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.

Language and Culture

About a month after we arrived Doug's coworkers (Uzbek citizens) gave us a gift of traditional Uzbek wedding garb. They are elaborate, as you can see. We had no idea what to wear with them so there we are in our jeans. What a nice memory of Tashkent culture and the kindness of those with whom Doug works.

In Uzbek culture, when two people who know each other greet each other they ask the same sort of questions we’d ask someone we hadn’t spoken to for a while: How are you? How is your family? Are you still happy at your job? Is your house in order? Etc. The funny thing is, they ask these questions without breaking to await an answer and simultaneously. They talk right over each other not waiting or expecting responses. Kind of like when we say “How are you?” and all we really want to hear is “Fine, thanks.” To hear someone really tell how they are can be throw one’s day out of balance. Several years ago, I got tired of always saying “Fine.” I had read somewhere what a shame it was that we asked people how they were but really didn’t care too much. So I started truthfully answering the question. I’m grumpy today. Hungry. Happy. Sad. I usually didn’t give details, I just answered truthfully. That is a habit I cannot continue in Russian. When asked by one of the guards how I was and I replied “tired” he corrected me. There is a typical answer which translates “normal” in English – whatever that is. So I’m walking around Tashkent telling people I’m normal!

One of the frustrations of studying Russian is the way they print their language. They use the Cyrillic alphabet which has two letters which look similar: e and ë. The problem is, in much printed material (like my textbook) they don’t print ë, they just print e. Apparently, this stems back to the early years of printing when making those two little dots was difficult. I have no idea why publishers haven’t realized the year and progress that has been made in printing but they insist on keeping e and ë looking the same thus misspelling many words. These two letters do not sound alike. e sounds like “yeh” and ë sounds like “yo” (long o). What winds up happening is, I make lots of errors when reading text because of their misspellings. I’m frustrated. Learning this language is difficult enough without the deliberate misspelling of words which leads me to mispronounce them.

What really blows my mind is how everyone just laughs at me as though it is such a little thing to get worked up about. Imagine picking up a novel to read in which none of the lower case t’s were crossed and they all looked like l’s. We are familiar enough with our own language that we’d figure out what the word was supposed to be but I imagine we’d have to pause plenty of times thus interrupting our reading. Would you give such a book to someone learning English?

When I started studying Russian, I was taught the alphabet that included e and ë. I wonder why they didn’t just put two e’s next to each other and try to teach us that one is pronounced “yeh” and the other pronounced “yo”. I’ll tell you why. Because the next question from the students would have been, “How will we know when to say “yeh” and when to say “yo”? They would have had to answer, “You won’t know. Not until you’re fluent, anyway. In the meantime, you just have to memorize them.” It’s funny in writing; it’s not so funny in the classroom.

In my last blog I told you I would be telling stories at a Chai Chat. I did that and it went very well. I arrived a little over 30 minutes early to get a feel for the room and set up. The students arrived a full 30 minutes early! No alone preparation time for me! For ten minutes or so they sat and I stood and we all looked at each other. (I get shy at the darndest times.) I made myself walk up the aisle to see what would happen. Questions happened. I stopped three times to answer questions from three different groups of students. Where are you from? What job do/did you have? What grammatical mistakes do Americans make? And many comments like, “Your Russian isn’t too good but if you keep practicing it will be.” One boy wanted to know some American slang. My first thought was, ‘I’m the wrong one to ask.’ The only thing I could think of is how some young men call each other “Dawg” as in “’sup Dawg?” He liked the sound of that.

As is typical in Tashkent, about 95% of the students were wearing all black or dark gray. I noticed one colored sweater. I attended the next week’s Chai Chat given by a friend of mine and had the time to count how many people were wearing a color other than black. I counted 10 out of about 170. These are the same people, by the way, who walk in the road rather than the sidewalk and are comfortable doing this at night. One more reason I don’t want to drive here.

The students enjoyed the stories and participating in the storytelling game we played. They knew their parts of speech! In America I played this game in the schools in which I’d ask the students to name some nouns, adjectives and places – which they could easily do. When I asked them to name prepositions I usually had to teach them what a preposition is. These kids knew.

