My laptop, my laptop, why hast thou forsaken me?

I'm making a real effort to keep updating this blog, even though (1) nothing exciting is happening, (2) I have a bad case of the February blahs, and (3) I've lost all access to my laptop.

Let's address those things in reverse order.

3. I am losing my mind without my own computer. I have to remember all the passwords to my social networking sites. I can't access any of my files, so I can't share anything or get to my teaching resources. I can't upload the photos I've taken recently. I can't download new episodes of my favourite podcasts, or any podcasts at all, which have been my lifeline to pop culture civilization. I can't veg out in my room watching movies, which means I've been ripping through the books I brought at a dangerous pace. I feel like I've lost a limb, or (more accurately) part of my brain.

I get the impression that if you're older and are reading this you think I'm an ass. Fine, although in my defense, my generation has had our brains Mimsy Were the Borogoves'd and we can't function in your primitive Boomer world.

Oh god, now I'm just being mean. Laptoooopppppppppp, come baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

2. I always get the February blahs. It's not S.A.D., February is just terrible no matter where I am. Here's why February is the worst:
     a. Valentine's Day, obviously.
     b. The bloom is off the rose, re: winter. Remember when everything was white and sparkly and the ice and snow reflected Christmas lights and good cheer? Was that only two months ago?
     c. It's the shortest month, but manages to drag on like it's the longest month.
     d. I don't know anyone who has a leap year birthday, which would really liven the joint up.
     e. No statutory holidays in Georgia, while Ontario only recently got one - and it's called Family Day. How stupid is that? February 15th should be a Canadian national holiday (Flag Day - it's already there on your calendars!) and there should be red and white fireworks and tobogganing and hot toddies. THAT'S a holiday!

1. This is how bored I am - I work out five days a week. Going to the gym is the most boring thing in the entire world, but I do it (or go swimming) most days because what else am I going to do?

Things less boring than going to the gym:
     a. An entire two-semester economics course
     b. The magazine selection at a dentist's office
     c. Watching TV in a language you don't understand
     d. Your extended family (I know this one's a stretch, but I'm making a rhetorical point here).

In an effort to be less bored, I've been trying to plan some trips. Or, get someone else to plan trips for me, because February has sapped my interest in planning, dreaming, believing, getting out of bed, etc. A Georgian I know wants to take me and a couple of other foreigners to Baku, Azerbaijan. I'd love to go, but the visa is expensive ($120-150). My Georgian friend called the Azeri embassy, who told her that discussing the price of visas is a "sensitive matter" not suited to the telephone, so she should have tea with one of their consuls and "talk it over" it in person. She thinks that Azerbaijan is corrupt enough that she can get us a group discount on visas. Stupendous.

Also stupendous was the time when a car, parked directly below my window, had its alarm go off in the middle of the night. It was one of those alarms that alternates between a series of horrible patterns and tones. The next morning someone had pelted the car with tomatoes. Sweet revenge!

The other day, I saw a very confused stray dog in one of the subway stations. I'm afraid this marks the beginning of Tbilisi's stray dogs mastering the Metro, like they do in Moscow - which is exactly like Rise of the Planet of the Apes, but with rabies.

Do you remember how the government of Georgia financed a Hollywood movie about the August 2008 war with Russia, starring Andy Garcia as a very melodramatic Misha Saakashvili? Of course you do. Well, Russia has financed its own movie about that conflict. It's called August Eighth, and its plot revolves around a divorced woman who sends her 7-year-old son to Georgia to be with his father, but must make her way into a war zone to find him once all hell breaks loose. Obviously this is a more audience-friendly story than the Georgian film, which is about some dick American war reporter played by Rupert ("who?") Friend. The Russian film is also co-written by an American, and has been picked up for distribution by 20th Century Fox.

Oh, and there are giant fighting robots in it.

Just like in the real war.

Five Days of War US box office gross: $32,296
August Eighth US box office gross (estimated): A billion

How I pay the bills

I'm back from an extended absence once again, although this one was a little less intentional. I've had a surprisingly dark return to Georgia which, in concert with a broken laptop screen, has conspired to keep me away from my blog.

