I wrote this without revision...so take it for what it's worth

Well, another American holdiay has come and gone. In the few days before Thanksgiving I did my best to explain the concept of the holiday to my host family and a few various community members with whom I have frequent cause for interaction. But, it was quickly made apparent to me that unless you are an American, or have the chance to see the holiday as it is celebrated with a lot of Americans around, it is a very tough holiday to understand. To us (that is, Americans) it seems simple. Sure, it's a day to give thanks. Easy enough, right? But for some reason or another the holiday doesn't translate very well.
"So, it was a bunch of really dirty people that had no food?"
"Yes."
"And then the Native Americans gave them food?"
"Yes."
"And then they killed the Native Americans?"
"No, they ate dinner with them."
"And now it's a holiday?
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To say thank you."
"Do the Native Americans still give you food?"
"No, we killed them?"
"After you ate dinner with them?"
"No, well, yes."
At this point in the conversation every single Armenian, without exception, beat their hand against their mouth while making a whooping war cry reminiscent of some movie they had seen.

So, rather than allow the conversation to repeat itself for my students, I did my best in the English clubs I run to explain the Tanksgiving Story via hand drawn comic strip on the chalkboard. But, that wasn't too successful, probably because I was relying heavily on stick figures as means for communications, and contrary to popular belief, stick figures are not ideal for conveying complex emotions. I don't know. I guess some things were just meant to be mysteries. But, Thanksgiving evening my grandpa did bust out the homemade vodka to celebrate. He didn't really grasp the full concept, but he understood that it was important to me. I swear, my grandpa is the man.

On a slightly different note...

Ever since I moved to my village, I've heard rumors whispered around the streets for some mythical German that supposedly lives in the village. And having lived in Germany, I thought, "Well, wouldn't it be dandy if I could meet this person. Maybe sit down and have a nice little conversation about the West." But, my efforts to locate this person up until now have been fruitless. Everytime I ask people directly, they just look at me like I'm an idiot. (Sidenote, that is usually the look I get from them anyways.) So, for the past few weeks, I've abandoned my quest to locate this fellow foreigner within the village...until two weeks ago.

There I was, walking home from work, and what should I hear, but the frightened sound of a small child screaming for his mother about the German. So, my ears perked up and my eyes did a quick swivel to finally put a face to this person. But, alas, I am the only one on the street. And, as I walked past the child, who was now clinging to his mother's dress in fear, I hear the kid say, "Does it speak Armenian?" to which the mother replied, "No, it speaks German." to which I replied, "Nice weather we have today." in Armenian...ah to be German. Nothing makes sense anymore. I advise to just give in to lunacy.

I wrote this without revision...so take it for what it's worth

Well, another American holdiay has come and gone. In the few days before Thanksgiving I did my best to explain the concept of the holiday to my host family and a few various community members with whom I have frequent cause for interaction. But, it was quickly made apparent to me that unless you are an American, or have the chance to see the holiday as it is celebrated with a lot of Americans around, it is a very tough holiday to understand. To us (that is, Americans) it seems simple. Sure, it's a day to give thanks. Easy enough, right? But for some reason or another the holiday doesn't translate very well.
"So, it was a bunch of really dirty people that had no food?"
"Yes."
"And then the Native Americans gave them food?"
"Yes."
"And then they killed the Native Americans?"
"No, they ate dinner with them."
"And now it's a holiday?
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To say thank you."
"Do the Native Americans still give you food?"
"No, we killed them?"
"After you ate dinner with them?"
"No, well, yes."
At this point in the conversation every single Armenian, without exception, beat their hand against their mouth while making a whooping war cry reminiscent of some movie they had seen.

So, rather than allow the conversation to repeat itself for my students, I did my best in the English clubs I run to explain the Tanksgiving Story via hand drawn comic strip on the chalkboard. But, that wasn't too successful, probably because I was relying heavily on stick figures as means for communications, and contrary to popular belief, stick figures are not ideal for conveying complex emotions. I don't know. I guess some things were just meant to be mysteries. But, Thanksgiving evening my grandpa did bust out the homemade vodka to celebrate. He didn't really grasp the full concept, but he understood that it was important to me. I swear, my grandpa is the man.

On a slightly different note...

