by 10AM. I didn’t eat until around 2:00. I also sat down every time we took a break. I usually don’t do that until toward the end of the hike.

I talked with Tom who works with General Motors here in Tashkent. I think we kind of supported each other. We were tired, we were working hard and we were determined to make it. At one point, during a rest, I was sitting on a rock and his hand came into view, “Come on. Let’s go.” He said. And up we went. That hand felt so good, like an energy transfer. A little peer pressure is a good
thing sometimes.

At one point I was a little concerned about the dark floaties before my eyes. One of them was particularly dark and not floating around very fast. And I couldn’t see through it like I could all the others. Turns out a ladybug was strolling across my sunglasses.

Naturally, we whined a little on the way up. Not the, “Are we there yet?” whining. We were more creative. “How high do you think we are?” “I don’t know, but those clouds sure look like they’re hanging low.” Some were finding it more difficult to breathe. We wound up ascending over a mile.
It took us five hours to make the ascent. It was at this point that Boris told us (as I lay flat on my back) that group two could stay here while group one made one last 20 minute climb to a higher point. Twenty minute climb? That was the splitting of the groups he earlier referred to? I stayed right where I was. Rocks never felt as comfortable as after a long, steep ascent. A few of the men stayed
behind “to protect the women.”

As we relaxed at the top enjoying the view, dark storm clouds were moving in. After a while, as much as it pained me (literally) I suggested that we not rest too long so we could beat the storm. Trying to maneuver that 5 inch ledge in the rain would be quite dangerous. About an hour into our descent we heard the thunder. Grant, a friend from the embassy, was in the lead. “Go faster, Grant!” I hollered. We heard thunder a few more times, but never got caught in the rain and made it down well before sunset. Boris was very happy. We did have a good group. As I said, on the ascent, I was in the rear of the group. We could usually see the people ahead of us, though, and I don’t think they ever had to wait more than 15 or so minutes for us. On the descent, I was in the front of the group. We
also didn’t have to wait much for those in the rear. We have had to wait up to 45 minutes for slower hikers. No fun.

Now when I hike and Boris points out ominous Big Chimgon, I can look at it and say, "I've stood there!" or "I've collapsed there!"

I'll leave you with a picture of me and Boris:

50 and counting

I turned 50 in Tashkent! I was very excited about this. I'm still pretty much a kid when it comes to my birthdays. I looked forward to my 10th birthday (two digits in my age!), my 13th (teenager!) 18th (legal) 20th (a nice round number), 21st (legal in more ways) 25th (quarter century) 30th (nice round number) . . . well, you get it.


I don't respect the attitude that some people have about bemoaning their age. It feeds the farce that we should all be young or strive to be young. I would not want to be 20, 30 or 40 ever again. No sir. The - how can I put this politely? - crap I went through taught me well, mostly like a cautionary tale. Relive it? You've got to be kidding me.


Now, if you offered me nine lives like the allergen ridden cat, you'd have my attention. If I had nine lives I think I know just how I'd live each one of them.

Life number one would be lived completely differently than the one I am currently living. I'd live independently. I'd live in the mountains away from all civlization. I'd travel the road alone. I'd take on odd jobs to support this lifestyle for a time. You know, sing for my supper. I'd be savvy. I'd be able to handle myself in any situation. I'd be street wise. Quit laughing, this is my fantasy. I'd love to hear yours, by the way. I'd have a string of lovers I'd never forget and some I'd never give another thought to. I'd always want God in my life. I just fear that God would be more disappointed in me in some lives than in others.

Life number two I'd spend devoted to psychiatry or psychology. I'd want to try to understand us. I'd want to try to help us. I'd want to study and learn all that is out there then research and add to it. I'd want to be the person at the party who told you what you really didn't want to know about yourself, but needed to know. I'd want to be the person at the party to whom people would approach, "I know you're not at work, but . . ." and they'd proceed to tell me their most intimate issues and problems. Or those of others at the party. Either way.

Life number three would be spent in the entertainment industry on some level. I have performed more than most people I know, but I'd love that to be my entire life. I'd go to Broadway and audition. I love the stage. I'd go to L.A. and audition for films. I'd sing in jazz clubs for nothing if it would get me in front of an audience on a regular basis. Heck, I'd travel the Renaissance Festival circuit.

Life number four would be spent writing. I know I have something to say, it's finishing what I have to say that I have a problem with. I'm not sure if I'd write for children, which I have, or adults, which I also have. Both can be tough crowds. Some days I think I'm better at fiction. I stay off my soapbox that way. Other days I can pen a pretty good, inspiring thought and think it needs to be shared.

Life number five would be spent in hardship. Perhaps I'd live in a war torn country, one that never knows peace. Perhaps I'd be a member of an aborignal tribe living remotely from 'civilization'. I may live in the inner city surrounded by drugs, gangs and crime. I'd fall victim to addiction for several years. I'd have illegitimate children of different fathers and rapes taken away from me. I'd certainly be money poor. I'd be homeless. I'd be ignored.

