I don’t start lessons on Thursday until after noon. But with my new transport options, I am still required to get up at the same early time in order to make it to school on time – even on Thursdays.
The first Thursday in March, I strongly considered ignoring my 6AM alarm and lying in bed all morning. But my sense of responsibility won out and I was at the bus stop as usual if a little bit groggy and grumpy.
So I arrived in the village by 8AM, and wandered towards my old house family’s house. I had some fresh-baked bread and a cup of tea. I was still exhausted so my host sister encouraged me to take a nap, promising to wake me up in time for some lunch before class. A few hours later I was well rested and well-fed and on my way to school.
I strolled into the classroom only to discover it wasn’t the class I was expecting to teach but the one scheduled for the hour after. I looked at Latifa to confirm my suspiscions. It turned out I had got the schedule wrong and I had slept through the class I was expecting.
Bugger! It wasn’t like I had been doing anything important. I had been napping – 800 yards from school.
So I hurried over to my next class. But in my rush I lost my footing in the mud. Of course I am well practiced in the art of falling down, so the only evidence of my fall was the mud on my hands. I could deal with that. And the older boys pointing and laughing could just be ignored. I stood up and refused help from a student coming the other way.
I walked another 10 feet and fell again. This time it was in such spectacular fashion I had mud everywhere from my face to the hem of my calf-length coat. Wonderful! School was no longer an option.
This time one of the laughing boys told his friends to stop, and came over to help me manage the 500 feet to my neighbours’ house. Where I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the bus.
Thus, as my Salyan neighbours so kindly pointed out when I stopped by before dinner: “Melissa. You went to the village just to fall down”. Sad, but true. Next time I’ll just stay in bed.
(The title of this blog post is a reference to another PCV’s tumble that was so epic it spawned ‘an award’.)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Peace Corps Turns 50; I Write The First 500 Words Of My PCV Memoir
March 1st was Peace Corps 50th anniversary. (It was also my little sister’s birthday). I had every intention of acknowledging this particular milestone with some sort of catchy poem about world peace or an appropriately PC-service-themed list of 50. (It might have also been worthwhile to try and get it posted on the ‘birthday’ in question…)
But I am lazy. (I didn’t send my sister a birthday card either.)
Instead I present the story I’ve been meaning to post on this blog since my first month in country. ‘Avtobus On-Iki’. Which incidentally, if I ever get around to publishing a “My Life in The Peace Corps Book” will be the title story.
Avtobus On-Iki.
It was the first or second week of PST, I had just gotten home from the first hub day in Sumgayit, and Ana asked me which bus I’d had to take. I replied in Azerbaijani – I had learned to count the previous day: on-iki. (12). She mimed the clunky slow motion that chracterised the WWII relic of a bus I had just gotten off: ‘Starii Avtobus?’ she questioned. (In those early weeks, Russian was our mutually intelligible lingua franca.) I nodded and she laughed sympathetically. Oh Avtobus on-iki.
The moniker of this slow-moving bus became a familial code-word that encompassed any sort of frustrating circumstance: a difficult verb tense, a miscommunication between friends, a visit from obnoxious relatives, a thwarted lesson plan, an uncooperative colleague, a less than ideal housing situation or any of the other little things that make up the sometimes exhausting effort of living day-to-day in the regions of Azerbaijan.
The fact that I now live in a region where the buses that come down my local roads often look much older than the original ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ should have been my first clue that Avtobus On-Iki would become a larger part of my life than I ever could have imagined on that first October evening when Ana playfully mimed it.
And yes, I do mutter ‘avtobus on-iki’ to myself on an almost daily basis - it has become my go-to personal catharsis for any number of small annoyances from the lack of a seat on a marshutka to the afternoons when the electricity goes out just as I’ve put a batch of cookies in the oven. And it finds its way into almost every conversation I have with Ata and Ana as I talk about my life at site. Whatever it is doesn’t seem quite so catastrophic if there is an ‘avtobus on-iki’ tagged on at the end – it lessens the sting.
