I met a couple of young women at the Chai Chat where I did storytelling at the Embassy. One of them invited me to her home and the other invited me to go shopping. I said something typically American in response to each invitation, "That would be nice." Well, that started the dominoes clapping each other on the back.
"Can you come over tomorrow?" Nigina asked me.
"No, not tomorrow. It's Saturday, I spend Saturday with my husband."
"Can you come over Sunday?"
"Sundays I hike."
"Monday?"
And on it went until I gave her a specific day and time.
The same conversation began with the other young woman, Yulia, after I had just had it with Nigina so I told Yulia to e-mail me and we would pick a time. This next part of the story I know a few of my friends (Julie, Howard) will particularly enjoy. I followed through and e-mailed her and suggested a time to shop. I never heard from her. I saw her standing outside the Embassy the next Friday and she asked me if I remembered about shopping with her.
"Yes," I said, "I e-mailed you."
"Oh," she replied, "I didn't check my e-mail."
So we set a time to shop.
Nigina told me that she'd meet me at the Embassy and take me to her house. That was very nice of her since I still don't know where much of anything is. We hired a taxi on the street and about 20 minutes later were at her apartment. It is a very large building made of chipped cement, maybe six floors, that is not well maintained on the outside. Clothes hang outside windows, some windows have bars, some are open, some framed with wood or brick. Inside, however, it lookes quite nice. Nigina's family was most excited for the visit from the American. Her little sister was peeking out the window and neighbors were watching. We sat in the living room which was cozy. The coffee table was layed out with cherries, raisins, cookies, candy and juice.
The first awkward moment was a result of my big mouth. We were told by the medical officer to not eat any fruits or vegetables without soaking them in a mixture of bleach and water for about 10 minutes. Raw manure is used in the soil and traces of it are often found on food. It was early spring and it had been so long since I'd seen cherries, I exclaimed "Oh, those cherries look so good!". Oopsy. Now I had to eat some.I said a quick prayer and ate a few after discreetly rubbing them on my pants (like that would help).
Second awkward moment came with the homemade apple juice. We are not to drink the tap water. Period. Once the word 'parasite' came out the medical officer's mouth, he had my attention. I didn't know if they used tap water in their homemade apple juice or not. I didn't know how to ask without seeming insulting. People here are not shy to ask, "Why?" "Why don't you drink the water?" ("Why don't you eat the fat/gristle?" "Why do you wash the fruit/vegetables in bleach water?" "Why do you wash your hands so much?")And they are more informed than I am. "I drink it, it won't hurt you." Thank God, on the table was a store bought bottle of juice which I managed to pour before the homemade juice was brought out. No one seemed to notice.
Next awkward moment was the soup. I was told by the medical officer to go ahead and eat vegetables if they were cooked and served hot. The soup was a yogurt based cold soup with vegetables. Uh-oh. As soon as it was place in front of me Nigina's friend, who was sitting beside me, smiled shyly and said, "I made the soup. I hope you like it." I caved to social pressure. I ate the soup. After praying, of course. I must have looked quite holy that day! (By the way, I remain - as far as I know - healthy.)
I was truly on display that afternoon. The neighbors dropped in to see the American. Long lost relatives(no kidding) dropped in to see the American. And everyone wanted their picture taken with the American. It was touching. I told them that I remember when I was young, my sister brought home a foreign exchange student from Germany. I remember watching every move she made. What will she eat? What is she wearing? Is she looking at me? And I loved hearing her talk with her accent.
Nigina asked me if I wanted to see her bedroom. So I got the tour of the apartment. It was much larger than I expected. She shared a room with her younger sister so there were bunk beds in it. There were also notes stuck to a wall with English words and phrases. She showed me the few English language books she had won at the Embassy (Moby Dick and a collection of short stories are the two I can recall). They had a walk in linen closet which was full of what I would call comforters. They weren't quilts, but they were as thick and soft as quilts. When they have guests, they pull out a few to pile up for the guest to sleep on. They were colorful and looked very inviting. Her mother's room had, next to the bed, a crib where her youngest sister (about six years of age) slept.
When we returned to the living room, her mother brought out a huge plate piled high with the Uzbek national dish of plov (pronounced with a long O).
Plov is spiced rice and meat with raisins or currants, chickpeas and, depending on who makes it, a variety of other ingredients including a slice of horse meat (delicious, I'm sorry to say) or a hard boiled quail's egg. Spoons were laid out and we all ate off the same plate. It was very tasty. I, unfortunately, had already eaten lunch much to Nigina's disappointment. I ate lunch for two reasons. 1. I was hungry after my music lesson which ends at 12:30. 2. I was uncertain as to what would be offered to me that I could safely eat. Perhaps in time I'll relax more with food, but I'd rather be safe than have to deal with a tape worm living in me.
