Cruising the Mediterranean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life as I know it now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I Did Win the Lottery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Scots-Uzbek Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life in Tashkent as I See It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesdays at the Rose Household

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our teacher, Mamurjan, is on the right side.

The plov!

To Khiva

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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