Avtobus On-iki – those six unassuming syllables that allow us to communicate so much. I can express a dozen sentiments with a simple phrase in my phone calls ‘home’. We sympathise with each other when discouraged. We lament misfortunes and complain about injustices. We laugh ourselves out of bad moods. We say it sarcastically, ironically and playfully- sometimes within a single exchange. We throw it into conversations around people who have no idea what it represents and smile conspiratorially at its significance.
Our collection of family words has since expanded beyond the bus numbers of early days and has since been supplemented by other circumstances, family members and PVCs. But it is ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ that is the genesis of this familial lexicon, the one that is instantly understood and brings a smile to our faces no matter how exasperating the situation that occasions its use.
But I am lazy. (I didn’t send my sister a birthday card either.)
Instead I present the story I’ve been meaning to post on this blog since my first month in country. ‘Avtobus On-Iki’. Which incidentally, if I ever get around to publishing a “My Life in The Peace Corps Book” will be the title story.
Avtobus On-Iki.
It was the first or second week of PST, I had just gotten home from the first hub day in Sumgayit, and Ana asked me which bus I’d had to take. I replied in Azerbaijani – I had learned to count the previous day: on-iki. (12). She mimed the clunky slow motion that chracterised the WWII relic of a bus I had just gotten off: ‘Starii Avtobus?’ she questioned. (In those early weeks, Russian was our mutually intelligible lingua franca.) I nodded and she laughed sympathetically. Oh Avtobus on-iki.
The moniker of this slow-moving bus became a familial code-word that encompassed any sort of frustrating circumstance: a difficult verb tense, a miscommunication between friends, a visit from obnoxious relatives, a thwarted lesson plan, an uncooperative colleague, a less than ideal housing situation or any of the other little things that make up the sometimes exhausting effort of living day-to-day in the regions of Azerbaijan.
The fact that I now live in a region where the buses that come down my local roads often look much older than the original ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ should have been my first clue that Avtobus On-Iki would become a larger part of my life than I ever could have imagined on that first October evening when Ana playfully mimed it.
And yes, I do mutter ‘avtobus on-iki’ to myself on an almost daily basis - it has become my go-to personal catharsis for any number of small annoyances from the lack of a seat on a marshutka to the afternoons when the electricity goes out just as I’ve put a batch of cookies in the oven. And it finds its way into almost every conversation I have with Ata and Ana as I talk about my life at site. Whatever it is doesn’t seem quite so catastrophic if there is an ‘avtobus on-iki’ tagged on at the end – it lessens the sting.
Avtobus On-iki – those six unassuming syllables that allow us to communicate so much. I can express a dozen sentiments with a simple phrase in my phone calls ‘home’. We sympathise with each other when discouraged. We lament misfortunes and complain about injustices. We laugh ourselves out of bad moods. We say it sarcastically, ironically and playfully- sometimes within a single exchange. We throw it into conversations around people who have no idea what it represents and smile conspiratorially at its significance.
Our collection of family words has since expanded beyond the bus numbers of early days and has since been supplemented by other circumstances, family members and PVCs. But it is ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ that is the genesis of this familial lexicon, the one that is instantly understood and brings a smile to our faces no matter how exasperating the situation that occasions its use.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
April Fool's Day: If You Thought You Would Be Able to Catch Up, Think Again
And that brings us up-to-date through the winter: November, December, January and February. Admittedly there are fewer entries than there probably would have been if I’d been able to stick to my original fort-nightly schedule. And for that I apologise. But the important (cyber-friendly) bits are here. I promise. (You’ll just have to by the extended and uncut edition in paperback form upon my return. Haha.)
Unfortunately, time has this pesky habit of moving forward, so even though I managed to fit four months into four weeks of updates, I am still playing catch up. Why can’t March have 41 days? Didn’t Julius Caesar fiddle with the calendar at some point? I blame him.
Even though school is back in session, I will try very hard to get March and April up for your reading pleasure before April ends.
Also, I’ve been in Azerbaijan for 18 months now – it might be 19 - as of April 1st. Weird.
