I cooked my first big-ass turkey breast. All on my own. I made stuffing from the box. I sauteed mushrooms and onions. Later we baked cookies...

This year I got my first adult Christmas tree. It has lights and red and gold ornaments. I wrapped the presents and put them under the tree. I haven't had a Christmas tree since I was thirteen.

I never thought I would find this bliss of domesticity so comforting.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Variation on the theme (or more on nostalgia)

Боже Какой Пустяк

Я вижу небо в нем тишина
Я поднимаюсь к небу еле дыша
И вдруг понимаю это во мне душа
Странное дело это моя душа
Как нелепо жить вниз головой
Когда такое небо есть надо мной
И кажется звезды можно достать рукой
Я и не ведал что этот мир такой

Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей

Я был богом в прошлую ночь
Я отыскал дорогу и выбежал прочь
Богом стать просто если уже невмочь
И незачем плакать дом покидая в ночь
Но оказалось даже тогда
Что все дороги света ведут в никуда
И даже когда под ногами блестит вода
Бог просто не может странником быть всегда

Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей

Поднимаю свой воротник
Ругаю дождь и слякоть будто старик
Бегу за толпой видно уже привык
И в памяти небо как нереальный блик
Но однажды мне станет легко
И будет все не важно и далеко
Меня примет небо в свой неземной покой

Александр Иванов

In search for that perfect cupcake...

Ну что, happy birthday, что ли?

On getting one year older...

“Holy crap! I have lines under my eyes,” greets me my computer screen at the crack of dawn. It’s Yulya, im-ing me on Google talk.

“I just looked in the mirror in the bathroom at work and was like wtf?” she goes on. “One day you wake up and you’re like I just aged overnight! It's like good lord and the birthday is coming up. What am I supposed to do?”

I try not to think about the image that was staring back at me in my own bathroom mirror about two minutes ago.

“Didn’t you get the memo that says that bathroom mirrors lie?” I write back. “And if it’s any consolation, my skin tone is not what it used to be. And I have about a dozen of gray hairs…And I am older than you are…”

“But you're cute and all and you’ll always look like you’re seventeen. And that’s a compliment, by the way…”

Regardless whether I look like seventeen or not, I have never been as aware of my age as I am this year. And that is without even having to see an occasional gray strand. First there was the trip back home that made me realize that had I been living in Armenia, I would be pushing it close to the dooms of spinsterhood by now. Seeing my much younger cousins married and with kids didn’t help either Yet, there I was, no kids and all, stuck in a lifestyle of a perpetual student that doesn’t seem to have an end in any foreseeable future. Later this year, throughout this entire past semester I was constantly reminded of my age thanks to the couple of undergraduate courses that I had to take. And yet, feeling ancient aside, I am coming to really appreciate the fact that thank god, I’m over twenty one and a quarter life existential crisis closer to whatever it is that I am moving towards to. Looking back at my myself at various points of my past makes me extremely grateful for no longer being that young, that misguided, that naïve and that arrogant. Looking at myself now I realize how much I really value the experience, the knowledge and the wisdom that comes to me with every passing year, even if I still react to the physical signs of aging with a “holy crap!”

***

I remember around this time last year I first caught myself thinking and then telling Mother Sugar that I am actually looking forward to being old. Somehow there is this image in my mind of an old woman – wise, serene, composed, in a big house full of books and maps … I see myself sitting in a chair for hours at a time, leisurely musing on things far removed from the everyday life, things that go beyond one’s own life experiences and things that I’ll never have the time to think about while I am young… I remember talking about this with Yulya as we split a mediocre brownie in a bakery in Tbilisi this past summer… and how we decided that when we get old, we’ll open our own pastry shop, and she’ll have a garden and I’ll study butterflies…

This morning I remind her of that conversation. And tell her that I have heard that vitamin E does miracles to the skin. I am also one year closer. And it’s making me smile.

It's about that time, isn't it?

I am three days and two final exams away from the winter break - the only real break I get to have since the winter break of last year. I finally feel how the craziness of this entire year is starting to tell on me, so the coming month of no obligations is much anticipated. And yet, I already have my work cut out for me: learn integration and differential equations; read on chaos theory and difference equations; read up on game theory that we didn't finish in class and go through ever single Foreign Policy issue sitting on the library shelf. Frankly, I much rather be doing exactly that than studying for the finals. If there is one thing I dread about school is those last couple of days regardless of how well I think I know the subjects and how well prepared I think I am.