Ever since I moved to my village, I've heard rumors whispered around the streets for some mythical German that supposedly lives in the village. And having lived in Germany, I thought, "Well, wouldn't it be dandy if I could meet this person. Maybe sit down and have a nice little conversation about the West." But, my efforts to locate this person up until now have been fruitless. Everytime I ask people directly, they just look at me like I'm an idiot. (Sidenote, that is usually the look I get from them anyways.) So, for the past few weeks, I've abandoned my quest to locate this fellow foreigner within the village...until two weeks ago.

There I was, walking home from work, and what should I hear, but the frightened sound of a small child screaming for his mother about the German. So, my ears perked up and my eyes did a quick swivel to finally put a face to this person. But, alas, I am the only one on the street. And, as I walked past the child, who was now clinging to his mother's dress in fear, I hear the kid say, "Does it speak Armenian?" to which the mother replied, "No, it speaks German." to which I replied, "Nice weather we have today." in Armenian...ah to be German. Nothing makes sense anymore. I advise to just give in to lunacy.

Trick or Treat Obamarama

It is no secret that Halloween is possibly my favorite holiday, and having been absent from the consumer driven markets and media of America for some time now, it sneaked up on me quite quietly. In fact, it was not until a few days before the actual holiday that I realized that it was almost Halloween. However, when I finally awoke from my stupor of celebratory neglect, I decided that this would be an excellent opportunity for my students in Armenia to learn a little bit about American culture.

The federal government here has banned any discussion (or mention) of Halloween within the confines of any school. According to them, Halloween is a holiday invented by the Americans as a day that pays tribute to the worship of Satan. I will not address the numerous points upon which this statement is incorrect. If I were to do so, my peace of mind would be permanently dislodged from its state of peace. So, instead of trying to take on an unfounded ideology within the confines of its limitations, I chose a different route. Unfortunately for the powers that be that design curriculum, their jurisdiction falls well short of my path. I am not paid. While this does provide many undesirable obstacles in everyday life, in this instance, it is a blessing. Because I am not paid, they have no power over what I do, so long as it does not interfere with the learning that goes on within the confines of school. Now, as many of you know, I have an English club once a week, outside of school hours. This club is my opportunity to work with children without fear of any interference. So, being the “Satan lover” that many officials would want you to believe that I am, naturally, this jumped out at me as the perfect time to talk about Halloween.

In my English clubs, we did horrific things like talk about trick-or-treating, and read a story about two little pumpkins who had trouble deciding on a costume (yeah, I penned that one myself…hello Caldecott award). It was terrible. But that’s not even the worst part. After club, I sent the kids home so that they could eat dinner and tell their parents about what a crazy American I am. And then, we reconvened in order to carve, get this, Jack-o-lanterns. It’s official, I am the most immoral person in the world because I have taught children about a holiday that involves carving crazy faces into oversized squash. What’s even worse is, I’m pretty sure that the children all had fun. OH NO!!!!!! Trick-or-treat.

Now for a housing update.

I’ve spent the past few days in contract negotiation for my apartment. These things have proved a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. Fortunately, I’m able to follow most of what goes on during the discussion. Currently, we are trying to work out the water situation. I’ll spell it out for you in brief. Right now, a water situation doesn’t exist. I want that to change (a.k.a. I want to not have to haul water from the well to my apartment on the 3rd floor, bucket by bucket). Negotiations on this subject seemed to be productive, but only time will tell if they work out. If any of you have ever moved in your life, you know how stressful and trying these things can be. Now picture that same situation in a language and culture you barely understand. But, as afore mentioned, things seem to be working so far. But, I’ll only be comfortable after the contract has been signed, changes enacted, and residence acquired. I was able to talk to the neighbors in the new apartment building, and they are really excited to donate furniture. This is awesome, because right now, the furniture in the apartment has an enumerative value of precisely zero. (Please note that this also includes any type of counter surface for food preparation.) I’m hopeful.

My host family has been remarkable throughout this whole experience. I had been dreading the day of conversation on this topic. But, eventually, I just bit the stick and decided to have the talk with them. They were visibly disappointed that I have decided to move, but I am convinced that it will be best for both parties if I am no longer in their way within the confines of the home. However, they have repeatedly told me that they expect me to come over and hang out, if for nothing else other than to talk with people. For this I am incredibly grateful. I think that things are going to work out.

In other news, the asinine president campaigns have come to an end, and we have a brand new president elect. I would say that that’s good, but unfortunately I have a sneaky suspicion that regardless of who was elected (McCain, Obama, Joe the plumber, you name it), their presidential tenure is doomed by the state in which they receive it. Unfortunately, the severity of the problems that face our country are too severe to change over night, and possibly even within four years, and Americans have a tendency to need an immediate response because our attention spans are so brief. Does anyone actually still play with Tickle Me Elmo or the Cabbage Patch Kids?