I've also been stupendously busy. And I don't mean busy in that, "SIGH, I AM JUST SUCH A BUSY PERSON" way, which implies an utter lack of time management skills and a disregard for other people, but in an "I work four jobs" way.

My second term in Georgia has been marked by a burst of ambition that saw me tell more than one person I was going to pick up yoga. I don't make New Year's resolutions, but I do tend to say stupid shit in January, which is essentially the same thing.

This ambitious kick has prompted me to add, in addition to my teaching position at the Police Academy, an editing position at an English-language newspaper, regular tutoring, and freelance English stylist work. Oh, and I'm a voice-over artist now, too.

So I'm getting to know the marshrutka system really well, and walking a lot, and filling the time I'd otherwise spend surfing the internet or watching videos on my laptop. (Which isn't to say that there's not a laptop screen-sized hole in my heart. Because dammit, I was in the middle of season 3 of Scrubs!).

I had a delightful exchange with a cab driver last week. It was very Georgia. I had caught a taxi home from a friend's apartment, when he hit a big pothole and completely blew out a back tire. He tried to get me to wait for him to change it, but it was late, and snowing, and we were stopped in the literal middle of the embankment highway. So I hailed a new cab.

Normally taxi drivers like to test the limits of my Georgian, but this guy was silent. It wasn't until we got to my place when this exchange took place:

Me: რამდენი ლარი? (How many lari?)

Cabbie: шесть.

Me: шесть?

Cabbie: шесть.

Me: ბოდიში, ვარ ენგლისური. რამდენი? (Sorry, I'm English. How many?)

Cabbie: English? I thought you were Russian! Six lari.

The only English-speaking taxi driver in Tbilisi and we sat in silence the entire ride.

Normally, I would have taken a marshrutka from my friend's apartment home, but the last time I tried to do that I was mistaken for a prostitute. I was waiting by the side of the road (first mistake), looking absolutely ravishing in my winter coat and plastic grocery bag (second mistake), when a Jeep pulled up beside me and the two men inside asked me something in Georgian. Thinking they were asking for directions (sidebar: Obviously the blonde girl is the best person to ask in Tbilisi, oy), I asked them if they knew English. The younger one did, and asked if I'd like a ride. Thinking to myself that Georgians are such nice, thoughtful people, I politely declined and went back to waiting for the marshrutka. A few seconds later, the driver got out of the Jeep, and approached me, saying in broken English, "$100".

I didn't quite get it.

"Uh, no, no thank you," I said, a tad confused.

"$150."

"No..." It started to dawn on me.

"$200."

Now I got it. And I was pissed. I told him no again but he wouldn't leave. That's when I snarled "შენი დედა!" (literally, "Your mother", a vulgar Georgian curse and delightfully appropriate in this situation).

Now he was confused. Like it never crossed his mind that I wasn't a prostitute. I pointed towards his car and told him to fuck off. He ambled away.

Later, my host mother told me she had been propositioned at the same intersection.

A social experiment

Public displays of matrimonial commitment and their effect on incidences of sexual harassment: A case study

by AE Challinor

Introduction

Within the Orthodox Christian church and some East Asian cultures, it is tradition for married individuals to display their status with a band of precious metal worn on the third finger of their right hand ("ring finger"). This differs from non-Orthodox Christian and secular Western traditions, in which rings of commitment and legal or religious matrimonial status are worn almost exclusively on the ring finger of the left hand. When representatives of these two traditions meet, confusion as to an individual's romantic, social - or even economic - availability is possible.

The author (and subject) commonly wears a two-tone gold signet ring on the third finger of her right hand. (See Figure 1). In the past, this has led individuals from Orthodox or Eastern cultures to inquire as to her marital status and/or the whereabouts of her husband. As the author currently resides in the Republic of Georgia, an primarily Orthodox state, this confusion has been made acute. 