Afterwards, some students came to me with more questions. One girl asked me if I thought that people could learn all about life from stories. I answered her wrong. I hope she writes me (she has my e-mail). I told her that I think you just might be able to. She then told me that sometimes people tell lies in their stories when they are trying to teach about life. I agreed. I added that sometimes we are just not ready for the lesson of the story so it seems wrong or impossible. One boy came up to me to inform me that I had not answered the question he had asked me during the question and answer period. I must tell you that this boy spoke English but was trying to hard to have an American accent with proper “Rs” that he contorted his mouth and I had a difficult time understanding him. After asking him to repeat himself (during the Q & A period) I just said something like “I think I know what you’re trying to ask me . . .” and I gave an answer. He was very polite about it.

I know we cannot learn all about life from stories; we must live life to learn it. I also know that using stories can speed up the process.

A Chai Chat

On January 14, I am going to do what is called a Chai Chat. This is an weekly event at the Embassy. It is an opportunity for local students to visit the American Embassy, hear one of the diplomats or spouses talk and take questions thereby practicing their English.



I went to one Chai Chat when I first arrived. A woman led songs from her childhood. She had a room full of high school students singing “Old MacDonald” “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” (in a round), “ABC”,“This Land is Your Land”, “B-I-N-G-O”, “The Eensy Weensy (or Itsy Bitsy, depending on where you were raised) Spider” and more. At the end she asked which were favorites that they wanted to sing again and she got several requests. I was amazed that high school students would want to sing songs like that. Most of them sang, laughed and really seemed to have a good time.


At my Chai Chat I am going to do storytelling with them. Most of you know that my main goal here in Tashkent is to get strong enough in my Russian language skills that I can go out and learn local folklore from people and share American folklore with locals. It will be a long time before I’m ready for that, but this Chai Chat is an opportunity for me to start sharing and I can do it in English.


I will begin with a story I often begin with when I go into elementary schools and tell. It is a personal story about how I thought my father did not love me when I was growing up. I share a (slightly embellished) story of the day I broke my arm while trying to pop a wheely on my bicycle. I go on and on about how mommy comforted me but all dad did was yell and be grumpy. Why? Because when I came home injured I dropped my bike at the foot of the driveway – a no-no. He was under the car changing the oil and yelled for me to pick up my bike. I was in pain and ignored him. He came into the kitchen angry with me while mom was comforting me. He started to tell me again to pick the bike up when he realized I was really hurt. He knew he had to get me to the hospital. The more he tried to hurry the more obstacles he encountered: the oil change had to be finished, the bike in the drive had to be driven around, he had to contend with traffic and red lights on the way to the hospital, the car had to be parked, paperwork had to be filled out, etc. etc. All the time he dealt with all this (read: yelling at the drivers, swearing under – or on top of – his breath) mommy was holding me and comforting me. Obviously daddy didn’t love me but mommy did, right? The students to whom I’ve told this story jump to my dad’s defense. It’s really encouraging. This is an excellent “bridge” story; we all have something like this in common.


I haven’t chosen all the stories I’ll tell that day but I will include some storytelling games where the students work together in creating a story or two.


Sometimes I feel so foreign here, like I am so different that I don’t belong. I understand that. Yet I also know that, though I am so different, I am as much the same. I’ve shared with you what a difficult time I have understanding spoken Russian - even words I know and use. The other day at the vegetable stand I frequent, a man said something to me right after taking a big bite of something. It came out just as it would in English, all garbled and incomprehensible. I turned and looked at a couple of women who were watching this (women who recognize me and know I do not speak much Russian) and I made mumbling sounds and a funny face. We all laughed together (except the man – he didn’t notice). Humor is a great bond.


Stories also make a strong bond. Many countries have their own version of Cinderella, for instance. Many cultures and religions have their unique version of the creation and great flood stories. Through all the variations in the story details (Did Cinderella have a fairy godmother or a magic tree? A prince or an enchanted fish? Did it rain or did someone cry until the earth flooded?) the story still comes through.