The reaction here to the election is fairly positive. The majority of the population seems to support Obama. The thing that gets me, is that now anytime they see a black politician or news reporter on television, they insist that the individual is related to Obama…

My reaction? The people called for change, and voted for change. But, unfortunately the stray dogs that roam the streets are still homeless. They are still kicked. They are still hungry. They are still cold and dying in the winters. And, odds are, that after Obama’s presidential tenure expires, they will still have the same problems.

I’ve Decided That Meat Over an Open Fire is the Best Meat

So here I am, sitting in my room, messing around on my ukulele when I come up with this catchy little blues hook.  So, I push it around a little bit, and start to hum a melody line as I develop a chord progression.  And after a while, the humming gives way to words, and wouldn’t you know it, now I’m addicted to writing blues songs on my ukulele.  Now, I know what you all must be thinking.  “Scott, you are a skinny white boy, playing an ukulele.  You expect me to believe that anything bluesy can come of that?  Last I checked, if you wanted to sing the blues you needed to be a big burly guy with a smoky voice and a steel guitar.  And, if the guitar isn’t steel, there at least needs to be a lit cigarette stuck in the strings up by the tuning pegs.”  Well, my only response is that, yeah, you’re probably right.  But hey, there’s got to be a first for everything, no?  The way I see it, I’m living in a place that insists on calling this thing a small guitar, and I’m not playing it for anyone anyways, so who’s to say I can’t play the blues on it?  Are the lyrics lame?  Probably.  But honestly, unless you’re B.B. King or Jimi Hendrix, what blues lyrics aren’t lame?  If nothing else, it passes the time and usually makes me laugh…at myself, which is probably for the best.

 

And honestly, learning ways to pass the time seems to be the best thing that I can be doing at this moment.  As I am still fairly new to country, I still have much to learn, and am reminded of that with each passing day.  One thing that has been on my mind as of late (and perhaps you’ve heard my grumblings about this already) is the threat of winter as it swiftly makes itself known.  As of yet, all I know about the winter is what I have been told, so my knowledge is, at best, second hand.  So, I am left to imagine what my life during winter will be like.  I’ve heard horror stories of waking up in the middle of the night with your sleeping bag frozen around you.  Not having anything to eat but potatoes for months on end.  Being holed up in an apartment with nothing but a bottle of vodka and loneliness to keep you warm.  Now, I’m willing to bet that some of these things are exaggerations, but I’m also willing to bet that they aren’t wild exaggerations. 

 

Winter comes at a time when I am allowed to move out onto my own, no longer under the care of a host family, which would be a first for me in Armenia.  This, of course, offers me a new sense of freedom and independence.  But, it also offers a host of obstacles.  How will I heat wherever I end up living?  Where will I get food? (Remember, grocery stores don’t exactly exist here, and I have not been pickling.)  How will I avoid becoming that volunteer that keeps himself warm with a bottle of vodka and a single light bulb suspended from a wire dangling from the ceiling?  In the winter, because heating does not exist here, the schools shut down.  Apparently, 0 degrees at home is warmer than 0 degrees at school…So, if I’m living on my own, I will now be battling boredom as well.  I know, things just keep getting better, right?  Needless to say, the development of hobbies is a must…cue ukulele and blues.

 

Now, some of these problems can be avoided if I decide to stay with my host family through the winter.  It’s weird.  For my service in Armenia thus far, I have always been of the mindset that I would get my own apartment as soon as possible.  But, as that day approaches (December 15), I find myself unintentionally leaning towards staying with my host family.  Maybe it’s just doing things like cutting my own hair and having them laugh at me, but then asking me to cut theirs too.  Or sitting on the new couch (which they bought with the money from a cow slaughter) reading a book while my uncle’s three year old son holds my elbow like it were my hand and we were crossing the street.  Or just having a plate of potatoes dripping with oil waiting for me when I get home from work, when I wake up, when I don’t wake up, or when I otherwise turn around, breathe, etc. (yeah, there really are a lot of potatoes here).  Or maybe, I just can’t fight that primordial instinct that humans really are pack animals, and we stick with the pack.  I mean, it’s just what we do…unless you’re weird…which I am.