Figure 1

In an interview with a Georgian chiropractor in Los Angeles, California (conducted in August of 2010), the author was assured that "Georgian men will love you". This hypothesis has since been proven incorrect (paper forthcoming).

While the subject's peers have suggested the use of this ring as a form of "protection" against unwanted attention, this raises the question of the effectiveness of a ring on the "marriage finger" as a communications tool. Does a wedding band prevent uninvited romantic attention, sexual harassment or meddling from mother-surrogates? Similarly, does its absence encourage these same behaviours? This paper seeks to determine the effect of presumed wedding bands on the beliefs and attitudes of strangers in Orthodox Georgia.

Hypothesis

Subject will experience more romantic and/or sexual attention when the third finger on her right hand remains bare. The null hypothesis (H0) will be rejected.

Methodology

For a duration of fourteen days, subject removed ring from the third finger of her right hand, leaving no rings on any finger.

A control was previously conducted, for a duration of 2.5 months, during which the subject wore the stated ring on the stated finger in the stated state.

Observations

Subject observed no change in attitude from either acquaintances or strangers when compared to the control period. A small sample of car horns heard while the subject travelled along public thoroughfares was inconclusive, as car horns in Georgia are often utilized in place of brakes. 

Results

No incidents of sexual harassment or romantic interest were observed. Failure to reject null hypothesis.  

Subject also reported that the finger that previously held her ring felt "slightly weird", suggesting potential for follow-up research in phantom ring studies. 

Conclusion

Subject incapable of giving it away.

Ho Hum II

A few more snippets from my everyday life...

I was at a party on Saturday night where I saw a 2-year-old drinking beer. Don't worry - it was his birthday.

I love the way that, when a parent with a small child gets on a marshutka, the other people on board grab the child to steady it, and often put it on a nearby seat or lap while the parent climbs aboard. This is completely normal, the parent never blinks an eye, and there are no howls of "THAT MOLESTER HAS MY BABY!". It's accepted that the people on the marshutka are going to make your child safer, rather than place it in harm's way. It is, I think, the sign of a healthy society.

A sign of an unhealthy society is the way some Georgians have concluded that the best place to count their change or check their cell phone is in store entrances or at the top of stairwells. No, it is not the best place to engage in those activities, so get the fuck out of my way. (I suppose it goes without saying that I walk much faster than most Georgians. I walk faster than most people, so obviously nothing is different here. To put it scientifically, if you and all Georgians and everyone you know under 6'4" walks at average pace - 5kph/3mph - then I walk at approximately the speed of sound).

There is a restaurant I frequent so often that all the staff recognize me. I'm a regular. I love becoming a regular of places (see also Osaka in Springfield, VA; Go Sushi in Milton, ON; Raavi Kebab in London, UK). Here's how often I'm there: one of the waitresses changed her hair recently, I noticed, complimented her, and she wasn't weirded out by this. (I also have a schwarma guy near work. Yeah, that's right, I have a schwarma guy. On a related note, I may eat too much schwarma).

The atrocious state of Tbilisi streets and sidewalks has nearly destroyed two pairs of my shoes (one, a pair of heels, may be too far gone to resole). That said, I have not, as of this writing, fallen down an unmarked sinkhole or hidden staircase.

I've gotten used to the toe-mangling speed of the Metro escalators; they seem slow to me now. I'm worried I'm going to have some sort of fit of impatience if I take an escalator in Canada. (Ha ha ha, I hear you laughing, when is Ashley not having a fit of impatience in Canada!).

The following video appeared in my facebook feed today, and it's reminiscent of the degradation of my own English. As much as I'm learning English grammar and sentence structure as I teach it, I'm also spending most of my time speaking slowly, simply and, sometimes, in a strange Georgian/English/Georgian-accent-in-English hybrid: I say "yes?" at the end of most questions I ask, I've picked up the Georgian habit of saying, "Of course, Eshli, of course!" whenever I say something obvious, I sometimes drop articles and pick up incorrect syntax in an effort to make new speakers understand me by using their own butchered English, etc. It's a dangerous habit!