Unfortunately, time has this pesky habit of moving forward, so even though I managed to fit four months into four weeks of updates, I am still playing catch up. Why can’t March have 41 days? Didn’t Julius Caesar fiddle with the calendar at some point? I blame him.
Even though school is back in session, I will try very hard to get March and April up for your reading pleasure before April ends.
Also, I’ve been in Azerbaijan for 18 months now – it might be 19 - as of April 1st. Weird.
WARNING: Personal Hygiene May Necessitate Impromptu Hospital Visit
I hate my feet.
I understand that feet are a rather important part of the human anatomy. But honestly, the pair I was born with are more trouble than they are worth most of the time. Even in Azerbaijan.
I was cutting my tone-nails one Tuesday night (Yes. I lead an exciting life.) - When the latest pedial (is that a word?) mishap occurred. I managed to cause some drama with my big toe. There was blood and gauze involved.
But I put a plaster on it and went limping about my daily business. The big toe is actually quite an important body part, which is something you don’t realize until it has impaired function. Until Day 6. When I decided it was probably a good idea to go visit the doctor before my toe fell off due to gangrene. (I hasten to clarify: It wasn’t actually infected.)
So I skipped school that Friday, slept in an extra hour and caught a taxi to Baku. Now I have to admit that I totally expected the PeaceCorps doctor to give me the proverbial slap on the wrist for bothering him with something so silly before sending me home on an afternoon bus. Accordingly I brought my computer, the books I’d finished reading and some money for lunch.
So imagine my surprise at the following diagnosis: I’ll see if I can get you an appointment with a surgeon this afternoon.
Pardon? Surely, there was a translation barrier at work here. A surgeon for my toe! What exactly were they planning to do? Amputate it? It wasn’t a funny colour. Surely that wasn’t necessary. It turns out it was - the surgeon that is – not the amputation.
Later that afternoon I was sitting in an exam room at one of the Baku medical clinics. An English-speaking doctor explained to me what he planned to do to my toe, and confirmed my willingness for treatment after every sentence. Then he set to work. There were a few painful minutes when the doctor - refusing to believe my protests that the anesthesia hadn’t set in yet – started slicing a little bit prematurely. Otherwise it was an uneventful procedure. I survived. But missed my bus home.
I hadn’t been planning to spend the night. But I managed to borrow a t-shirt from the communal clothes pile in PCV lounge at the office and bought a toothbrush. I was not impressed the doctor had decreed no shower for 36 hours. Why else do PCVs come into Baku if not for the hot water on-demand?
But the fun doesn’t end there. The weather was very unpleasant – I stepped in a puddle getting off the bus at the hotel, therefore soaking my freshly bandaged foot. But winter in Baku warrants three pairs of socks, so although I was paranoid over dinner that my foot was going to fall off due to some sort of water-borne infection– the bandage stayed dry.
The random throbbing pain in my foot meant that I didn’t sleep well. But there was wireless internet at the hotel, so I was able to Skype with (both sets of) parents, some friends and surf YouTube until 3AM.
All in all it was a fairly harmless visit necessitated by my own carelessness. Hopefully this will be the only time I need to visit the doctor while in PeaceCorps.
I understand that feet are a rather important part of the human anatomy. But honestly, the pair I was born with are more trouble than they are worth most of the time. Even in Azerbaijan.
I was cutting my tone-nails one Tuesday night (Yes. I lead an exciting life.) - When the latest pedial (is that a word?) mishap occurred. I managed to cause some drama with my big toe. There was blood and gauze involved.
But I put a plaster on it and went limping about my daily business. The big toe is actually quite an important body part, which is something you don’t realize until it has impaired function. Until Day 6. When I decided it was probably a good idea to go visit the doctor before my toe fell off due to gangrene. (I hasten to clarify: It wasn’t actually infected.)
