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.

The Poor will be with Us Always

A local friend of mine shared this story with me. It is a true account of her experience with a beggar.  

He stood in a small alcove in the underpass out of the light. When I first noticed him, he looked sinister so I averted my eyes and quickly moved on.

The next time I passed under Amir Timur I walked on the far side of where I had seen him and I looked at him. He stood with crutches. He was missing part of one leg – the left one – below the knee.

Was he there to beg? I wondered. Why would he hide himself while hoping to receive handouts? Who would see him? Who would approach him if they could see him? Perhaps he hid from the malitzia.

No, I thought. He’s hiding in embarrassment. He’s too proud to beg and too desperate not to. He doesn’t want strangers to give him money, but he’s too far gone to not take it when they do.

I kept walking. I gave him nothing.

When I was next in the underpass I walked closer to him watching him. I walked slowly past him very aware of him in my peripheral. After several steps I stopped. I took out a 500 soum* note, walked back and gave it to him. He accepted it, held it against his heart and nodded to me.

I can’t do this when I’m with a friend. They all tell me “He’ll just drink the money away.” He may. I realize that. When someone is that miserable and can find some comfort in alcohol, who am I to think he shouldn’t? I hope he does something responsible with the money, but if he drinks I hope he is soothed. Soothed from pain or soothed from his place in this world.

I passed 500 soum to him once or twice more as he stood in his alcove.

Then one day I saw him somewhere else. He was standing at a bus stop holding sacks from an expensive bazaar. He was standing at the bus stop on two good legs. I stared. I think my mouth hung open waiting for words to explain what I saw. He saw me. We looked at each other for a moment and he lowered his head. We sat on opposite ends of the bus and not once even glanced at each other.

I used to feel haunted by the memory of the sight of him standing pitifully in the dark recess of the underpass waiting for help. Now I am haunted by the suffering of this good soul who knows he’s done wrong and, in public, hangs his head in shame before a woman.

*about 30 cents

I will share with you my personal account of my experience with a local beggar.

Every time I walk to the corner fruit and vegetable stand I pass a legless old man who sits in a wheelchair. He does not actively beg, but people stop and hand him money from their car window or stop on foot to chat and leave a little something with him. One day I decided to give him an apple. It's not much, but, like my friend's friends above, I am wary of giving money to beggars. When I handed him the apple, he cupped it in his hands, brought it to his face, kissed it and smelled it. It's aromatic he told me (in Russian). Then he thanked me.

We have probably all seen people who beg. Some who beg act like we owe them. If we give them a dollar, they look as if to say, "That's it? $1?" I will stop to give this man more fruits and vegetables because he was so appreciative and grateful.  

When I consider what the Bible says about giving to the poor I have to realize that it doesn't tell us to give only to those who will be responsible with what we give them. It just tells us to give what we can. That's hard for me to swallow. Just like when the Bible tells us not to judge, it doesn't tell us not to judge incorrectly; it just tells us not to judge. Period. Even if we are right. Even if they are wrong. Don't judge. Period. That's even harder.

I'm making you think today because I have had to think. Next week I'll share some funny things that have happened recently to lighten up a little.

Holidays

A few weeks ago people in Russia and many in Uzbekistan celebrated Maslenitsa. Maslenitsa is similar to Mardi Gras as it proceeds Lent and includes some decadent festivities. It is the only purely Russian holiday that dates back to the pagan times and is the only pagan holiday admitted by the Russian Orthodox Church. My Russian teacher, Milana, gave a presentation on this holiday today. I’ll share what I learned.

The first Monday of Maslenitsa, during the monthly spouse’s coffee hour, we made blini (crepes). They represent the sun (round, golden and hot). They are a Maslenitsa staple and are stuffed with anything from caviar or salmon to sour cream or jam. At the coffee morning we ate them stuffed with spiced ground beef or mushrooms. During the week of Maslenitsa there is a saying to ‘eat as many times as a dog would wag its tail.' I like that! The wealthy people would begin making blini on Mondays, the less fortunate on Thursday or Friday. Each day of the Maslenitsa week is special. How many of these traditions are kept today and how many are outdated, I’m not sure.

Monday: the greeting. Snow forts are built. Families are visited. In the morning the husbands' parents sent their daughters-in-law to visit her parents and in the evening they join her. They discuss where to go for the celebration and go sledding.

Tuesday: popular games. This includes more sledding. In one game, two rows of men face each other and, at the crack of a whip run at each other and fight fisticuffs. The women were a little gentler; they raced each other while flipping blinis. Matchmaking traditionally played a huge roll during Maslenitsa.

Wednesday: sweet tooth day. The mothers of wives invited their sons-in-law and their relatives for a party. I don’t know what these people did if they had huge families. Fought a lot, I guess. Either that or house-hopped all day. There is a saying: “Sell your house, but celebrate Maslenitsa!” No mention was made of eating sweets.

Thursday: lavash day. One activity on this day is kind of like trick-or-treating. The kids roam from house to house singing and asking for treats. A ‘joker’ rides in a troika (buggy pulled by three horses) leading a parade of followers whom he treats to wine and various delicacies.