 

But, come December, my host dad moves back home because it’s too cold for him to work until spring.  And, mom is due to have a baby pretty soon.  (On that note, I’m not exactly sure where people go to have babies around my village.  And, I don’t know anything about midwifery [midhusbandry?].  In fact, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night scared to death that it’s going to be time for the thing to fall out and I’m going to be the only one around.  So, I know that a few of you reading this are nurses.  Any words of advice are more than welcome.  I’ll tell you what I know.  There’s something about breathing.  The thing needs to have a cord cut.  Odds are the mother will probably hate me just because I’m standing near her.  And I think I saw a doctor slap the baby once in a movie.  But that’s it.  Seriously, what do I do?)  Now, as the apartment stands, with mom, boy, grandma, grandpa, and me, we are at full capacity.  Add two, and that makes for one awkward feeling.  “Hey guys, don’t mind me.  I’m just going to hang out and take up room that you could be using to be comfortable.”

 

What do I do?  Move out and risk becoming fond of a hermitage to the point of becoming an alcoholic, growing a nasty beard, and writing a manifesto?  Or, stay in the pack, but constantly feel emotions of guilt?

 

[At this point the topic changes without any attempt at segue.]

 

One of the things I’ve found myself thinking about often is me as a little boy.  I wonder what I would have thought of myself, if I had had the ability to see me now, then.  I remember back in the day when I just wanted to be the weatherman, then the garbage man, then back to the weather, then on to sillier things like writing.  Never, really ever, did I imagine that I would be where I am, or dealing with the things I’m dealing with now. I just finished reading this book, and I think it relates to my own situation quite nicely.  It’s non-fiction, but that doesn’t mean that metaphor cannot be read into it.  It’s all about this guy who has this grand idea to walk the Appalachian Trail, and so, without much hesitation (you know, aside from waiting for winter to pass), he sets out to do just that, starting down in Georgia, with every intention of hiking all the way through to Maine.  Needless to say, he, like 90% of the other hikers that start out with intentions of completion, did not end up hiking the entire trail.  But, that’s not to say he didn’t give it a good try.  Anyways, there’s a quote that I really like from it:

 

“All I know is that from time to time I end up a long way from where I want to be.  But it makes life interesting, you know.”

--A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson

Armenian Nights

As many of you know, nightlife is not really something that I get on a regular basis. Really, unless I’m in Yerevan, there isn’t much of what we would call in the states a “nightlife”. But, that’s not to say that there aren’t exciting things that happen at night. So, I’ve decided to sketch out a few nocturnal events that have happened recently. I’ll warn you, this writing is sloppy and lazy, but entertaining none the less.

1.
Wolves! In a daring effort to reclaim the land for nature’s original tenants, a pack of wolves deftly sneaked into the city of Gyumri under the cover of night’s darkness. The citizens of the city awoke to the terrified sounds of cattle being slaughtered and devoured by the hundreds. When morning dawned, a total of 300 head of cattle had had the likes of life removed from their bones, courtesy of countless encounters with the vengeful jaws of relentless wolves, who incidentally turned out to be fairly efficient at what they do. Now, I do not live in Gyumri, but, I don’t live too far away either, and I’m pretty sure we share the same hills, so this news story was topping the headlines of the local news in my town, and I’m fairly sure that this is the first time an urban cow has topped the news since the Chicago fire. So that’s exciting.

2.
This is a true story, and took place in another volunteer’s host family.

So there’s this cow, right? And this family has cared for this cow pretty well, right? Every day the cow is up with the rooster and released from his holding pen to join the other cows just like it as they mindlessly climb up the mountain to graze under an Armenian sun. And usually, they just walk the cattle trails chewing grass as they go. And if they are unlucky enough to be a wanderer, or stupid enough to linger near the dogs, they get a not-so-friendly nip on the ankles to remind them where they belong, both on the terrain and in the hierarchy of intelligence. But this cow, holy cow, this cow was not cut out for humdrummery. This cow was ambitious. What’s more, is that this cow had the amazing subtlety to be able to carry out his ambitions undetected.

Maybe it was the chickens all cooped up adjacent to his pen at night, telling old hens’ tales of days when they were a free-range creature, talking about a mythical potato patch high up in the mountain passes. Or maybe it was just the smell of subterranean spud on the morning breeze. We will never quite know how this noble bovine brain came across the knowledge of a potato patch in the vicinity of the herd. But somehow, he did. And that’s all that’s important. So, when the other cows were mindless chewing the cud that their first stomach was too lazy to digest, and the dogs were all busy showing off for the one human superintendent who would never like them, this cow moseyed on over a few gentle rises in search of a destiny never known by any cow.