Speaking of drama...

A while back I wrote a post titled "А напоследок я скажу," which happened to be the name of an old Russian romance from the film "A Cruel Romance." Although I have been been looking everywhere for the film, I was delighted to find the beautiful and heartbreaking song itself, which I am sharing with you here.

The bloody aftermath...

I am awfully sorry to disappoint my readers, but my adventures of this past summer didn’t even come close to resemble the colorful plots that my dear friend nicely laid out here. Unfortunately we’re looking at ramblings of a neurotic female instead of the drama of Mexican telenovellas. The diplomat didn’t turn out to be the cousin of the boy, there were no marines anywhere in the vicinity and I ended up back in Richmond safely and soundly, missing out on Cairo and abductions and confinements in tomb like structures with sex starved terrorists. Apologies again. If I can somehow make up for the lack of excitement, maybe I will, at some point in the future, when I am old and retired, turn this into an action packed flick, somehow managing to incorporate the KGB into this rest of the potpourri as well. After all, there are only so many boring old memoirs that the world can bear to read.

I do have to admit that this particular event did have a quite a lasting impact. After all, it’s not like proposals like this happen to me on a regular basis. If I were smart enough and knew better, I would simply let it go, attributing the temporary lapse of judgment of the said diplomat to Yerevan summer heat, alcohol, Indian spices and scantly clad women swarming the streets of my city, instead of wasting my precious time trying to figure out why on earth would anyone want propose to someone they have just met. Especially since I make it pretty obvious that those of my type are nothing but trouble, let alone suitable marriage material.

Had I been smarter, I would have known better not to question other people’s motives. Most of the time I can hardly figure out my own for that matter. As much as I claim that the underlying motives of US foreign policies are blatantly obvious, the dark and murky kind belonging to the personnel of the aforementioned department are better left alone. But even when I consider the most harmless of these motives, you have got to agree that proposing marriage must be the worst trick to use for anyone who wants to get laid. God, even I have over a dozen of more creative one-liners in my back pocket that have a better chance of success. Had the man been more honest about his intentions, I would have kindly pointed him to the right direction, equipped him with a couple of my own one-liners and sent him away with blessings. The story would have ended right there without any hurt feelings or bruised egos, as I would congratulate myself with yet another successfully accomplished mission…

And yet, at that moment, despite my seemingly cheerful appearance and humorous mood, I was really and seriously enraged. And the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. Thinking about the banality of this whole situation - a foreign diplomat in an exotic country, a young local female and the bright prospect of becoming a diplomatic wife … The fact that this particular subject was not a balding male with a protruding beer gut didn’t significantly improve the situation. If anything, it reminded me of the circumstances under which I was married years ago and clearly, it wasn’t something that they put in the curry that was making me sick in the stomach.

Some may see this situation as incredibly noble and romantic. After all, there was that slim possibility that the poor diplomat had the best of intentions. And yet I found it nothing but repulsive. I couldn’t stop but wonder that what I was encountering was one of the worst moves in gender politics. He was proposing marriage to a woman he had just met. He was handing it to her on a silver plate as if it was the best that she could have hoped for in her lifetime. Was this what he thought women wanted? Was it all that he thought women wanted? Was this his idea of impressing women? Should I have sat there, floored and flattered and dizzy with expectations of some happily ever after? I left the restaurant furious, wondering whether this really was the best that I could ever hope for– a reckless, thoughtless marriage proposal thrown at me as if it was the end all, be all.

But as I was walking home, I thought about women who may really want this. Women who might perceive situations like this one as appropriate, noble, romantic... I thought about women that would be happy to trade places with me and yet others who may be impatiently waiting for their partners to offer what this man was offering to me so readily and eagerly… Maybe I was missing a point; maybe all that I had accomplished during the years of my adult life was become a heartless romance-intolerant cynic. Maybe marriage really was some kind of an end-all, be all, and I was simply too stubborn, too vain and misguided to really see the point.