Life number six would be spent filthy rich. I'd love to know what it would be like to live with lack of money never being an issue. I'd travel. I'd eat out. I'd hire domestic help. I'D HIRE A DRIVER. I'd have a personal assistant. I'd give money away every day. I'd own a Rolls Royce and a good hybrid and use them according to my mood. I'd spend a year living on a cruise ship. I'd buy an island and have a house on it to escape to. I'd sail around the world on a yacht. I'd go into space as far as I could. I'd take friends with me on all these excursions.

Life number seven would be spent learning about and experiencing alternative healing, dream research, yoga, astral projection, tarot, intuitiveness, meditation, astrology and more and more. I'd spend part of this life as a vegetarian, a vegan, I'd live in a commune of some sort, I'd live in an ashram, I'd renounce all worldly goods for a time, I'd protest, write letters to those with power. Above all I'd do this peacefully and as non-judgementally as I could so as to have respect from both sides of an issue. Without respect, I don't think I'd have much of a voice.

Life number eight would be spent studying world philosophies. Just as my previous life was lived in various way at various times, so would I live according to philosophies about which I don't know enough in this life to offer details here.

Life number nine would be spent in spiritual service. I'd study the world's religions, eventually committing myself to my own personal religion. I'd spend time living in a convent and other places where the focus is on the spirit. I'd worship God and I'd serve people.

An interesting thought occurs to me as I write out my many fantasy lives. In each life I'd have the same soul. In other words, I'd still be basically who I am. Some of you who would ignore and judge me as the homeless addict with a fly-covered baby in my lap would seek my company in another of my lives. Interesting, isn't it. Perhaps a lesson for us all.

Over Memorial Day weekend Doug and I went to Lake Issyk Kul in neighboring Kyrgistan.

Lake Issyk Kul is the second largest saltwater lake in the world (second to the Caspian Sea), the second largest mountain lake (second to Lake Titicaca on the Peru/Bolivia border) and the tenth largest lake in the world. Lake Issyk Kul has a length of 182 kilometres (113 mi), a width of up to 60 kilometres (37 mi), and covers an area of 6,236 square kilometres (2,408 sq mi). (Thank you, Wikipedia.) The mountains you see in the background stretch as far as you can see and border Kazakhstan and China.

It was too cold to swim (for this Phoenician, at least) but there were people in the clear, blue water. I walked the beach barefoot and sat and stared at the lake and mountain. We went on a boat ride that gave us a good view of a nearby glacier.

We drove to a gorge to walk around and came upon some men and boys on horses. Two of them had eagles with them. They ran after our van on horseback, laughing and smiling, and kept up until we stopped. I'm sure it was a tourist trap, but it was one I gladly walked into: I got to hold an eagle for the first time.

At first, the eagle flew away from me. Thank God I'm a relatively calm person. FLAP-FLAP-FLAP  Doug got winged in the head. The owner put it back on my arm and it stayed. It was amazing being that near one of these birds. It is quite heavy as you would expect. After I held it for a while the owner raised my arm and turned my hand a little which was the eagle's signal to spread its wings.

The picture of me with the eagle and the following were taken in a gorge that was so scenic it reminded me of the cinematography in old westerns and the best pictures in hunting and fishing magazines. We walked along a road that ran alongside a gushing river. Mountain music. There was even a small falls.

We saw some petroglyphs that had been restored at a place called Cholpon-Ata (dating from the II millennium BC upto the Middle Ages upto the VI century AD - thank you, Advantour). It was kind of interesting, but they just didn't seem genuine to me. While, in America, things like that would be protected from people, these are just out in the open for all to handle. They were in a large boulder field. Anyone could have climbed all over them.

Those were the highlights of the trip. It's very different traveling in Central Asia than in America. Our liason for tours told us the drive from the airport to our hotel would be about three hours. It took five. It was a strange feeling sitting in a van in itch black not knowing where we were going or how long it would take to get there. The road conditions ranged from just fine to God Save Us. And these drivers knew these roads and drove fast. Our hotel and room were both very nice looking. The temperature in the room, however, was about 90 degrees. No exaggeration. The heat came from the floor which was so hot that Doug couldn't stand on it in bare feet. The bed was boxsprings with no mattress. Doug had bruises on his hips after the second night. Behind the reception desk were two pretty young women with nice smiles who were very good at apologizing for everything. On our first full day there, our travel guide didn't show up until around 4:00 so we lost almost an entire day of excursions. I tried to keep a good attitude which wasn't too hard since the lake was so beautiful. We sat there and read. Later, after lunch, I offered to tell stories to the ten children who were with us hoping that would diffuse the situation a little. It did. Just before I told stories, however, I needed a little something to calm down so I went to the store to buy chocolate. It was closed. It was supposed to be open. Grrr. Me. Chocolate. Barrier in between. GRRRR . . . I went to the cute smiley girls and told them that someone needed to open the store now and SELL ME CHOCOLATE! I waited another 15 (long) minutes, but they finally roused the storekeeper and she opened shop. On the second day the accountant didn't show up on time leaving us unable to exchange money before our excursion. I finally went to the desk and told the cute smiley girls that someone needed to find someone now to exchange our money. They finally did it from their own purses. The hotel advertised a gym which was unavailable to us. The food and food service at the hotel was very good. The food was disappointing in that it was not Kyrgiz food. We were actually served hotdogs and hamburgers for breakfast!