The herd moved on, ignorant of his absence, so ignorant, in fact, that none were aware of this departure until the cow didn’t show up at home that night. So, the family decided to wait until morning before sounding any sort of alarm. Maybe the cow was just loafing. But, by the time rooster o’clock rolled around, there was still no cow. So now, the family decides to take to send out a search party. They searched all over, in the churchyard, in the streets, down by the water, anywhere a cow might be. But, alas, no cow was to be found carousing about within the city limits. So, a brief meeting took place, and the family decided to take to the hills. And there, low and behold, was their cow, with a happy low and a content cow grin, laying in the grass stuffed to an extant that told his body that it was better off laying on the ground.

So there was this cow, right? And it had eaten so many potatoes that it couldn’t walk back down the mountain for the evening. In fact, it had eaten so many potatoes that it couldn’t even be coerced into moving with the help and agitation of its family. In essence, this cow had just pulled a Roger Maris. He had broken the single season record for potatoes eaten by one cow. A record formerly held by one of the greatest cow legends in the history of the game. A record no one ever thought to be breakable. So there was this cow, right? And there were these people, determined to not abandon their cow, right? This cow had been a major investment for them, right? So now there’s this problem, right? How do we get the cow down the mountain? (Note to the squeamish: skip ahead to the next story, this ending is not for you.) So there was this axe, right? Then there were a lot of cow pieces, right? Because everyone knows it’s easier to carry small pieces down a mountain is easier than carrying one big, cumbersome piece, right? No other possible solution. Now there is a lot of cow soup. Talk about being put out to pasture…

3.
Necessary vocabulary for this reading:
Counterpart- work associate to whom I am assigned my two-year partnership
Cowboy- what my host uncle calls me because I have a tendency to whistle softly while I think
Dog- a viscous beast that is not to be loved, but kicked, disdained, and feared to the point that many towns have a season to hunt them within city limits, much like deer (assuming deer were viscous)
Tahteek- Armenian word for grandmother (cultural note, usually come with a complimentary moustache)
jan- an ending affixed to names that means sweety

The other night I went over to my counterpart’s house to visit and work on lesson plans for the upcoming week’s lessons. So, we worked, chatted, and coffeed until about 9:30 in the p.m., at which point I decided it was high time for this cowboy to hit the road. However, the sun has begun its annual trend of laziness, and 9:30 is no longer a time deemed worthy of extreme solar luminance. In fact, I’ll be so bold as to say it was dark outside, pitch dark. But, being the forward thinker that I am, in anticipation of the possibility that this meeting was not just going to be a business call, but rather a forced social call that had the potential to last for hours (which it did), before I left my room I stashed a dinky little flashlight in my bag to help light my way home. So, when my counterpart asked me if I wanted her to call my home to send someone to get me since it was so dark, proud of my foresight, I proceeded to pull out my flashlight and declare that I think that somehow I’ll be able to make it home all right. I was then promptly warned to beware of the dogs on the street at night, to which I replied, “It’s ok, I’m an American.”

Off I went, into the night, proud that maybe someone finally understood that I did not come with a warning label advising constant supervision. And oh, how glorious the night was. The beautiful thing about living in a village is that there are no lights. So, when I got to a point on the path where the footing was good enough to not need a light, I turned my light off and turned my eyes upward. Unreal. I tell you what, boy, if I had a dollar for every star I saw, I could bail out Wall Street, and maybe still have enough to independently finance Michael Moore to invent a ludicrous documentary about the causes for its demise. (It just felt like a good place for a jab at Michael Moore. I don’t actually know if this is a project he’s working on, but it seems like the kind of thing he gets uppity about.)