Friday: Good Mother’s (wife’s mother) evenings. Husbands treat their mother-in-law to blini and treats.

Saturday: Good Daughter’s (husband’s sister) parties. On this day, the wife invites her husband’s family for an evening party. If her husband’s sisters were not married she invited all her unmarried friends. If they were married, she invited all her married relatives and this whole train went from house to house. I don’t know how these people keep up with all this!

Sunday: Forgiveness Sunday. This is pretty self-explanatory. Gifts are given to matchmakers and relatives. The most honorary gift for a man is a towel; for a woman it is a piece of soap. A fire is made in which winter is set to burn as in a funeral pyre. People burned things they did not need so as “to get rid of anything redundant.”

Following the final day of Maslenitsa is clean Monday on which steam baths are traditionally taken. Also traditional is a sort of spring cleaning ritual.

The following weekend we had a four-day weekend because Tuesday was Women’s Day. In Uzbekistan, they do not have Mother’s Day and Father’s Day; they have Men’s Day and Women’s Day. I noticed that Men’s Day is not a national holiday for which people get a day off. We had a spa day the Friday before the four day weekend for the women. I got a manicure and pedicure for about $14! We also had a bazaar where local artists bring in their goods to sell: carpets, ceramics, jewelry, cards with hand painted silk, hand made musical instruments, suzani (hand embroidered fabrics used to hang or lay on tables or cover pillows, etc.) wood carvings and more. On that same Friday, a line of male employees of the Embassy stood at the door to hand each woman a daffodil. I also got a small bunch of daffodils from one of the guards. I'm not sure why. Intriguing.

March 21 was Navruz, the spring “New Year” holiday stemming from the ancient Zoroastrian religion. It is celebrated when the sun enters Aries which frequently coincides with the spring equinox. It announces the awakening of nature after its winter sleep. It is celebrated during daytime hours unlike our New Years festivities. The main celebration is on March 21, but for 13 days people gather and visit and plant seeds. Women make the traditional dish of sumalyak. Sumalyak is made of sprouted wheat and sugar and needs to cook while being constantly stirred for 24 hours over an open fire. It looks like molasses and tastes sweet and gritty. Doug and I bought some at a bazaar. It wasn’t bad, but I didn’t care for it.

Now I will leave you with a treat. Doug and I have been taking folk music lessons at the Embassy. I’ve been singing Uzbek folksongs as has Doug, plus he is learning to play the doira, an Uzbek folk drum. The drum is made of ox skin (and smells like it) and has rings surrounding the open side. I should tell you that Doug’s playing is more complicated than it may sound on this recording. He holds and plays the drum with both hands. There are two basic sounds he has been taught; a lower sound (boom) and a higher pitch sound (bak). Usually he plays with the middle finger of his left hand. Listen for the two quick 16th notes. On the second he is striking the drum with his right pinky by snapping it off the other fingers. This is not easy for those tiny muscles to do in rhythm. I hope you enjoy it.

Click the black triangle below (on the left) to hear me singing an Uzbek folk song called "Urik Gallaganda," accompanied by Douglas playing the doira (Uzbek drum)

On My Mind

My blog entries have been less frequent that I would like lately. There are a few reasons. First, Blogger has changed it's method of logging on. At first, Doug could get me on. Today I logged on all by myself! I notice that it wants the user to have an AOL (I think) e-mail; I have gmail. But today it worked so I'm writing!

I'm sure we are all concerned about Japan. Years ago, after the tsunami hit Inonesia, I started writing a story about a storyteller who, shortly the tsunami, travels to Indonesia to tell the story of Rip Van Winkle.

Briefly, Rip Van Winkle is about a lazy (at home) and helpful (with all others), henpecked husband who goes hunting in the Kaatskill Mountains and meets up with an unusual group of people who live there. They are dressed in very old Dutch clothing and are playing nine pins. Every ball rolled resounds like thunder. Rip has helped a man carry a keg up the hill to where they are playing and is asked to pour for them. He pours them each a drink and, when no one is looking, helps himself a few times. The next thing he knows he is waking up the next morning (he thinks!). His dog, Wolf is nowhere to be seen and instead of his nice hunting rifle, next to him is an old rusted rifle. He thinks he's the butt of a joke of the people he drank with so he goes looking for them, but sees nothing familiar to help him find them. He makes his way back to town where he sees strangers and recognizes no one. The children of the town, who used to play with him, gather around with the women and stare. Nothing is familiar. He walks to his house which is completely dilapidated, no sign of his family. He goes to the inn he frequented, but saw no familiar faces. There, in place of a tree that had shaded the inn, was a bare pole with a strange flag with stars and stripes and inside, in place of the picture of King George, was a man named George Washington. Strange. He cries out "Doesn't anyone know Rip Van Winkle?" The people point out a shabbily dressed young man leaning against a post. It is his own son who has grown by 20 years. His daughter comes to the inn and introduces herself. Dame Van Winkle had been dead some 18 years - she died of a broken blood vessel while yelling at a peddler. His daughter takes him in to live with her. He tells his story to all who will listen. Some think he's mad; others know the fairy mountains. Whenever thunder is heard many imagine the people playing nine pens and the other henpecked husbands wish that they, too, could sip from the elixir that Rip had experienced.