Overall, the trip was enjoyable and worthwhile. I'm trying to have few expectations in life. I think the Buddhists say that to live without expectations is to live without disappointment. Makes sense. I'm also careful to not travel around here and expect things to be like in America. However, when someone promises something then smiles and says "Well, in actuality . . ." or "Our website doesn't say that" (when it, indeed, does say that) or "That's unavailable right now (and the rest of the time you're here)" I'm upset. I'd rather have no expectations and be happy. I was not upset about the meals, just disappointed. I didn't complain. I did complain about the staff not showing up on time to help us. Any Buddhists or wanna-be Buddhists out there with suggestions for my attitude?

Bukhara

Doug and I flew to Bukhara, a city in central Uzbekistan with some friends from the Embassy a couple of weekends ago. This trip is my favorite trip so far. Samarkand is much more popular a city, but I liked Bukhara much more. We had a little more time to spend there - we stayed two nights - which helped. Bukhara is a mix of the old which has been restored and the old which stands in partial ruin. It's interesting to see the difference.

Bukhara is much cleaner than Tashkent. My housekeeper, Irina, noticed this when I was showing her pictures. She has never been there. The people were so friendly. We were often greeted by children and students. Doug and I both had a rock star moment. He was practically accosted (I was watching his backpack!) by a group of students who wanted their picture taken with him. The same thing happened to me, though a little rambunctiously. This picture is of a kindly old man offering candy to a little girl and her brother (off camera) who were traveling with us.

Shopping was much more comfortable here than in Samarkand or Khiva. The vendors were not in our face pushing things at us. They were helpful and patient. Many spoke some English. We were working with one young woman who switched from Uzbek to English to French while we were in her shop. Someone asked her how many languages she knew. She laughed and said she didn't know.

We had a dinner and entertainment on our first night. The weather was perfect as we sat outside and enjoyed front and center seats for traditional Uzbek music and a presentation of traditional dance mixed with a fashion show.

One of the highlights of the trip was a visit to a puppet workshop. They hand make puppets using paper mache, sticks and paint. They demonstrate the process while your there, give you a short showing of what the puppets can do then tell you to wander the store and play with any puppet you want. No pressure to buy! The adults had as much fun as the children. A friend of mine gave me a puppet from Bukhara which I wasn't sure what to think of at first. Now I have quite an appreciation for it.

Our hotel was nice. We had airconditioning! They even had cold Pepsi when we arrived which I managed to resist. The staff was friendly and cared that we enjoy Bukhara. It was within walking distance of many bazaars where we shopped. Across the street is the former walled in town center so, again, old meets new. Here are pictures of the courtyard in the hotel followed by the view across the street and the road leading to the bazaars:

Our next trip will be over Memorial weekend to Lake Issyk Kul in neighboring Kyrgistan.

Cruising the Mediterranean

For the first time Doug and I took seperate vacations this year. He went on a yoga retreat to Goa, India where he practiced yoga daily and ate a healthy vegetarian diet which he leaned really suits him. I went on a cruise with my good friend Julie and her mom where I ate (and drank) everything under the sun which suited me just fine, thank you.

We embarked from Rome, sailed to Cannes (France), Monaco, Livorno, (Italy), Sardinia (Italy), Amalfi (Italy), Sicily (Italy), Corfu (Greece), Dubrovnik (Croatia) and disembarked in Venice where we spent an extra couple of days.

It was a joy to be able to spend uninterrupted time with Julie in a completely relaxed atmosphere. I wish I could do that with all of you when we will be home on leave in the fall.

Julie and her mom went on a shore excursion almost every day. I went on five with them: Monaco, Pisa, Amalfi, Cavtat and lastly we went to the Islands of Murano and Burano near Venice.

Monaco was a very crowded city. The houses and other buildings are clustered together very tightly on the hills. Even the royal palace is located on an open public square with no private land around it that I could see. Julie and I went to the Grand Casino where I was to gamble. Specifically I was instructed (by Douglas) to play Black Jack. I chickened out. First of all, It cost $15 just to walk in the door and we only had about a half hour to spend there. Secondly, I saw my favorite casino machine when we walked in - video poker. Maybe next time at the next casino. I would not ever choose to go back to Monaco, however.