Maybe I will never, to my shrink’s disappointment, come to understand the point. After all, I am damaged goods when it comes to anything marriage related, given my past track record. And yet, even if I believe that marriage isn’t the best that I can ever hope for, I really wish that there is something more than reckless frivolity involved when it comes down to it. That night, still upset and frustrated, I asked the boy whether he would ever marry someone like me. Just like that. Over a text message. Unaware and unsuspecting, he wrote me back “Of course,” and called me to find out whether I was feeling ok. Now that, my friends, is what I see as true romance. Everything else can simply go to hell, maybe with the exception of a hot stripper. A bonus point if she has an eye patch.

Bringing the chicken curry back

Note: The bulk of the narrative and subsequent speculations of the current and following posts were partially written in Yerevan and have been inspired by the following:

I was only weeks away from moving in with the boy,

I had been thinking quite a lot about the Golden Notebook and the relationship of Anna with Michael and her fictitious characters Ella and Paul,

An event that is soon to become a focal point here – I was proposed to by a certain diplomatic servant of the United States to Armenia.

Yeah, you heard me right – a diplomatic servant of relative importance (neither his post nor his identity should be revealed for apparent reasons) proposed marriage over a meal of chicken curry and a couple of mango lasses (of course there has to be chicken curry involved somewhere in here, doesn’t it?) at a lovely Indian restaurant in downtown Yerevan.

The horror of horrors – what an ungodly act! Even the fact that I have really pretty eyes (?) does not serve as grounds for an excuse for such … (I can’t even find words to describe such atrocity). And yet, as serious as he made the whole thing sound (I’m not sure if you can ever take the State Department seriously), I certainly do hope that he was joking, otherwise the said State Department should be gravely concerned with the state of mental health of its employees. So to keep the same humorous air, I told him that I would marry him if he took me to Beirut for the honeymoon. He said that there was not even a slight chance of that happening and that Cairo was the farthest that he would go to draw that line of compromise (compromise? Before marriage? Come on!). I shrugged my shoulders and calmly rejected his offer, as I cold heartedly broke his heart (not really). The end of story, you would think? Not quite.

The thing is, crazy and ridiculous shit always happens to me when I am in Yerevan. That’s a known fact that can be taken for granted. But the usual suspects of such ridiculousness used to involve any or all combinations of the following: the fat bastard, peace corps, strippers and the marines… Diplomatic staff? I am not sure whether I should consider this as an upgrade or a downgrade from the above listed bunch.

The scary thing is that had I been younger and under different circumstances, I would have said “yes” to the guy just out of the sheer absurdity of the whole situation. And who knows, maybe I would have made it out of Cairo alive, we would have had a couple of embassy brats and life would become nothing but one drunken hash after another, since at that point I would have to start drinking and drinking heavily…

So the story itself is remarkable enough to be worth holding on to so that I can tell it to my grandkids. And yet, as hysterical and absurd as it may sound, it evoked a series of quite uncomfortable and distressing emotions, both directed towards myself, the poor diplomatic servant (who was quite adorable, I would have to admit) and another, completely innocent party that became the only casualty of this whole situation that I will unfold shortly. But before I take a breath to sort through my frantic notes as I struggle to organize my thoughts, I have to warn you that what follows next is nothing but what you may see as the bloody aftermath of feminism, and it, indeed, is not going to be pretty…Loaded stuff coming right up. So hang on tightly.

P.S. I think the fat bastards owes me at least two Cricket lighters.

***

Nika, every challenge is a stepping stone to a happier place than you even knew existed.
Oh, the magic,

The Universe

Learn to pick your adjectives

Damn! Right after I vowed to continue keeping my political beliefs to myself, I am forced to amend the previously made statement thanks to the recent numbers pulled by the wonderful periodical named the Economist. So in the light of such events I will have to make a slight amendment to the effect that I will abstain from pushing my otherwise rigorous and vocal political agenda on this blog, unless it’s somewhat related to foreign affairs, especially when my target happens to resemble the general form of "stupid."

The truth is, my outrage has been brewing for quite a while, starting with the unfair coverage of the Russian-Georgian conflict of the past summer by the “Western” media. Back then the Economist posted the more or less decent stuff on the subject, such as this or this. But then about a month ago this happened, and then there was this, which was not only poorly researched and all over the place as far as articles go, but also displayed lack of any substantial knowledge and understanding of what has been happening in the entire region of the Caucasus for the past few decades or so. It also insulted me, like it would insult any other person either from the region or possessing any knowledge about the region or having any interest whatsoever in the stability of the region. Those of you who’d like to witness a transnational virtual conflict that erupted after the above referenced articles are encouraged to read the Comments section that follow this particular piece.