It is important to me to teach people of all ages that they can often find within themselves what they so desperately seek elsewhere. For instance, people everywhere turn to strangers for entertainment (television, cinema, recorded music, etc.) when good company can be as entertaining and much more rewarding than television every will be. When I taught piano I loved the house parties where we played for each other all night. I particularly loved Halloween parties that usually wound up with the late partiers telling scary stories to each other. I’ll take that over a good, fright film anytime – and I LOVE fright films. When Doug and I lived in Minnesota, we regularly gathered with people and sang. This was no formal choir; we never performed. Sometimes we didn’t sound very good; sometimes we sounded excellent and to be a part of that sound was very exciting – more exciting than singing along with a new recording by my favorite group. So, with that said, I want to inspire these Uzbek students to turn to their own creativity and the ingenuity of their friends for entertainment. It’s free. It is more rewarding to feel a part of the “show” rather than envying those strangers who are. It brings out of us what we weren’t aware of, it awakens what we have put to sleep and it develops a maturity in us. I am speaking of trusting our intuition, trusting others to teach and to learn through story or music and reviving the old endangered value of a close knit group versus a broad spectrum of acquaintances.


I need to say that I find nothing wrong with watching some television or paying top dollar for concert tickets. It’s getting lost in the near worship of celebrity that is disturbing to me. I also see the value in having a broad spectrum of acquaintances; it enhances our world perspective first hand. I think it is dangerous to have 10,000 'friends' on Facebook and no one to sit down and laugh or cry with when you need it at 2:00 AM.

I'll close with a few pictures of a Tashkent snow. I'm posting these with my Minnesota friends in mind. You recently got somewhere in the neighborhood of three feet of snow, right? We got about a third of an inch! But, remember, this place if very similar to Phoenix weather-wise so that's big, exciting stuff! You couldn't shovel this snow if you wanted to. Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) would have to do his snowmen house of horrors in miniature. It snowed all morning and, by late afternoon, it sounded like it was raining because of the melt. The top right picture shows the infamous tree from "The Hill and the Tree" post of December 5.

Everyone's a Teacher

I’m still a little shy about going out by myself. I have taken a walk or two just to explore. That’s pretty easy because I don’t have to talk to anyone. It is interesting, though, that sometimes someone will say “Good morning” in English – they just know I’m American somehow. (Must be that sign on my forehead.) There is a walk that is easy to take from our house around a major street back down to the Embassy and our house. One of my complaints about America (Woodbury specifically) is that there are so many like stores so near each other. At last count I think there were six Subway sandwich shops in Woodbury. Well, it is not much different here. Very popular are “Apteka” or pharmacies and convenience marts. The convenience marts are different from 7-Elevens and Super Americas in that they don’t sell fuel. I regularly go to them for bread, sausage, pasta, tomato paste, pelmeni (it’s like tortellini), sour cream (for the pelmeni) and yogurt. I bought a Dove dark chocolate bar there once. They also had some pretty good candy and cookies. The cookies are packaged and laying out in bulk. The bread often is not wrapped.

We are instructed when we arrive to be certain to soak all fruits and vegetables in bleach water. From what I’ve been told, the farmers use very fresh um . . . manure of all sorts and often place it right on the plants. Not only that, the vegetables – particularly root types like beets and potatoes – are very dirty. I was in a grocery store and, after choosing several apples and having them weighed, happened to notice my fingertips were nearly black. It’s worse at the street markets. Today I washed some beets twice in plain water before even putting them in to soak in the bleach water. Dirt was caked on. I came home with potatoes and didn’t even know they were red potatoes until I had washed them a few times! It’s like they’re pulling these things right out of the ground!