Seeing sights that I've only seen in photographs was amazing to me. Like the famous tower in Pisa. I took the obigatory photographs of it, but I also went up and took some detailed pictures like these:

We all stayed on the ship one day and Julie and I took a cooking class and learned to make pasta cabanara. Four words: yummy, yum-yum-yum.

The Amalfi coast is supposedly one of the most beautiful spots we sailed to. I say supposedly because, unfortunately, there were swells on the coast where we were to lay anchor and they didn't feel it was safe to take the tenders ashore. So we wound up docking elsewhere and driving through the slums of that area in rush hour traffic to get to what was supposed to be a food and wine tour which included a tour of a vineyard and a limoncello factory. After we were on the bus sitting in the traffic we were told that we would not be going to the vineyard. Apparently the roads and grounds were too wet to accomodate a large bus. I was quite upset as we were not given any choice before we boarded the bus. (There's a warning to those who are considering a cruise - which I highly reccommend - and are looking at various cruise lines. I do not reccommend Oceana for that reason. They refused any amount of refund to us.) Instead we went to an old villa that wasn't particularly interesting to me, but they did provide a good lunch. The limoncello factory did not disappoint. If you haven't tasted limoncello do so on a hot summer day. We also tasted apple flavored and melon flavored liqueurs. I bought a bottle of each.

Cavtat and the Walled City was an interesting tour on which I'm sure we were taught a lot.

Unfortunately for me, these tours are so brief and packed with sights and information from the guide that I walk away and remember little of what they said. I'm so caught up with being where I am - not a bad thing at all - that it's hard to pay attention to the sights, sounds and a mini lecture. We visited a Dominican and a Franciscan monestary which were architecurally beautiful. Here's a detail:

My favorite part of the entire cruise was the area including Vanice and the islands of Murano (famous for its glass making) and Burano (famous for its lace making). Um, apparently I didn't take any pictures of my favorite islands. (I'm not much of a picture taker.) I had one of those "If I won the lottery" moments. If I did win the lottery, I'd buy thousands of dollars of Murano glass and Burano lace starting with a set of highball glasses (about  $500 - 600 for six) and a coverlet (around $4,500.) The Murano glass was everywhere and I never got tired of looking at it. I've seen glass blowers before, but I saw an old man pull on molten glass and, in about one minute, turned a glowing blob into a rearing horse.

After disembarking we took a water taxi to out hotel. After quite a search to find anyone in the hotel we hauled our luggage up to our room. The hotel was right on the Grand Canal; our window overlooked a smaller canal. Within twenty minutes or so we heard a beautiful tenor voice and an accordian. We looked out the window and, passing beneath, there was a gondola with a man standing and singing, an accordian player seated near two lovers. Welcome to Venice!

Life as I know it now

Forgive me, my few faithful readers, for procrastinating writing a blog entry for over two months. Shamefully too long, I admit. I think it has also been too long since I've written about life here. One of the reasons I procrastinated in writing a new blog entry is that I couldn't think of anything 'good' to write. I must remember that, while I'm getting used to my life here - you are not. So many common occurances here are novel to you and I should be sharing them.

One thing that comes to mind today is the stories I overhear other Foreign Service Officers tell.

The nanny of one of our families is very amused that the father actually cares for the baby when the mother is gone. This is apparently unheard of in her world. One evening just before she left, he wanted to give the baby some milk, but there was none so he gave the baby water.  Aghast, she told him. "You don't give a baby water!"

Although I have shared how much I miss food in America, the food here is delicious. Usually. One of our Embasy employees was served pizza - very popular in Tashkent - with cheese and what looked like a can of corn poured over it. He asked them why they put corn on the pizza. "Because that's the way Americans eat pizza." The waiter then proceeded to argue the point with him.

I was recently at a restaurant that provided English translations on the menu which I always appreciate. The translations were hysterical. My salad was translated as something like "garden growths". There was a dish called "legs escaped from hen coup". Free range chicken? I wish I could remember more. As I do, I'll share.

One man, while stationed somewhere in Africa, was honored by his employees. They roasted a whole goat for him. He's a vegetarian. He smiled graciously, thanked them, then explained that he's a vegetarian. "Eez okay." They said. "Eez no meat. Eez goat." Here in Tashkent, chicken is chicken, while meat seems to be any meat that is not chicken.

 There was a Mexican restaurant in Tashkent that I went to with several Embassy employees. As we ate, one of them shared a story of the first time they ate at this restaurant. They were served tortillas. That's all, just tortillas. They sat and waited for something to go with the tortillas. Nothing. Finally they called the waiter over and asked. He said "These are tortllas (pronounced "tor-ti-LLaz" not "tor-ti-yaz") you eat them." "Yes," they agreed, "But we need some cheese, some meat, some vegetables . . ." "No. You just eat them." This went back and forth for a while. Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo and I'm happy to report that the fajitas we were served at the Marine House happy hour were quite tasty.