So there I was, taking my time, enjoying the splendor of the skies, taking in a quiet moment that I so desperately needed, when, out of nowhere, a tahteek pops out from behind a rock. “Oooh Scott-jan!” (pronounced skote-jahn) HOLY HELL BATMAN! What’s a tahteek doing out at this hour? More importantly, why are there tahteeks hiding in the rocks? Wait, is this my tahteek? Yes, it is. “Uh, Zeena (tahteek’s name) what are you doing walking around at night?” “Oooh Scott-jan, there’s a dog right there!” At this point, I’ve finally caught my breath from the tahteek ambush, and have turned my light on, expecting to see a rabid carnivore, and ready to reenact an old yeller scene. But, as I should have known, it was nothing more than a 3 month old pup. Someday these unnecessary fears of animals will abate (must I remind you all of Snake Mountain). But, for now, these fears generate grand delusions, and tahteek made sure I was safe. Good old tahteek. She picked up a few rocks and chucked them at the dog, which didn’t move, because the rocks fell well short of their mark. So, Zeena grabbed my shoulders and whisked me away to the safety of our apartment. While being whisked, I asked her, once more, what she was doing walking around at night, and she told me that my counterpart had called her when I left her house, and that it had been so long (reality check: five minutes) that they thought for sure I had fallen and broken my leg. Ahh, to be a five again. One of these days it will be understood by all here that I am an adult.

Public Shame=Productivity

Well, I seem to have finally kicked this nasty habit of taking transatlantic flights, and can once again call myself a resident of Armenia. My trip back to the states had its pluses and minuses. On the one hand I got to see my family and several good friends, eat some good food, and recharge my battery. But, obviously the necessity for the trip was not a happy one, and forcing myself to readjust to an American way of life was exponentially harder than I could have ever anticipated. But, I’m back in action in Armenia, which is good news for you, the reader, because it means that there are new and exciting things to catch up on…or be indifferent about. You choose.

My return trip to Armenia via five different airports was fairly uneventful until I reached my final destination of Yerevan. It always seems that the worst parts of a trip happen when you are the most tired. So, true to suit, instead of just being able to go crash (at that point I had been in travel mode for 36 hours), I had to deal with the public shame of having my bag stand me up. As I stood at the baggage claim I had to watch all the other travelers as they were joyfully reunited with their luggage, while I slowly came to the realization that my bag had decided to ditch me in lieu of an extended European vacation. I’m pretty sure it took its own sweet time in a certain Parisian airport. So, feeling like an ug-o waiting for a blind date to not show, I gave up all hope and decided to leave the airport, but the customs agent had other thoughts on the matter. Apparently, he didn’t want to let me into the country because he believed that I look nothing like my passport photo…which was taken in February. I suppose I’ve lost a bit of weight, but I still don’t think it gave him the right to call his buddies over from all the other booths to look at my photo and then look at me and laugh, only to repeat the process multiple times. However, I think he was pretty embarrassed when I told him (in Armenian) that he was shaming himself by acting like an immature little boy. He promptly apologized and said that he didn’t think I could speak Armenian…I maintain that he just didn’t think.

I managed to get out of the airport and into the city around 10 pm, and then went to the only hostel in Yerevan and crashed. The next morning we had meetings all day at the office, so that was neat… The plus side to this was that all the volunteers were in Yerevan for the weekend, so I got to see my friends upon my return to the country, which made the transition back a little easier. But, eventually, we all said our goodbyes and I hopped on the train and went my own way…which seems to be what I do best.

When I got back to my village on Sunday (don’t worry, the airline got my bag back before I left the city…but I had to pay a 5000 dram fine since they lost it…oh business sense, what are you?). Anyways, when I got off the train in my village, there was a sizeable group of Armenians waiting for me at the station, which was odd, because usually it’s just my grandpa and my little brother. Apparently the people in my town had set up a commemorative slaughter for the memory of my grandmother. So, it felt pretty good to know that my village was there to support me. In fact, it was the first time that I really felt like the village had reached out to me to include me in the parameters of the village. Their normal standing operating procedure is to point out all the ways that I am different from them (aka every thing about me), and how those differences make me wrong (says scott, ‘thanks’).

The next day, I went back to work at the school, where I have been every day since. I only work at the schools in the mornings (about 20 hrs a week), but in the afternoons I teach myself Armenian, economics, and read. Soon I will begin my “secondary project”, which amounts to nothing less spectacular than an English club. But, right now I spend quite a bit of afternoon time helping my family get ready for winter. Because I am a man (I’m talking Y chromosome baby), I’m prohibited from helping with things like preserving or pickling, but I do get to hit things with an axe! My family recently had 6 cubic meters of wood delivered to their garden in log form. In case you were wondering, 6 cubic meters is the metric measurement for what we in the states call a “shit ton”. So, since my host dad works in another town, and my grandpa is not exactly able to lift an axe with much might, I’ve decided to help out with this. It gives me a bit of socially acceptable exercise, and after a day of school, it’s fairly cathartic to split things apart with brute force and a sharp object. But, today my progress in the quickly diminishing pile was halted when my American brawn became too much for the axe. I felt kind of like a jerk when the axe head broke off in a log. I mean, here I was destroying the family’s only tool that would help keep them warm in the approaching villainous winter. But my uncle came over and said it was no big deal, that they had another axe in the shed. I said something like oh that’s great. You know? Really meaning that’s great. I felt like less of a jerk. But then I thought to myself, if you’ve had two axes this whole time, why haven’t we both been doing this…whatever.