So I skipped school that Friday, slept in an extra hour and caught a taxi to Baku. Now I have to admit that I totally expected the PeaceCorps doctor to give me the proverbial slap on the wrist for bothering him with something so silly before sending me home on an afternoon bus. Accordingly I brought my computer, the books I’d finished reading and some money for lunch.
So imagine my surprise at the following diagnosis: I’ll see if I can get you an appointment with a surgeon this afternoon.
Pardon? Surely, there was a translation barrier at work here. A surgeon for my toe! What exactly were they planning to do? Amputate it? It wasn’t a funny colour. Surely that wasn’t necessary. It turns out it was - the surgeon that is – not the amputation.
Later that afternoon I was sitting in an exam room at one of the Baku medical clinics. An English-speaking doctor explained to me what he planned to do to my toe, and confirmed my willingness for treatment after every sentence. Then he set to work. There were a few painful minutes when the doctor - refusing to believe my protests that the anesthesia hadn’t set in yet – started slicing a little bit prematurely. Otherwise it was an uneventful procedure. I survived. But missed my bus home.
I hadn’t been planning to spend the night. But I managed to borrow a t-shirt from the communal clothes pile in PCV lounge at the office and bought a toothbrush. I was not impressed the doctor had decreed no shower for 36 hours. Why else do PCVs come into Baku if not for the hot water on-demand?
But the fun doesn’t end there. The weather was very unpleasant – I stepped in a puddle getting off the bus at the hotel, therefore soaking my freshly bandaged foot. But winter in Baku warrants three pairs of socks, so although I was paranoid over dinner that my foot was going to fall off due to some sort of water-borne infection– the bandage stayed dry.
The random throbbing pain in my foot meant that I didn’t sleep well. But there was wireless internet at the hotel, so I was able to Skype with (both sets of) parents, some friends and surf YouTube until 3AM.
All in all it was a fairly harmless visit necessitated by my own carelessness. Hopefully this will be the only time I need to visit the doctor while in PeaceCorps.
Which Set Of Parents Are You Again? (February)
By this point in my service everyone who has talked to me, read this blog or knows next to nothing about me - knows that Ata and Ana are pretty much the awesome-est in-country family a girl could ask for. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve had completely impartial sources confirm this point of view.
Ata and Ana take such good care of me and such an interest in my life sometimes it feels like they are actually my biological family. This is especially true when they say things that my ‘actual’ family has been known to say. Such as these two occasions… Italics emphasise my point.
On the phone…
M: Hi!
Ata: Hi! How are you?
M: I’m good.
Ata: Guess What? I talked to PCV K* on Skype last night. Why don’t you have Skype at home yet?
M: I live in Salyan.
Ata: Oh. Right.
M: But my landlord says he is going to install it soon. I will let you know.
Ata: Tell him to do it fast.
M: OK. I will. Bye.
*PVC K is an AZ8 who stayed next door for PST.
On Skype… A Week Later
Ata: Hi Melissa! Are you calling us from Salyan?
M: No. I’m in Baku.
Ata: But why didn’t you come to stay with us?
M: I had to go to the hospital. (See next post)
Ana: *running in from the other room* What did you do? Are you all right?
M: *lifts foot to show bandaged big toe to webcam* I’m fine. This is what happened.
Ata: That looks like a big bandage.
Ana: OK. But are you sure you’re OK?
M: I’m fine. But I have to stay at a hotel tonight. (I used the Russian word for hotel)
Ata: She will be fine. And Melissa, you mean *insert Azerbaijani for hotel*
M: Yes, Ata. * repeats Azerbaijani for hotel*. I’ll call when I get home. Bye.
Ata and Ana take such good care of me and such an interest in my life sometimes it feels like they are actually my biological family. This is especially true when they say things that my ‘actual’ family has been known to say. Such as these two occasions… Italics emphasise my point.
On the phone…
M: Hi!
Ata: Hi! How are you?
M: I’m good.
Ata: Guess What? I talked to PCV K* on Skype last night. Why don’t you have Skype at home yet?
M: I live in Salyan.
Ata: Oh. Right.
M: But my landlord says he is going to install it soon. I will let you know.