I shop with canvas bags to carry home groceries because all they use here is cheap, thin, small plastic bags. In one store I was followed around everywhere I went. I guess they thought I was trying to steal from them. I also embarrassed myself. Have you ever seen fancy chocolates that look like small rocks? They are as decorative as they are tasty. The mother of one of my piano students kept them in her home for her own personal sweet treat. Everything else disappeared. Her kids and husband thought they were just decorative rocks! Anyway, I saw what looked like little egg-shaped chocolates sitting on a counter in the shop where I was being followed. I figured I’d give my tail something better to do so I asked her what they were. She looked at them then blankly looked at me and replied “Eggs” (in Russian, of course). Everyone’s a teacher. I was so embarrassed. Of course they were eggs. I think they’re quail eggs which are popular to serve with plov. Where we are used to seeing milk and eggs and such in a refrigerated case, here they are just left out. The milk is heat treated so it doesn’t spoil as quickly. It tastes different, too. I find I only like it with a good dose of sweet chocolate powder.

Numbers are one of the more difficult things for me to understand orally so that makes shopping tough. The people who regularly see me have different approaches to this problem. One kindly older woman speaks very slowly and uses her fingers if I don’t get it the first time. One nice, though less patient, man pulls out his calculator and types in what I owe him. One younger storekeeper just laughs. He may seem rude to some but I like him. Somehow he puts me at ease. He has this way of laughing that says “Why me?”underneath it all.

There are two guards who regularly engage me in conversation because they know I’m studying and they are willing to listen and help. It’s rewarding when they hear me and understand. It’s more rewarding when I actually understand them – my weakness. Occasionally, after I’ve spoken, they look at me like they’re in a sort of a void searching for what I meant to say. I do appreciate their efforts to teach me by making me talk and listen and by correcting me. One of Doug’s coworkers also engages me in conversation. When I don’t know how to respond in Russian, I just switch to English because I know that he speaks excellent English. He, however, does not abandon the Russian. He makes me listen to it and lets me know he expects my response to be in Russian. Yes, everyone’s a teacher.

Most people are quite patient with my lack of good Russian language skills. Once in a while I get into a little trouble because I may know how to say a particular phrase well so they assume I speak well and proceed to speak accordingly. Once, I went into a market with a note that had butter in Russian written on it. As I stepped to the counter – with the shopkeeper’s attention – I pulled out the note as I began saying (in Russian) “I need to buy butter.” He rapidly asked me something. I excused myself and explained that I was learning Russian but didn’t understand what he said. He stuck his head out like a goose and yelled the same question at me! It was so funny I could think of nothing else to do but shout back at him (in Russian) “I still don’t understand you!” Then we had a bit of a stare off. Then I asked what he suggested. He pointed to one of the butters and I bought it. Maybe not everyone is a teacher.

I do wish I had better language skills, though, which is why I keep working. There is a man who I regularly pass on my way to the fruit and vegetable stand. He sits in a wheelchair because he has no legs from the knees down. I think someone wheels him out there at the start of the day and, at some point, comes and retrieves him. I did see him wheeling himself one day and another day a younger man doing it. I feel sorry for him. He sits alone. Occasionally someone will stop and talk with him, always another man. I think to myself, if he’s lonely perhaps he’d appreciate conversation even if it’s with someone like me. I imagined myself buying an orange and stopping to share it with him. Then I remember that this society is very different than ours. A woman stopping to talk to a man may not be quite right here, even if he is old. I don’t know what to do, if anything. One day we met eyes and I greeted him, he returned the greeting which most people don’t do. That heartened me.

Today when I went to a nearby store in a group of shops that included about four pharmacies I saw a very old woman going up three steps. She pushed with a cane in one hand and pulled on the banister with her other. It was very hard for her so I asked her if I could help as I took her arm and lifted. She thanked me then handed me a note and said something. Half her face was paralyzed so I had no idea what she said. I told her I didn’t speak Russian; I didn’t understand her. She spoke again and held out the list. She wanted help. I took the list and looked at it. I had no idea what it said. I did get her to come into the pharmacy with me. As we waited in line, maybe I looked worried because after a few minutes she gestured for the list. I gave it back to her and left. I felt so bad that I couldn’t help her more.

Different teachers; different lessons.