Anyway, comedy:

True Tales of Teaching English to Legal Adults

Things I've said to my students on test day:
"If I tell you to shut up and you don't, I'm going to rip up your test and tell you to leave."
"Don't bother asking your friends for help; they don't know the answers."
"Stop talking! You're just giving him the wrong answers!"
"Please stop making my life harder."

Student: "Are you married?"
Me: "No."
Student: "Why not?"

Student: "Is that your real hair?"
Me: "Yes."
Student: "Can I touch it?"

Student, who has not bothered to show up for any class save the first: "You give us exam to look at?"
Me: "No!"
Student: "Why not??"

Me, to students talking during a test: "Stop cheating!"
Student: "But we were not talking about the test!"
My mind: (boggled)

Student: "I am not eating... I am on past for holiday."
Me: "Do you mean a fast?"
Student: "No, it is past."
Me: "You're confusing 'p' and 'f''; don't worry, a lot of Georgians do it."
Student: "Are you sure? I think it is past."

Student: "Putin is a mozerpucker."
Me: "If you're going to use that word, at least pronounce it correctly. Mo-TH-er-FU-ck-er."

Student: "T, U, V, W, SEX, Y, Z." (entire class giggles)
Me: (dies inside)

Driven to distraction

Kristen,

I am alive, and so is this blog, I promise. I have had a week that defies description, swinging wildly from spectacular highs to devastating lows. There really is no such thing as a "normal" day in this country.

To summarize: I've been sick, dealing with a multitude of work problems, shooting Glocks and crappy Croatian knockoffs at the police academy, goofing off on the Russian border, spending three days in the mountains, taking midnight trips to Turkish outhouses, starting a new job, arranging my five (5!!) tutoring subjects, yelling at my superiors, neglecting my host family, mooching off American generousity, making new friends, seeing Saakashvili for a third time, and crushing on a Georgian spy. If I had internet at home, I might have been able to update you on this cryptic list in real time.

I have lots of photos to upload and stories to tell, and once I have time to sit in a wifi-enabled cafe for a few hours I'll share everything. (Well, maybe not everything - I don't want to incriminate myself).

At this very moment, I am without my laptop so I'm in an dark and musty internet cafe, surrounded by what a former co-worker who lived in the Ukraine described as "pubescent boy-scum playing violent RPGs and looking at soft-core porn". You nailed it, Joyce.

*  *  *

[NB: If you are my mother, please do not read this next section.]

My host father has driven me to work twice now. The first time, I got in the back seat and started to put on my seatbelt. "No, no, no," he said. "Is no problem!" while giving me a "Why are you being ridiculous?" face. I was in a bad mood that morning, so I declined to get into the "In my culture, we always wear our seatbelts" insult-fest. (In Georgia, it's sometimes considered an insult to wear a seatbelt, as if you don't trust the ability of your driver. I feel like the parent of a teenager in these instances: "It's not that I don't trust you, it's everybody else on the road I don't trust!").

So this morning I get in the car again, and don't bother reaching for my seatbelt (it was my host father who was in a bit of a mood today). He had just received a call that he had to be at work ASAP and so all his Georgian stunt driving skills were being put into play. He was speeding, of course, but he also did a move that I almost admire - instead of stopping behind a line of cars at a red light, he drives in the opposing lane and skirts in front of them when the light changes. He did this today before the light even turned green. 

So of course I surreptitiously reach for my seatbelt and start casually sliding under it. That's when I realize there is a belt but not a buckle. There's nowhere to stick the male end, essentially. (This is not the first time this has happened to me). I can't explain it, though. I don't think the fine people at Toyota or Nissan or Opel build cars with only the belt and not the buckle. Someone in Georgia is removing half the pieces. I can only do now what I did this morning: resigned sigh.

My host father also has a corporate car; by which I mean he has a silver KIA hatchback with the police academy logo on the side. Wocka wocka.

Listening Skills