Given the fact that I wasn’t really all that enthusiastic to discuss the events of the past summer beyond what I had already said, I thought I would simply let my issues go, especially when considering the otherwise long and loving relationship that I’ve had with the Economist so far. But my outrage was more than doubled after the relatively recent blurb that the Economist posted on relatively recent events of the presidential elections in the United States and the first state-of-the-nation address of Dmitry Medvedev to Russia (which by whatever coincidence or conspiracy, as the Economist claims, happened to follow one another). And of course, it pushed me over the edge.

Dear Economist, please help me make this clear - are you suggesting that the internal events of one state should be coordinated in such a way that they do not interfere with the internal evets of another state? Is it just me, or the mere suggestion stinks of absurdity? By the same token, all historic and other considerations aside, why exactly should Obama’s acceptance speech have been expected to be televised in Russia? When was the last time any of Russia’s presidential speeches were broadcasted to the American public? Besides, would you rather they turned it all around and covered the US elections for the allotted 45 minutes of broadcasting, leaving Mr. Medvedev only five minutes to address his nation for the first time since he took the office?

As for the content of the speech – leave it to the Russians to judge and please bear in mind that the popularity ratings of both Mr. Medvedev and his predecessor have always been and remain significantly higher among the Russians (compared to those of the current president of the United States.) Plus the former enjoy an advantage of being able to communicate in distinct, grammatically correct and quite meaningful utterances that they call sentences. Speaking of which - don’t you think that there may be a better, perhaps a more grown up adjective to describe Mr. Medvedev’s speech besides “belligerent?”

And please, please, leave democracy aside. It makes me sick in the stomach every time someone brings the magic bullet word up, since we all know that this is not what it is about and has never been, especially when it is becoming increasingly clear that “[m]aking criticism of Russian democracy a strong theme of […] foreign policy no longer enhances respect for either democracy or the United States in Russia.”*

See, dear Economist, it’s not like I have any vested interest in Russia itself or am particularly anti-American. I’m just anti-stupid, and this particular article (which I can’t label as anything but “retarded”) shrinks you to the level of dirty tabloids that would publish anything to make a splash. I mean, there is bias, but then there is well-researched, well formulated and well argued bias and it is the latter that will earn you the cool points.** Unless, of course, this all is a part of a grand scheme of pushing another kind of fear-infused agenda (one of the comments, I shit you not, was “Russia scares the hell out of me…”), and fear, in its all shapes and forms, has been a highly coveted commodity in the political world as of late, as Mr. Colbert recently mentioned.

With all due respect, you’ve got to be higher than that.

P.S. For those who may be interested in a better researched, better formulated and more level headed account of past and present challenges as well as the shaping of US-Russia relations, I recommend Charles King's essay sited below (read preview here)


* Chares King. The Five Day War: Managing Moscow After the Georgia Crisis. Foreign Affairs. November/December 2008. p. 22.

** There is also, so I hear, the omitted variable bias, but that is usually left to be discussed in modern econometric courses.

It may still be worth sticking around...

Despite the fact that in my idealistic heart of hearts I keep a very warm and cherished spot for anarchism, I am, after all, a product of the “motherland” and notions like “capitalist pigs,” “exploitation” and “injustice“ about the rest of the non-socialist world were drilled into my head way before I started learning the alphabet. So as far as my political beliefs go, I lean left – and that is far left. Yet, as strong as my political beliefs are, I choose to spare my readers from what may be perceived in these whereabouts as nothing less but socialist propaganda. In fact, I don’t talk much politics in this blog at all. I also haven’t voiced any opinion about this year’s grand circus either pre or post election, even though I was following it quite closely (via Jon Stewart, of course). Now that the election is over, all I can say is that I am happy that Obama won, even if he is hardly left enough for me to swear by his name. And since I cannot come up with anything else half decent on the said subject, I am referring you to this piece over at The Upside of Entropy - a brilliant depiction of the impending doom that the democrats have for us coming.

[…] by the end of the first year the new Democratic Majority will have already doomed the planet by appointing a bisexual llama to the Supreme Court, giving illegal aliens special laser guns that destroy patriotism, replacing the American flag with a "postmodern" flag that, being entirely blank, can be interpreted to be whatever you want it to be, mandating that all adults over age of 20 must marry at least one piece of furniture and consummate the union in a place of worship, renaming the country "New Europe", replacing the National Anthem with Kajagoogoo's 1983 hit "Too Shy" and adding a constitutional amendment randomly shuffling the definitions of "man", "woman" and "wanksta" twice every calendar year.