The teller in my story tells this story because, she imagines, that many people who survived lost everyone they know and, certainly, nothing around them is recognizable. She gets the people - young and old - talking about Rip and his situation while, in actuality, they are opening themselves up to talking about their own feelings of losing everyone and everything.

Next Friday I'm going to tell stories at the Tashkent International School and I'm considering telling Rip Van Winkle to tie it in to these current events.

Jason Kelly wrote a nice piece about the earthquake in Japan. You can do a search for him and find it. It begins, "The ground here is shaking as I write . . ."

These events have me considering my new place in this world. I lived relatively safely in the United States. What if a huge earthquake were to devestate Tashkent? What if the citizens of Uzbekistan held an uprising like in Egypt and Libia? I'd be in extreme danger and would likely think, "If only I hadn't come here."

I'm glad I'm here, though. I'm meeting wonderful people while learning a very interesting language. I'm taking voice lessons for the first time in years. I'm taking Uzbek folk singing lessons twice weekly. This is about as polar opposite my opera training as you can get. Some characteristics of Uzbek folk singing include: sustained notes are often pulsed with the voice - not a vibrato, but a deliberate pulsing of the air, at the end of many of these sustained notes there is a short, strong crescendo on the last beat and the vowel sound mutates as the note is sustained. Add this to the fact that I'm having to read Uzbek and it requires quite an effort. I've noticed that, as in American folk music, melodies change over time and everyone has their preferred version. Our teacher generally goes by the written notes, but not absolutely. One more complication. So I have recently decided to try to learn these songs by rote. I can hear my piano students laughing all the way to Tashkent. My teacher has recorded two songs that I am listening to over and over. First, I try to follow the melody with the vowel sounds - no words yet. Then I pull out the music to follow the words while trying very hard to not see the notes which may or may not match what he is singing. Douglas, by the way, is learning all this plus learing to play the doira, an Uzbek drum.

So I'm glad I'm here. I may come across some dangers, I may not. Same can be said with living in St. Paul.

I said this in an old blog entry from "If I Can . . ." We humans are capable of so much more than we realize. A lot of us live pretty cushy lives and have softened over time, but we are still resilient. We don't have as many "needs" as we think. I hear that in Japan, many are living off a ball of rice a day. Living. I was very heartened to hear of little to no looting and people waiting together in very long lines for basic needs. How often do people take advantage of situations like this to gain something for themselves? How often are we too much in a hurry to wait in line to buy a latte? We are soft, but, remember, we are strong.

Next time, some local holidays.

You know you're in a tight spot when . . .

. . . upon arriving to the Embassy from across the globe (about eight hours of travel)with little or no sleep you’re told, “We need your picture for your ID tag.”

. . . on that same sleepy day you meet with the Medical Director and the only thing you remember afterwards is something about vegetables, Chlorox, water and parasites.

. . . your housekeeper arrives for the day and does not speak English as you were led to believe.

. . . the few recognizable packaged foods in the grocery store are printed with three languages: Uzbek, Russian and something unrecognizable.

. . . a box of Cheez Its at that same store costs about $30.

. . . you can’t understand spoken numbers so the only way to pay is to just keep handing over money until the vendor looks satisfied. This is how I found out that bananas cost about $1 each.

. . . your teacher is boasting (in Russian) about your study habits to a fellow teacher – how much you study, how smart you are, how you always do your homework, etc. etc. – then the other teacher asks you a question (in Russian) and you have no idea what she asked.

. . . you must navigate on foot or by car among people who have a complete disregard for laws, traffic signs, lane markers and your very presence.

. . . about 60% of your home meals have consisted of chicken (because that’s one of the few recognizable meats here) and your parents are coming to visit AND you father dislikes chicken. Okay, I'm not in trouble but my dad may be.

. . . you are in a vehicle that is pulled over at random by the malitzia. You have been strictly warned (at your orientation – that same sleepy day to which I earlier referred) to stay inside the vehicle at all times and to not get out until (American) help arrives. The militzia instruct you to get out of the car and the American woman with you gets right out. (This did happen and I did not get out. Fortunately, all turned out well. We did not need to call for help.)

. . . you are studying a foreign language and, upon reading a word you don’t know you stop to look it up and, after seeing the English equivalent you then must go to your English dictionary and look up THAT word to see what IT means. This has been happening to me lately. It’s unsettling. How am I supposed to learn another language if I don't know my own?

. . . you have company over for dinner and, after dinner has started you realize that you have no dessert to offer except the Ghiardelli brownies that your friend sent you from the States. This happened to me last week. Fortunately the friend who sent me those brownies taught me how to

be generous and share. Some of you might want to sit down for this one. I shared them.

This is me at the Valentine's Ball with Doug's Doug and I at the ball. We had

boss, Aaron, and my friend from Virginia, been dancing and my hair was

Alexandra and her husband, Terry. falling down.