Ata: Tell him to do it fast.
M: OK. I will. Bye.
*PVC K is an AZ8 who stayed next door for PST.
On Skype… A Week Later
Ata: Hi Melissa! Are you calling us from Salyan?
M: No. I’m in Baku.
Ata: But why didn’t you come to stay with us?
M: I had to go to the hospital. (See next post)
Ana: *running in from the other room* What did you do? Are you all right?
M: *lifts foot to show bandaged big toe to webcam* I’m fine. This is what happened.
Ata: That looks like a big bandage.
Ana: OK. But are you sure you’re OK?
M: I’m fine. But I have to stay at a hotel tonight. (I used the Russian word for hotel)
Ata: She will be fine. And Melissa, you mean *insert Azerbaijani for hotel*
M: Yes, Ata. * repeats Azerbaijani for hotel*. I’ll call when I get home. Bye.
A Sonic Boom! (February)
One of the reasons my new house in the city feels like paradise is the gas heater in my living room. Fortunately for me, after PCV L moved out, my landlord replaced the old wood stove with a radiator style heater. Which was probably a good life choice on his part. If I’d had to figure out how to light the gas in a wood-burning style stove I would have probably burned the house down.
My landlady was (rightfully) skeptical of my ability to light the gas heater even with the improved heating unit. So for the first few weeks that I lived in my house, she would always light the pech (stove/heater) for me before I got home from school. Which had the added benefit of making the house warm BEFORE I walked through the door at 6PM.
But after a few weekends and tutorial from a PCV far more adept in pech-lighting than I will ever be, I was confident in my pech-lighting ability. The Golden Rule: Light the paper BEFORE turning on the gas. Pretty straight-forward. As long as you can get the paper to stay lit, while the gas cycles through the pipes.
Until a Thursday afternoon in February…
My landlady and I spent a few hours in her kitchen talking about various kitchen inspired topics. (Oh! Future blog post…) Then one of the neighbour’s kids came over to ask some questions about her Russian homework. So I went downstairs and set about lighting the pech by myself.
But the paper was refusing to stay lit. So I had to try a second time. Still didn’t work. So I tried to get it to catch a third time. (It may have been the fourth try. Counting has never been my strong point). And this time I was rewarded with a SONIC BOOM!
(Font is supposed to convey the KA-BOOM factor). It shook the glass. And brought my landlady running downstairs. (The nieghbour’s kid watched over the balcony half-hidden). But there was no giant fire ball. I still had all my limbs and eyebrows.
Of course my pride was a little bit worse for wear after the scolding I got from my landlady.
Needless to say I was taken off pech-lighting duty for another few weeks.
Also, as a result of this, I officially admire the people who do stuff with the speed of sound for a living. It can’t be good for the ear drums or the nerves.
My landlady was (rightfully) skeptical of my ability to light the gas heater even with the improved heating unit. So for the first few weeks that I lived in my house, she would always light the pech (stove/heater) for me before I got home from school. Which had the added benefit of making the house warm BEFORE I walked through the door at 6PM.
But after a few weekends and tutorial from a PCV far more adept in pech-lighting than I will ever be, I was confident in my pech-lighting ability. The Golden Rule: Light the paper BEFORE turning on the gas. Pretty straight-forward. As long as you can get the paper to stay lit, while the gas cycles through the pipes.
Until a Thursday afternoon in February…
My landlady and I spent a few hours in her kitchen talking about various kitchen inspired topics. (Oh! Future blog post…) Then one of the neighbour’s kids came over to ask some questions about her Russian homework. So I went downstairs and set about lighting the pech by myself.
But the paper was refusing to stay lit. So I had to try a second time. Still didn’t work. So I tried to get it to catch a third time. (It may have been the fourth try. Counting has never been my strong point). And this time I was rewarded with a SONIC BOOM!
(Font is supposed to convey the KA-BOOM factor). It shook the glass. And brought my landlady running downstairs. (The nieghbour’s kid watched over the balcony half-hidden). But there was no giant fire ball. I still had all my limbs and eyebrows.