It's another world here. I've already gone on about driving in Tashkent, but I don't think I mentioned the general lack of safety measures here. Women regularly sweep the streets with these short brooms over which they have to stoop to use. Although there is a warning sign put in the lane where the women are sweeping, it is never any more than about five yards in front of them giving people lilttle notice to move. Somehow, they survive.

Manhole covers are regularly removed for whatever reason and left off while the workers to to lunch, the store to buy supplies, etc.

The pot holes here are more like sink holes and they sit unrepaired for months. Often someone, to be kind, will put a large tree branch they've broken off into the hole so it looks like there's a small tree in the middle of the road.

There is an amusement park that is being 'built' nearby. There are three or four rides partially set up. A small ferris wheel and a ride that circles around perpendicular to the ground are sitting unguarded and unblocked, open for anyone to climb on and play on.

Flying with Uzbeks is frustrating. They pay no mind to warnings to not use cel phones during take off and landing. As soon as the wheels are on the ground, many stand up and pull their stored bags off the overhead shelf and head to the front of the plane to be first in line. It's like being back in elementary school sometimes.

 The negative behaviors and practices I see do stick out in my mind since we must live with it and deal with it. However, I don't want to just sit here and tell you the negative things.

What do I see that I like? I think I've mentioned some of them before, but they are worth repeating. I love the way they greet each other. They talk over each other saying things like, "How are you? How is your family?" They talk over each other for a good 15 or 20 seconds. When they part company, they offer a sincere farewell. It's like they unspokenly recognize that they may never see each other again so they wish each other peace, health, etc. I admire that.

I love seeing men walking down the street together. Often they will have their arms slung casually over one another's shoulders. This is true of children as well as adults. It's a simple, loving gesture that, unfortunately, is looked upon by too many in America as gay behavior. Likewise, women will hold hands as they stroll. Again, not just mother and daughter or young girls; women hold hands as they walk and talk. I've had two adult friends with whom I've been comfortable holding hands. It's rare in America.

Now from the department of "It's not right or wrong; it's different" comes this little story. Doug and I drove to a bazaar to buy a few bread presses with which you make a pretty pattern in the center of a flat, round loaf of bread. I chose about five, negotiated the price and was looking for money when I saw the man reaching for a sack to put them in. "I don't want a sack" I said. (This entire exchange was, of course, in Russian.) "I'll put them in a sack." "No," I said as I gathered them in my hands, "I don't want a sack." "Yes, please." "No, thank you." This went on and on, back and forth. I explained that our car was right there and I pointed at it. I didn't need a sack. I didn't know how to say that the sack will just tear anyway. (They use the cheapest plastic sacks here in Tashkent. A cherry would tear it.) Finally Doug, getting tired of the scene, told me to just take the sack. No. I then said to the distraught man, "If you'll lower your price by 1,000 sum (that's about 40 cents), I'll take the sack." Done deal. I couldn't believe that he lowered his price and used up more goods (albeight, just a sack) rather than letting me have what I wanted for more money. Repeat after me: It's not right, it's not wrong; it's different.

Here's a preview of what my next blog will be about:

But I Did Win the Lottery

Note: This post is late because I have been ill. Therefore, my next post will also be delayed meaning I'll be posting it about a week after the event I'll be writing about.

Doug told me about the latest Powerball winner. Someone will apparently be swimming in millions and millions of dollars soon. Whee! This, naturally, kicked off the latest round of "What would I do if I won the lottery?" Some of you may remember that this is how Doug got around to joining the Foreign Service. Anyway, we talked about hiring drivers and domestic help for our parents (my idea), starting a foundation (Doug's idea) and being able to overnight some Taco Bell to Tashkent (guess whose?) I was accused of not thinking big enough.

After our exchange of ideas, my mind was in that place it goes after awakening from a dream that seems so real it takes a while to remember it was just a dream. It wasn't until I was at the gym (where I do some of my best thinking) that I realized I've already won the big lottery - the lottery of life. I'll explain.

Of all the men walking, strutting, scratching, spitting, grunting and skulking around on this planet, I am with Douglas Rose. At the risk of giving my friend Julie a toothache, I'll tell you why I am the winner. Doug is smart. Yes, I know, I know - he married me. That doesn't change the fact that he is smart. He loves knowledge, he seeks knowledge and actively gathers it. If I want to know something I have two choices: Google or Douglas. He's loving. He cares deeply for those in his life from his family, me, coworkers, former classmates, etc. What affects them affects Doug. Doug is generous. He has given generously to groups, family and friends. His true generosity, to me, lies elsewhere. He is generous with patience, calmness, wisdom and love. He wants the best for me and, as a result, is very careful as to how he communicates things to me. I am more generous, less selfish, more disciplined, less angry, more patient and less reactive after years of knowing Doug. I got to this point because he sets a fine example. He doesn't point out my faults. He lives well, I see it and it takes root in me. Doug is talented. He won't admit that he can play the piano, but he can. We met singing and still sing together. He is an excellent reader and often reads to me - poetry, short stories, novels, whatever. He's got a sharp wit. He is truly a diplomat and a peacemaker. He's handsome. I'm very attracted to him. Put the aspirin away, Julie, I'm not going into details here.