I wonder if legal aliens get to play a role in here somewhere. My favorite part:

Their final acts-- Subpoenaing God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit for "possession of suspicious metaphysical properties" and replacing Christmas with a state holiday devoted to the activity of throwing unwrapped condoms at a bust of Ronald Reagan-- will finally push the Almighty over the edge and trigger an immediate snuffing-out of all material substance. God will shake his head sadly at his failed experiment and move on to other pursuits, though it is likely he will, after a few millenia, break down and recreate a pocket-sized Sean Hannity to keep around for company and occasional moral advice.

Like I said – brilliant.

Because the English language is not compatible with Russian humor

"Какая Ваша самая большая положительная черта?"

"Умная."

"A Какая Ваша самая большая отрецательная черта?"

"Шибко умная."

Feel free to disagree (with the title, of course, rather than the content). And while you're at it, give me a hint as to how to translate the perky little word "шибко."

The fall in Richmond has been beautiful...

***

I know it’s been a while. Long drawn silences like this seem to have become a periodic occurrence. My other daily commitments draw my attention away from this little creation of mine, even though I know that at a given time I could probably write about at least half a dozen topics that bounce around my head, neither fully formed nor expressed.

The truth is, more often than not, my cognitive process as of late has been revolving around numbers, and even when I am not solving one of these crazy multivariate optimization sets, I catch myself thinking in numbers, thinking about numbers and even dreaming in numbers.

I am weathering this semester quite well. It has been much harder than any of my past academic experiences, but that’s the whole beauty of it. I am amazed that among all the Econ, Stats and Math majors, I am performing just as well. Even if I did start with a relative disadvantage, even if I, as one of my professors warned me, was facing certain challenges in a particular class since I did not have a proper background in statistics, I feel comfortable, capable and at home in this new solace of mine.

My love affair with math is in full swing. Even though I am here to study economics, I seem to be more interested in mathematical expression of a given concept, than its real-world implications and interpretations. I know there is a certain danger of becoming myopic if I let this become a deeply engraved habit. After all, the real world does not behave in a rational or predictable way, in real world I do not have the luxury of holding other things constant and since it is far from being as perfect as mathematical models are.

Yet, as a recovering perfectionist, I seem to have found a new and fascinating outlet to channel my obsessions. Math is perfection. A kind of perfection that can be obtained. A kind of excellence that can be achieved by application of pure logic and rationality and a few straightforward rules. It’s simple and beautiful even in its most complicated problems. Besides being truly and deeply fascinated by it, I find endless comfort in it, since as fucked up as this may sound, it allows me a chance to reach for perfection without having to starve myself or throw up all over myself or annihilate myself with self-loathing and hatred. And I find it just as remarkable as rewarding.

Snippet from a recent conversation

"You know, living together feels like you're passing all these little tests..."
"Like what? You realize that you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"It's not what I had in mind, but yeah, that too."
"So you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"I'm not. I'm actually quite sweet."
"Sweet? He thinks that or you think that?"
"He thinks that... but more importantly, I know that."
"What? You? Sweet?"
"Yeah, if you can believe that..."
"Well, then, if he has found a way to make you be sweet, then I say he's the right man for the job..."
"Which was what I meant by saying that living together feels like passing all these little tests."

He was the greatest - the kindest, the humblest, the most patient... He worked hard - he never stopped working until last year, when he was eighty three. Eighty three!

He was my favorite - the most favorite in the whole entire world. He was the world to me and I adored him. I was his favorite - he loved me like nobody else. Like nobody else he was proud of me.

The endless hours he spent with me, playing games, reading books, taking me to parks, to plays, riding the metro just for the fun of t. He fulfilled every passing whim of mine - he simply worshiped me.

It is so sad to realize that the older I grew, the further apart we drifted. For the past few years i saw him only a handful of times. I missed him, but I am sure he was the one to miss me more...