The final awkward moment was the serving of the tea. Everyone in Uzbekistan drinks tea except me. It turned out to not be a big deal, I just didn't touch the tea and no one said anything. I was told that it was considered impolite to not drink it. I was also told that, if I did drink some, to be sure to not finish it or they would refill it.
When I left, the girls helped me get a cab and set a fare. I was glad I went. I was mentally drained between trying to speak as much Russian as I could (Nigina's mother doesn't speak English), politely navigating the food selections, smiling and trying to remember names. I hope I can visit another home and manage to relax a little more.
A week later, Yulia and I went shopping with her friend and her friend's husband. They picked me up at the Embassy. We had a miscommunication. We were supposed to meet at 1PM, but they didn't show up until 1:30. I had decided to give them until 1:15 then leave. I stopped at Doug's office to tell him I was going home (with some relief) instead of shopping. He quickly checked my e-mail which said they'd see me at 1:30. I can't say exactly why I was upset. I think it was just my level of discomfort in these new situations. So back I went to meet them. She had told me all these places she wanted to take me. I let her know that I'd only have an hour or two. She was so disappointed, but I wsnted some sort of limit on the situation.
I'm not a big shopper. When we go to the bazaar there were rows and rows of clothes and shoes shops. They all looked alike to me. The clothes were, let's just say, not my style. Not that I actually have any style. But these clothes had bows and fabric flowers decorating them, they were made of fabrics with huge prints in loud colors, or they looked, frankly, whorish - all of which I found interesting considering the fact that all the young Uzbeks I see on the streets are wearing black. The older women wear skirts of one print, blouses of another print and contrasting socks with sandals. Maybe that's the look these girls were going for for me. I could not even feign interest.
The awkwardness came when they kept asking me what I wanted to look at.
"I've never been here." I said. "I just want to see what's here."
That, apparently was no answer.
"We came here for you. Do you want to go in this store? In this store? In this store?"
Truth: No, no and no. What I actually said, "It's not really my style."
"What is your style?"
Now, I should mention that, for some reason, I chose to wear a pair of capri pants that were about 19 years old with a sleeveless blouse that tied around the waist. I looked like Laura Petrie. So I tried to explain the concept of window shopping to them. No good. I gave in and said I like skirts. From that point on every skirt came off the rack to be displayed for me.
"Do you like this one? This one? This one?"
I felt a headache coming on.
I tried to change the subject.
"Are you able to try on clothes?"
I asked this because I saw nowhere in any of these shops to do this. It turned out if was just hidden. Imagine this: You are standing in front of a rack of clothes that is against a wall. There is a curtain hanging between the wall and the rack. THAT'S where you could change clothes. You have about a foot a space between the wall and the rack.
I then asked if you could return clothing you decided you didn't like or want. No.
Then I thought I got smart. I had just dropped and broken my sunglasses that morning. Sunglasses! We could shop for sunglasses! Okay. Off we went in search of (easy to find) sunglasses. I started trying them on. Everyone kept handing my pairs to try on. The problem is that I'm fussy. I don't think I look good in glasses. I'd see a pair that I thought were okay, then when I pulled them out saw that the sides of the frames (the bows) were covered in sequins. No thank you.
I really wanted to buy a pair from the last man whose shop we stopped at. Why? Because he really was helpful. First, when I pulled off a pair of glasses to try on, he took them from me and cleaned them. Customer service is pretty rare here. I don't want to insult the Uzbeks. Remember: it's not right or wrong; it's different. Typical service is like my encounter with a young man behind the meat counter. He was half standing, leaning on the counter with his head down on his hands. I was trying to him for a particular kind of meat. Without moving he tried to understand me and answer me. We had several exchanges until he finally signed deeply and managed to stand up and get someone else to try to talk to me. So this man who cleaned the glasses and polished the lenses really impressed me. I tried on lots of pairs. I almost bought a brown tortoise shell framed pair but I couldn't handle the faux mother of pearl bows.
I had told them that I had to be back at the Embassy by 3:00 so it was time to leave. Yulia was so disappointed. Then came the invitation to her house. She wants to have Doug and I over for a real Uzbek dinner. She wants us to meet her family. She wants to know - RIGHT NOW! - when we can come. I try to explain to her that with Doug in charge of the Fourth of July festivities and his boss out of town for about two months along with other directors he is quite busy and won't be able to for at least two months. Again, disappointment.
"Can't you come over after work? On the weekend?" It turns out that she lives outside Tashkent near the mountains, no small drive. I didn't feel like explaining our concept of down time right then so I just said no. I felt rude, though. I have since written her an e-mail (I declined to give her my phone number, again feeling rude) telling her that I appreciated her invitation and that, in time, I'd let her know when we were available.
I hope that I adjust to all these feelings. I don't think I did anything wrong that afternoon with Yulia, but I walked away feeling selfish and mean.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
It's Hiking Season
I’ve never seen such busy, happy dung beetles as I saw on a hike I took Sunday the 15th. 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)
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.
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.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
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.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
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)
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)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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.
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.
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