Disease can be random, genetic or brought on by our own foolish behavior, but somehow I am living in this remarkably healthy body that has seen some abuse, but serves me well. I have watched friends who have been seemingly constantly plagued with nuisance injuries and serious illnesses while I 'suffer' allergies. I adopted a new motto in my life several months ago, "I love my problems".

There are fair weather friends, false friends and user friends. I have none of those. I have such an assortment of friends who surround me with an array of attributes that inspire, comfort and uplift me constantly - even long distance. They entertain me at my own pitty parties then, in a timely fashion, gently show me the door. They make me think. They challenge my beliefs by sharing their own and 'forcing' me to put into words that by which I stand so firmly. In other words, they make me a better person. And, the most difficult of all, they tell me the truth and demand it of me. I'm grateful for friends with whom I can commiserate. I am grateful for friends with whom I do not always agree. The only reason I can see to surround oneself with people who think just like you is to stagnate. No, thank you.

Have you seen the television show called Dirty Jobs? That's one side of employment. I live in a country where most of the people work seven days a week doing what they have to do in order to survive. They don't have the luxury of choosing a profession let alone a job. I have met educated people who are drivers or housekeepers because that is the only work they can get. To quote Seinfeld, "Not that there's anything wrong with that." But they deserve more. Their country deserves more. Though I'm not employed now, I have had great jobs. My work at the YMCA taught me to take better care of myself and gave me the opportunity to start an IRA. My temporary work gave me a variety of experience from jobs I literally hated to my long term job at Wells Fargo where I won an award (Temporary Employee of the Year!) and started investing. My favorite job, teaching piano, led to my furthering my education, improving my own playing (in order to keep up with my students!) and many, many memorable acquaintences and friends. I still think of my students daily (those I'm in touch with and those I'm not) even though I haven't taught for over two years. That's the impact they had on me.

I'm only beginning to realize how I won the lottery of being born in the United States of America. I'm not a flag waver and I have many problems and complaints with how our government and many of its employees 'work'. I feel I can say, however, that our government genuinely wants the best for its citizens and are willing to work to enable us to have it. Our government doesn't deny us access to the news of the rest of the world. Even some of the public expenditures with which I have problems, like countless international aid and endless local economic outreach programs stem from love and concern for humanity.

What would I do if I won the lottery? Save and shop, save and shop.

What have I done since I won the lottery? I'll tell you. Today at lunch someone asked me if I was working. Without a hesitation I answered, "Yes. Not at the Embassy, but, yes, I work at home." My job is to (not necessarily in this order) learn Russian, make Doug's life as easy as possible, see how far I can get with my writing, practice my music and learn more stories to tell.

Doug is away for a two and a half week yoga retreat in Goa, India. The first few days he was gone I spent sick and trying to heal. On one of those days I managed to do my homework, plus a little. I read aloud through a story I want to tell to a friend. I tidied up before our housekeeper came. (I know, I know . . .) Yesterday, I taught myself how to use the Russian keyboard to do my homework on the computer. Today I corrected all the mistakes I made and then started listing what we'll likely put into storage from our house here in Tashkent and what will likely go with us to Munich.

And there you have the biggest win of them all. I'm becoming the kind of person I've wanted to be. I'm using my time well (learning, cooking, improving skills, caring for myself) instead of lazing around. I'm getting (sit down everyone) organized. I set priorities for myself early on and I'm keeping them. I'll say it again. I'm becoming the kind of person I've wanted to be.

Our Scots-Uzbek Weekend

I had never heard of a Robert Burns Night until about a month ago when the Ambassador came to Douglas and I and asked us if we'd be interested in participating in one. We, of course, said "yes" and set out to choose songs to sing and poetry to recite. We arrived Saturday night at the Ambassador's residence to find him handsomely dressed in a kilt. That was the only kilt, but there were many tartans worn by guests. I think Robert Burns Night is kind of like St. Patrick's Day in that while everyone is Irish on March 17, everyone is Scottish on Robert Burns Night.

After some drinks, we sat down and heard a blessing for the evening. After that was the presentation of the haggis! Unfortunately our resident piper was too out of practice and declined our begging to play for this event so the haggis was processed in to recorded pipes. "Ode to a Haggis" was read and we were served. Haggis has a bad reputation. I tasted it for the first time at our Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I was standing near the line (yes, there was a line) and said to my friend that I'd like to taste it, but I didn't know if I could make the financial commitment of actually buying one. A patron in line overheard me and offered me a bite of his. He, too, had never tasted it. I noticed he gave me the first bite. I loved it. I made sure to not know what was in it until after I'd tasted it. Good move. If you like meatloaf, just taste it. Close enough. May all Scots forgive me.