And now that he's gone... it's hard to really grasp the fact, let alone to reconcile with it. Being so far away makes it that much harder. It's hard to reconcile with the fact that I keep going on, even when this loss does not seem to have an immediate impact on my everyday reality... And yet I go on, knowing that if it weren't for school, if it weren't for the busy and rigorous life that I am in now, I would have fallen apart in million pieces, in a heartbeat. Fallen apart because of grief, because of guilt, remorse and regret.

I could have been there with him. I could have been there for him. There were so many things that I could have done for him, so many ways that I could show him just how much I loved him...

So much pain and guilt and remorse...

My grandfather passed away.

When I saw him in Yerevan a little over a month ago, he told me that it was probably the last time that he was seeing me in his life... It gave me a painful pang in the stomach, as I wiped my tears, trying to shake off the thought of him not being there one day.

I do not know how one reconciles with something like that...

Living with the boy is calm and cloudless. It’s comforting, effortless, idyllic. We do not argue, we don’t fight. We laugh. We laugh often.

…

In a very curious way I find it odd that suddenly even the most mundane and trivial everyday routine acquires such “togetherness…” Only not that long ago, these trivial things were simply something that I would do alone, on my own, in between personal and professional/academic lives. Things like laundry, groceries, cleaning… these little chores that give me so much comfort in their ordinariness, things that I love to do when I need a break, some down time or to simply clear my head. Now they seem to have acquired this sense – a sense that I cannot describe in any other way but “togetherness” even when they are not necessarily done “together.”

…

The only other time I lived with someone was when I was married and that does not evoke the best memories. Sometimes I get these flashbacks, series of flashbacks that throw me into a state of mild panic, before I realize that it is in the past, far removed in the past and just like one shakes off a bad dream, I have to push these memories away, after I have realized that they are no longer real, that they are not happening, that I am safe now, that this is a different relationship where we do not fight and I do not have a reason to slam the door and leave…

…

“So you guys are serious?” they ask me after they find out that the boy and I have moved in together. It cracks me up every time they do. Define serious. And while you’re at it, define un-serious, please. Does the fact that we are living together necessarily guarantee that this whole thing is going to end with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that… Do I wish that it indeed ended with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that either. And yet, was I any less serious before I moved in with the guy? I would not say so, just like the fact that I am living with him now doesn’t make it any more serious than it was before. I still love him the same, except that now I see him a little bit more often.

It amuses me that suddenly this little fact appears to be such a big deal just because it may be some kind of a cornerstone in some relationship book or another. See, as scary as it sounds and despite my notoriously cumbersome commitment issues, if I were to have it my way, I would be moving in with a guy only after a few weeks of knowing him, my logic being that if I like you enough to want to spend a big chunk of my time with you, I might just as well be living with you. The whole “my place/your place” gets pretty boring pretty fast…

And yet, in reality, I wasn’t to have it my way (perhaps for the better of it) and the boy and I followed each and every “step” of this unwritten relationship book, from nerve-wrecking “undefined” phase to post “i love you phase” one little step at a time…

…

And yet, living together is a big deal, in a sense that does not necessarily involve the aforementioned ring, the mortgage and the kids. It’s just what a relationship is – or what I think it should be – a man and a woman, living together.

…

Living with the boy is nice. It’s comforting. It’s fun. And as much as I resist the idea of matching cups and bath towels, as much as it takes some getting used to, it does not seem to require an effort at all. It makes me realize that despite my experience in the past, it does not always have to be an uphill struggle and that I never ever have to find myself trapped in a situation where the only thing left to do is to break the dishes and slam the door and leave.

Source: Virginia Department of Historic Resources

The boy and I are living in the cutest apartment in the Fan. The Fan! The old, historic and beautiful Fan - the most desired location in the whole-entire city of Richmond, if not the world itself. I am in a close proximity to the best that Richmond has to offer. I am in the Museum District. I can walk to Carytown. I can become a regular at the Racine. Run in pretty neighborhoods. Walk a few blocks over to see a friend and borrow a cup of sugar... And when I have a minute to breathe, I can live the happy and carefree life of an artsy (or should i say nerdy) hipster that I sometimes pretend to be.

I started school.
I need to blog.
I need to see a shrink.