Of course my pride was a little bit worse for wear after the scolding I got from my landlady.
Needless to say I was taken off pech-lighting duty for another few weeks.
Also, as a result of this, I officially admire the people who do stuff with the speed of sound for a living. It can’t be good for the ear drums or the nerves.
Library Mondays: No Boys Allowed (February)
I go to the library on Monday mornings for my Azerbaijani lessons.
One Monday I was sitting around after my lesson talking to the women that meet there outside of the usual club times for their own personal English enrichment. It turns out that this little gathering was part of a new scheme set up by PCV E and the library staff: Every Monday is Women’s Day. Excellent.
I decided to offer my services. I missed having the library as part of my weekly schedule (If you remember I all but lived at the library last summer.) And so “Famous Women Hour” was born. The aim of this club is to provide more information about the achievements of women in history and in the news today. I have to admit I’m more than a little bit excited about this project. And I’m learning stuff too.
So far we have talked about Women in Medicine and Women in Sport. There are plans to talk about Women in Politics and Women in Religion. There is also a baking extravaganza on the calendar in honour of Novruz, so I feel it would only be appropriate if Julia Child made an appearance.
Did You Know?
- Clara Barton’s real first name was Clarissa.
- 2010 was the UN Year of the Nurse in honour of the centennial of Florence Nightngale’s death.
- Nadia Comaneci lived in Oklahoma after her defection from Romania
- Hilary Clinton had a higher annual salary than Bill until he was elected President.
- Indira Ghandi held office for 15 years- the world’s longest serving female Prime Minister.
One Monday I was sitting around after my lesson talking to the women that meet there outside of the usual club times for their own personal English enrichment. It turns out that this little gathering was part of a new scheme set up by PCV E and the library staff: Every Monday is Women’s Day. Excellent.
I decided to offer my services. I missed having the library as part of my weekly schedule (If you remember I all but lived at the library last summer.) And so “Famous Women Hour” was born. The aim of this club is to provide more information about the achievements of women in history and in the news today. I have to admit I’m more than a little bit excited about this project. And I’m learning stuff too.
So far we have talked about Women in Medicine and Women in Sport. There are plans to talk about Women in Politics and Women in Religion. There is also a baking extravaganza on the calendar in honour of Novruz, so I feel it would only be appropriate if Julia Child made an appearance.
Did You Know?
- Clara Barton’s real first name was Clarissa.
- 2010 was the UN Year of the Nurse in honour of the centennial of Florence Nightngale’s death.
- Nadia Comaneci lived in Oklahoma after her defection from Romania
- Hilary Clinton had a higher annual salary than Bill until he was elected President.
- Indira Ghandi held office for 15 years- the world’s longest serving female Prime Minister.
A 45-Minute Commute: International Football, Weather Forecasts, Proverbs and Karaoke (January-February)
How do I pass the time on my new 45-minute commute every morning?
It is actually a quite enjoyable hour of my day. Here are some of the things we’ve discussed or done in the last four weeks as we’ve made our way to work…
International Football: (I lied. This was on the way home one day).
Running to catch the bus one day corresponded with half-time in an Azerbaijan International Friendly football match. So all the men on the bus were discussing the score. But on my way out the door Azerbaijan had scored again, so the information circulating around the bus wasn’t in real time. I jumped into the conversation to ‘correct’ the score.
Needless to say, my two cents caused quite a stir. Apparently, it is un-lady-like to watch football. What? I visited with my World Cup neighbours that afternoon. It was only natural that there had been football on the TV. But mostly, the men were just grateful for the score update.
Weather Forecasts:
One morning in February there happened to be frost on the ground during our drive. (This winter has been incredibly mild.) My neighbour tried to explain the plot of an old Azerbaijani movie to me. I have since forgotten the name. But the plot centres around the fact that when the national weather forecast station breaks down, the meteorologists rely on an old man to predict the weather with the assistance of his aching joints.