After we ate there were more readings including Douglas reading "Is There for Honesty, Poverty?" commonly known as "A Man's a Man for all that". We sang "Ye Banks and Braes", lyrics by Robert Burns, and "Loch Lomond" to which everyone joined in on the chorus.

After dinner, dancers gathered in the basement to dance some Scottish Highland dances. After a while they invited all to dance and the floor was full of people swinging each other around, bouncing into one another, skipping the wrong way and laughing a lot. Did I mention the free-flowing Scotch? That explains a lot of what happened on the dance floor. Great way to end a fine evening.

The next day we were invited to lunch by our music teacher, Mahmurjan. He wanted to cook for us so he reserved a restaurant and had a small party made up of a former dancer now local television producer (who wants to interview me!), a young singer/guitar player, Mahmurjan's good friend who often comes to our lessons (I have no idea how to spell his name in English, it sounds like "Eelyoze") and Bakhadir, a man who plays the doira (the Uzbek folk drum that Doug is learning to play). We sat down to a table full of fruits and vegetables and awaited the Lagman (a's sound like "ah"). Lagman is a thick noodle soup with meat, vegetables and seasonings that is traditionally made with one looooong noodle. It's one of our favorite local dishes. We were warned (not that it did any good in my case) not to eat too much because there was plov coming next. Plov (long 'o'), if you recall, is the national dish of Uzbekistan and is traditionally made by the men. It is spiced rice with tiny pieces of carrots, raisins, lamb and, depending on where it's made, it can have a slice of horse meat and quail eggs. I did not eat dinner that night.

After we ate, the music started. Mahmurjan plays a 'geedjock' (a violin held in his lap like a cello), "Eelyoze" plays a dutar - a two-stringed long necked instrument held like a guitar - Bakhadir played the doira. They asked us to sing some of the folksongs we've learned. Everyone seemed to have genuinely liked it. The younger fellow sang such a beautiful song with such a lucious voice that all  could think of was how many women would want to hear that outside their bedroom window one night. We ate, played and talked for about four hours. That was hard for me, especially as full as I was. I hope I get better at that. The younger singer and the producer both spoke some English, but all conversation was in Russian. I was pretty fried when we finally left.

I'd like us to do more of that, though. To me, that's why we're hear. I know Doug has bigger goals in the Foreign Service, a mission. But it's these interactions that I can communicate best with you. I think that, as we travel, we'll find that music is the best introduction we'll have to a new society.

Life in Tashkent as I See It

I don't feel I have spent enough time telling you about my observations of general life in Tashkent. You must remember that I'm pretty removed from it as I live so near the Embassy and spend nearly all my time at home alone or at the Embassy exercising and taking Russian lessons. But I'll share what I can.

When we flew in to Tashkent two Septembers ago, if you remember, we landed at sunrise. This is very common. I have seen only one plane in the air since we moved here and that was about a week ago. It was funny because I was walking down the stairs looking out a high window into the sky, saw the plane and stopped dead. What is that, I thought? Flights generally leave and arrive between the hours of 1:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. The men who work closely with Douglas are expediters. They help us with arriving and departing at the airport. That's their overtime. They then work full time hours during the day. They make our travel life so easy for us and they do it with a sincere smile. When my parents arrived, Doug and I picked them up. We stood there waiting and waiting. The entire group of passengers checked through and my parents were not there. It seems that even though my mother had wheelchair access requested (arthritis, previous broken knee, etc.) she was not provided with a wheelchair in Uzbekistan. The airport has one wheelchair and there was a sick man sitting in it. The thought of sitting him in a chair while they fetched my mom apparently didn't occur to them. They had to lower her on the service lift from the plane onto the tarmac and bodily assist her. She was in her usual gracious good spirits and smiling happily when she finally came into sight.

Remember my telling you that I came here with an attitude of "It's now right; it's not wrong - it's different"? Well, Douglas helped me keep that attitude recently. I think I've already mentioned how fast people drive here and how slowly they walk. They also have a very different spacial concept than we do. For shy people who don't like to hug, they don't mind walking into you or pushing their way in front of you into a line. When passing (facing) someone on a sidewalk, they will wait until they are going to make contact before moving ever so slightly to avoid this, all the while staring straight ahead like there's nothing/noone else around. One day I was walking to the Embassy - about a block and a half away. There was a group of four young people headed towards me taking up the entire sidewalk. Just behind them was a young woman who was intent on passing them. Between all of us was a tree growing in the middle of the sidewalk. I saw the future so I stopped dead in my tracks to watch the show and stay out of the way. The young woman managed to pass them and was headed toward me (who was standing properly on the right side of the sidewalk). She appeared to be doing the normal waiting until the last micro-second to move, but instead she plowed right into me knocking me off the sidewalk into the mud. Everyone turned and looked at me as I looked at her. I was - unfortunately - speechless. Oh, I had plenty to say - in English! Корова (pronounced karova with a long o) was the only Russian that came to mind. That means cow. I held my tongue. But I stewed about it for way too long with the usual wasted thoughts of, "I should have . . ." and "If I ever see her again I'll . . ." etc. When I told Doug, he reminded me how oppressed these people are and that that was probably her only bit of power in her life. Boy was I humbled. I wish I could go back in time and walk back to her, ask her if she's okay and ask her why she did that instead of just glaring nastily at her.