I think this Sunday I’m going to help my uncle dig a 70 meter irrigation ditch and lay the pipe in and then fill it back in. We started the planning for it before I took off for the states for the funeral, and we want to get it done before it starts getting cold. Plus, they just tore out all of the tomato and pepper plants that were refusing to grow in their garden, and now they have four new apple trees in their place, and they need the water. Again, with winter just around the corner, it is important for them to be able to firmly establish themselves in the earth before frost sets in. So, I suppose it can’t help to lay the pipe quickly.

The News Meets the Booze Meets the Snooze

Well I suppose it’s only fair that I admit right off the bat that I am having trouble finding something worthy of writing about. If I try to write about anything topical, odds are 100% (which aren’t really odds at all but rather a certainty…) that whatever it is that I have said has already been said at least three days ago, thereby making my comments stale and obsolete. So, I have tried to turn to my classic standby for blogging, which is to write about some new experience in my life. But alas, I have nothing. Well, that’s a lie. I’m sure that I have plenty to say on the subject of new cultural experiences, but at the moment (and please note that by “moment” I mean the past week, as I’ve been trying desperately to conjure up an idea worthy of extended pontification via blog post) I have very little. So I’m going to do my very best to talk on things both “topical” and cultural in this post, because let’s be honest, campaign season is always ripe for commentary, and Armenia is always sure to provide some interesting stories. So, if you don’t like one, just skim through until you find the other, I’m sure there’ll be something you like here. I mean let’s be honest, it’s me writing about me and/or my opinions, and I’m kick ass.

Topical is only an r away from paradise

John McCain selected Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate, so that is what it is. She seems to be a good selection for the GOP, as she is someone who supports all the things a grand ol’ member of the grand ol’ party should, a.k.a. pro-life, the 2nd amendment, “stickin’ to those good ol’ fashioned values”, maintaining the nuclear family at all costs, and making Marker’s Mark the drink of choice at the Republican National Convention for the second convention in a row. She is from small town Alaska, and that seems to jive well with McCain’s stance on drilling domestically, and her pro-life position seems to jive well with the dying supreme court justices. Also, I think it’s necessary to have at least one person on the ticket that is in support of living, as Johnny is only breaths away from epitomizing the opposite. I guess it seems a bit nerve racking casting a vote for the oldest person to run for a first term in the history of the U. S. of A….oh did I mention he has skin cancer…I guess I can’t help but wonder who a vote for McCain is for? Why doesn’t Palin just go ahead and run? Speaking of pro-life, isn’t it neat that she gets to demonstrate her stance on the subject with her own daughter? Way to go Levi, you really married into the right family…oh, what’s that? You’re not married…wow, now I feel silly. What’s that? You’re the first baby daddy to be on a campaign trail? Well, I suppose that’s the only thing this campaign season is missing…on both sides.

Obama performed as usual, stirring up excitement in a crowd drunk on idealism. Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily, ideals are what drive a nation to move forward, to persevere. But, the thing about an ideal is often times it is the moon you shoot for only to land among the stars. Cliché? Sure. But the point is that the ideal is something that you aim for, only to not achieve it and end up somewhere else unanticipated. Now, saying that you will land among the stars is a positive way to spin the scenario, but I implore you to remember that a star is nothing but a ball of searing hot, burning gas, and for the life of me, I can’t remember NASA ever intentionally making a mission to land on a star. I hear the sun is hot this time of year. I guess what I’m getting at, is that this whole campaign would be easier to get behind if it had some sort of concrete element behind it. Also, there is another major player in the realm of international politics who is known for being an idealist: Vladimir Putin, and let’s be honest, if he could dress every citizen of mother Russia in the stylish gray and red uniforms that were only too popular 17 years ago, I’m sure he would. I hear his favorite song is track one off The Beatles White Album.