Proverbs
We have spent many mornings trading proverbs and idioms. I wish I’d been able to write some of them down. I can’t remember most of them. But it is a good little bit of cultural exchange considering it is barely 8AM when we are en-route.
Karaoke
My favorite mornings are the ones when my neighbour offers to give me a ride in his personal car. This has the double-barrelled advantage of me being able to sleep for an extra hour and speak solely English until I get to school. The fact that we sing along to the 80’s music on his MP3 player is just an added bonus that puts an extra kick in my Friday mornings.
So yes. The trip is long And sometimes I pine for the days when I stayed in my PJs until 10AM. But I try to make the best of it.
It is actually a quite enjoyable hour of my day. Here are some of the things we’ve discussed or done in the last four weeks as we’ve made our way to work…
International Football: (I lied. This was on the way home one day).
Running to catch the bus one day corresponded with half-time in an Azerbaijan International Friendly football match. So all the men on the bus were discussing the score. But on my way out the door Azerbaijan had scored again, so the information circulating around the bus wasn’t in real time. I jumped into the conversation to ‘correct’ the score.
Needless to say, my two cents caused quite a stir. Apparently, it is un-lady-like to watch football. What? I visited with my World Cup neighbours that afternoon. It was only natural that there had been football on the TV. But mostly, the men were just grateful for the score update.
Weather Forecasts:
One morning in February there happened to be frost on the ground during our drive. (This winter has been incredibly mild.) My neighbour tried to explain the plot of an old Azerbaijani movie to me. I have since forgotten the name. But the plot centres around the fact that when the national weather forecast station breaks down, the meteorologists rely on an old man to predict the weather with the assistance of his aching joints.
Proverbs
We have spent many mornings trading proverbs and idioms. I wish I’d been able to write some of them down. I can’t remember most of them. But it is a good little bit of cultural exchange considering it is barely 8AM when we are en-route.
Karaoke
My favorite mornings are the ones when my neighbour offers to give me a ride in his personal car. This has the double-barrelled advantage of me being able to sleep for an extra hour and speak solely English until I get to school. The fact that we sing along to the 80’s music on his MP3 player is just an added bonus that puts an extra kick in my Friday mornings.
So yes. The trip is long And sometimes I pine for the days when I stayed in my PJs until 10AM. But I try to make the best of it.
Mid-Service Conference (MSC): Abbreviations Aren’t Allowed In Scrabble
In the middle of our second winter in Azerbaijan we have our Mid-Service Conference. Which is exactly what it’s name suggests – a conference to mark the mid-way point in our service. It is conveniently scheduled during the most unpleasant part of the year, so that we have something to look forward to - and something fun to look back on during the rest of the winter.
This year’s conference was scheduled for the end of January, so it took place a little bit earlier than we were expecting. But last year’s February conference coincided with a snowstorm, so I can understand the schedule shuffle.
By and large it was your standard Peace Corps conference. It was definitely overwhelming to see every member of AZ7 gathered in one place – this was the first time we had all been together since our first week in Azerbaijan. There was lots of time spent sharing experiences and an unnecessary number of photocopies. There was a panel discussion with RPCVs about Life After Peace Corps. I can’t believe it’s already time to start worrying about that. I still have 11 months left! (Or I had 11 months at the time.) But I guess I have to join the ‘real world’ eventually. Scary!
But there were also some unique elements – a particular AZ7 flair – to proceedings.
A group decision was made that we really didn’t want to wear business casual to the conference. Instead (almost) everyone showed up wearing an Azerbaijan tracksuit. There was nothing staff could say if we were all wearing one. In fact, by Day 2 some of the staff members were wearing theirs.
I am particularly proud of my tracksuit. In true procrastinator fashion I waited until the morning before to purchase mine. But it was definitely a talking point at the conference. It is a windbreaker style – complete with hood. The colouring is more fluorescent than realistic but I’m OK with that. Originally I had planned to pass my tracksuit onto Mom – the true sportswoman in the family - after it’s weekend of use, but I don’t really want to part with it after all. Sorry Mom!