I have one annoyance here that I also had in the States. Plastic bags at the check out counter. If I bought three small items, the bag boy at the store near Doug and I in St. Paul would put each item in a bag - three bags! I'd take two out and put them all in one bag. I got smart and brought my own canvas bag. Then he'd put my groceries into a plastic bag and then put that in my canvas bag. No kidding. I explained to him that the idea of carrying the canvas bag was to not use a plastic bag. Duh. Sometimes I'd forget my canvas bag and I'd have to deal with the bag boy. I would tell him, "One bag, please." He would then take two bags, put on inside the other and put my three items in them. Sigh. So, here in Tashkent the problem continues. According to Doug, it's old school to carry around your own bag because now they have these plastic bags to offer their customers. These are the cheapest plastic bags you will find. If anything is remotely sharp or of any weight, the bag splits open. So I carry my own bags. Grocery stores really don't like this and they constantly tell me that I can't bring them in. Before I spoke as much Russian as I do now I just smiled and said thank you and kept walking. Once they sent someone to follow me around the store as I shopped. I guess that was to make sure I didn't steal anything. It was handy, though, because he knew where everything I wanted was! Anyway, while Doug and I were Christmas shopping recently I bought three small wooden-handled bread presses. The man and I dickered over the price, we met in the middle and I was reaching in my purse for money. He turned to get a plastic sack. I told him I didn't want a plastic sack. Yes you do, he said. I picked up the bread presses and assured him that I did not. We argued as I dug out money to pay him. Doug stepped in to help. No good; he was adament. Doug finally turned to me, "Just take it" he said. "No", I answered. "I don't want it. The car is 20 steps away." The man tried to pull the presses out of my hand. I held strong. Finally, I said "If you'll come down on the price, I'll take the sack." He lowered his price! Can you believe that? He lost money and product instead of just letting me carry the presses away in my hand. It's not right; it's not wrong - it's different.

It amuses me that the same people who believe that standing in front of a fan or drinking anything cold will make you sick are the same people who believe that rinsing a glass in tap water is washing it. After months, I saw my housekeeper do this. After she drank from one of our glasses, she gave it a quick rinse and put it away as clean. I had to explain to her that anything that goes in someone's mouth must be washed in hot water with soap. She turned on the faucet and stood there looking at the ceiling while waiting for the water to get hot - about a minute and a half wait in our house.

Appearances - especially in front of certain people - are very important here. The roads are in very poor condition except where the president regularly rides. Every time Secretary Clinton has visited our Embassy there has been a major improvement to the street in front of it. Dress is generally basic black if you are younger (teens through 20's or 30's). It seems to be required that young women wear stilletto boots with the highest heels imaginable.Older women wear COLOR. Very common is a flowery dress with brightly colored socks not remotely in any color family represented in the dress and sandals and a scarf. Men like suits in a shiny fabric that reminds me somewhat of disco days. And they spit all the time. I try to never look at them. The men look their best when it's quite cold. They wear a traditional thick robe-like garment and a tallish fur hat. Handsome.

I'm being awfully negative. I think that's because it makes for more humorous writing. So let me end with telling you that I'm familiar enough with a few locals who work the shops and bazaars that we greet each other on the street and converse. That's special to me. On Christmas day I took a box of homemade candy (yes, I shared) and gave it away to the guards here at the compound and the Embassy and to the shopkeepers that are so nice to me. They don't celebrate Christmas, at least not on December 25 - many celebrate Orthodox Christmas on January 7th - but they told me Merry Christmas in English. Sweet. Many people are very interested to know where I'm from and why I'm here. I bought some carrots from a new store - so dirty I didn't know they were yellow carrots until I got them home - and Rustam, the man who sold them to me, was so kind. He's learning English and wanted to practice just a little. I'm getting comfortable enough with Russian that I can joke a little. That same day, I realized that I needed onions so I went to my regular produce man on another corner. He asked me if I wanted carrots because I usually buy carrots from him. I apologized and told him that I just bought carrots somewhere else. I also told him that they were so dirty I'm sure I paid as much for the dirt as I did for the carrots. We laughed. He pointed out his clean carrots. Even in the nice stores, the produce is often filthy. It's like they're pulling it right out of the ground. Another time I asked one of the guards if he went to the big New Year's party. Yes, he did. I asked him if he danced alot. Yes. I asked him if he danced on the table. He laughed. I think it's extra funny coming from me because I'm so slow at forming thoughts sentences. By the time they realize what I said, it's funnier.