Basically what it boils down to is that this campaign season has done nothing but reaffirm my decision to be a bleeding independent. Less pedantically (and let’s be honest, that was not pedantic in the least, but I feel like every political commentary, shotty as it may be, needs to use the word pedantically, and that was as good a place as any), I think that a bipartisan system has no opportunity to be anything but silly when both parties are inherently silly. Whoa. Calm down. Take a breath you GOP’s and Donkeys, I am not saying that the candidates are silly. In fact, I believe just the opposite. I think that the U.S. of A. is very lucky this election season, in that both tickets have an incredible amount of integrity running. Has McCain voted with Bush 90% of the time? Yes, but the difference is he can spell his own name. Evidence, he doesn’t have to go by his initial. Has Obama had a brief and unrevealing political career? Yes, but given the situation in Washington right now, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Is that sad, maybe, but it might be true also. That said, I know who I’m voting for, and depending on who you are, I will give you a hard time about who you are voting for just to get your goat. So if I’ve been pro Obama with you, it’s probably because I know you’re voting for Palin. And if I’ve been pro McCain, it’s probably because I know you like to plan holidays to the sun. I like to go into the booth knowing that no one knows who I’m voting for. I’ve found this is the easiest way to avoid unwanted shankings upon exiting the booth.

Moving on to the cultural…

I had an interesting conversation with my grandfather the other evening. We were discussing the value of learning a language, and we came to the general consensus that the more languages you know, the richer you are. He maintains (and I think it’s right mostly…) that if you know a language, you know a people, and that is a very valuable thing. After he said that, I didn’t really know what to say. After all, that’s not exactly something that begs a response. So, I did what I do best here, which is to sit and say nothing. And as he watched me “think”, he expanded on the different languages he knows. He said that if he wants to speak Chinese, all he has to do is drink two bottles of vodka. He then sad that if he wants to speak Georgian, all he has to do is put an entire hot potato (note the spelling Quail) in his mouth. Then he went on to say that Armenian was the most beautiful language in the world. And I must admit, there is a certain beauty to it. But I’m not sure how it stacks up against Sanskrit. I’ve heard that sounds gorgeous…also, later in the conversation my grandpa threatened to cut the head off of anyone who threw rocks at me while I run. It’s nice to know someone’s got my back.

This past week was the fist week of school. September 1st marks the first day of school for the entire country of Armenia, and let me tell you, it was something. I remember waking up on my first day of work buzzing with an internal excitement that rivaled that of the 6 year old children going to school for their first day. I was finally going to see how these schools worked. I walked to school with my books packed up and my shoes tied tight (Billy Madison don’t sue me), not really knowing what to expect. And when I got to school and walked in the teachers’ lounge, I must say, I was glad I didn’t come with a closed mind. There on the table sat several bottles of cognac and champagne, accompanied with boxes of chocolate. Needless to say, I think if we had been teaching in the states we all would have lost our jobs within 5 minutes. But we aren’t, and we didn’t. I must admit, I was a bit uncomfortable with the presence of booze in school, especially when it was the principal (remember, the principal is my pal, ah timeless spelling adages) who was “encouraging” me to take shots. But, after the first week (that’s right, so far there have been fresh bottles every day) I like to think of these things as teaching accessories. When in Rome I suppose…please don’t think that teachers get drunk at work. They merely take a few tasteful shots before/during the day…I don’t get it. Work is going well, however. Right now it’s slow, but I’m hoping things will pick up as I begin to plan my teacher training workshops for the entire teaching community. But, I don’t want to get into this too much, as I don’t really know too much about it yet. I promise I’ll fully explore every aspect of my work in a later post. As for now, I still need to experience.

This is the snooze
I debated heavily on whether or not to release this, as it makes the possibility to change it difficult. But, I’m pretty content with it for now. Also, I’d like to say shame on you for scrolling to the end if you have skipped the entire article just to read the big snooze. However, if you are here only after a patient reading of the above nonsense, congratulations, I suppose I owe you some sort of hair ribbon or maybe a stale hard candy prize next time I see you. Anyways…I’d like to announce the title of my book: Waking. What a let down, I know. Where are the bells and whistles? I don’t know. But, I put a lot of thought into it (no shit Sherlock) and I’d like to think that it highlights a nice little duality that the story works hard to expose, and probably does a poor job of it. So, as Hans Solo always said about the wookie sitting on a chair, “Chew on it.” Somebody punch me hard for that.