In the evenings I found myself involved in marathon games of Scrabble. Most of time it was a team effort in some form. At one point: there were four of us trying to make sense of a particularly trying set of letters. All in all: we converted a few more people to the wonders of Scrabble; came up with some pretty excellent words (ARGYLE, sadly not mine.) and had to consult an iPhone dictionary on more than one occasion.
And so by the time mid-service conference wrapped I still unconvinced that ‘zig’ and ‘zag’ could be used independently. (Can anyone shed some light on this for me?), but re-motivated to tackle Year 2.
This year’s conference was scheduled for the end of January, so it took place a little bit earlier than we were expecting. But last year’s February conference coincided with a snowstorm, so I can understand the schedule shuffle.
By and large it was your standard Peace Corps conference. It was definitely overwhelming to see every member of AZ7 gathered in one place – this was the first time we had all been together since our first week in Azerbaijan. There was lots of time spent sharing experiences and an unnecessary number of photocopies. There was a panel discussion with RPCVs about Life After Peace Corps. I can’t believe it’s already time to start worrying about that. I still have 11 months left! (Or I had 11 months at the time.) But I guess I have to join the ‘real world’ eventually. Scary!
But there were also some unique elements – a particular AZ7 flair – to proceedings.
A group decision was made that we really didn’t want to wear business casual to the conference. Instead (almost) everyone showed up wearing an Azerbaijan tracksuit. There was nothing staff could say if we were all wearing one. In fact, by Day 2 some of the staff members were wearing theirs.
I am particularly proud of my tracksuit. In true procrastinator fashion I waited until the morning before to purchase mine. But it was definitely a talking point at the conference. It is a windbreaker style – complete with hood. The colouring is more fluorescent than realistic but I’m OK with that. Originally I had planned to pass my tracksuit onto Mom – the true sportswoman in the family - after it’s weekend of use, but I don’t really want to part with it after all. Sorry Mom!
In the evenings I found myself involved in marathon games of Scrabble. Most of time it was a team effort in some form. At one point: there were four of us trying to make sense of a particularly trying set of letters. All in all: we converted a few more people to the wonders of Scrabble; came up with some pretty excellent words (ARGYLE, sadly not mine.) and had to consult an iPhone dictionary on more than one occasion.
And so by the time mid-service conference wrapped I still unconvinced that ‘zig’ and ‘zag’ could be used independently. (Can anyone shed some light on this for me?), but re-motivated to tackle Year 2.
Monday, March 28, 2011
I Never Had An Easy Bake Oven
In America I never had a reason to bake. My sister was the resident Betty Crocker.
Recently, I have become quite adept at the whole baking thing. Now that I see my ‘red oven’ as soon as I walk through my front door it’s kind of hard to resist.
It took my landlady a few weeks to realize that I was just baking things because I felt like it - or because I needed the stress relief. (Izzie Stevens anyone?) Not in honour of impending visitors. But now that she’s figured it out, she provides the eggs for my endeavors and we split the outcome.
In fact she made her husband (my landlord) take her own ‘red oven’ to the repair shop, so that she can make her own cakes and cookies. We made my landlord an apple cake for his birthday.
I usually end up making something at least once a week. I would be happy to share recipes. But I’ve misplaced my cookbook.
My favorite so far: chocolate hazelnut bread. ☺
Recently, I have become quite adept at the whole baking thing. Now that I see my ‘red oven’ as soon as I walk through my front door it’s kind of hard to resist.
It took my landlady a few weeks to realize that I was just baking things because I felt like it - or because I needed the stress relief. (Izzie Stevens anyone?) Not in honour of impending visitors. But now that she’s figured it out, she provides the eggs for my endeavors and we split the outcome.
In fact she made her husband (my landlord) take her own ‘red oven’ to the repair shop, so that she can make her own cakes and cookies. We made my landlord an apple cake for his birthday.
I usually end up making something at least once a week. I would be happy to share recipes. But I’ve misplaced my cookbook.
My favorite so far: chocolate hazelnut bread. ☺
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