There have been other reasons for putting off writing for so long, besides the fact that since I got back I have been incredibly busy with life, school and a million of little tasks that are not small enough to be completely ignored, but are small enough to be a source of endless frustration because they take too much of my time. My inability to write is also due to the fact I cannot figure out where to start. I simply cannot pick up right where I left off since there has been too much change in a matter of less than a month and the older I grow, the slower I become in responding to change. Yet, the older I grow, the less time I have for such things, and time at this point seems to be a true luxury that I can hardly afford. Oh joys of adulthood. If only I knew that getting older wasn’t simply the thrill of being able to wear makeup and smoke cigarettes…

I still haven’t fully digested the past few weeks that have been happening way too fast. I am still in the process of adaptation. It surprises me that this time it is taking so long. I wasn’t gone for too long, but I guess it has been long enough to make readjusting quite a process on its own. I am still getting used to my new surroundings – new living arrangements, schedule and such. And I still haven’t recovered from the past summer, which made me realize that there are a few reoccurring issues that I do not know how to reconcile with. While in the past I successfully dealt with a load of emotional crap without any outside assistance, I seem to be incapable of dealing with issues that are fundamentally existential in their nature. Hence the necessity to see someone about them. I do not know whether this as a sign of maturity or that of emotional laziness since as cynical as this may sound, I am at a point where I rather pay someone than do it on my own, especially when I no longer seem to have the patience, the energy and or the time to do so alone. Someone told me that it makes me sound extremely American…

On a brighter note – I am really having the time of my life with life, school and ahem, the new roommate situation and if I am not pancaked by the giant steamroller that is graduate level mathematical economics, updates will be coming shortly…

a sidenote...

The summer’s over, although I still haven't put my summer clothes away, the summer’s over, even if I still do not want to say my goodbyes, and yet I know that just like I will be neatly folding away the bright colored clothes, I will have to pack the memories away, wrap them up, seal them with wax and put them away, on the top shelf in the back of my mind, where they will be safe and free of dust— yet another summer of kaleidoscopic events, of heat and sun, watered streets of Yerevan smelling of freshly cut grass, blue unclouded skies, and me [...] delirious, a butterfly on the sidewalk with rainbow colored wings, crazed and dazed with the sun [...].

The summer is gone and yet I have to wonder how long it will take until I have finally outlived it, accepted it and moved on... the summer that seems to be nowhere close to acceptance.

I believe this is what they call nostalgia

Я прошу: хоть ненадолго,                    
Бoль моя, ты покинь меня,                 
Облаком, сизым облаком                      
Ты полети к родному дому,                   
Отсюда к родному дому.                       

Берег мой, покажись вдали,                  
Краешком, тонкой линией,                    
Берег мой, берег ласковый,                  
Ах до тебя, родной, доплыть бы,             
Доплыть бы хотя б когда-нибудь.             

Где-то далеко, где-то далеко                
Идут грибные дожди.                         
Прямо у реки в маленьком саду               
Созрели вишни, наклонясь до земли.          
Где-то далеко в памяти моей                 
Сейчас, как в детстве тепло,                
Хоть память укрыта такими большими снегами.

Ты гроза, напои меня,                       
Допьяна, да не досмерти.                    
Вот опять, как в последний раз,             
Я все гляжу куда-то в небо,                
Как будто ищу ответа...                     

Я прошу: хоть ненадолго,                    
Грусть моя, ты покинь меня,                 
Облаком, сизым облаком                      
Ты полети к родному дому,                   
Отсюда к родному дому.

Где-то далеко
Music: Mikael Tariverdiev
Lyrics: Robert Rozhdestvenskiy
1977

And it doesn't seem to stop...

Of course Georgia's "venture" into South Ossetia was "foolish" and "ill-judged," and of course "pleas for military backing from the West in any confrontation with Russia are unlikely to be heeded." And it doesn't take much to realize that "[t]his conflict is about more than the two separatist regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, or displacing Mikheil Saakashvili, Georgia’s hot-headed president." Of course Russia tries to reassert itself in the Caucausus, but then think about what would have happened back in the day if, say, Mexico decided to turn communist...

Here are a couple of the more intelligent articles on the topic found nowhere else but in the Economist:
Russia Insurgent

The Americans Arrive

I am back in Richmond and besides trying to contain my overbearing excitement I have less than five days to deal with the fact that:

• I moved in with the boy
• School starts on Thursday and
• The summer is over (at least in my head)

I am almost sick of the symbolism of August - August and everything after...

“Welcome back to the United States, Miss…”

I am in DC now, having arrived late last night, after a long, nerve-wrecking flight. It’s 7am and I am sitting at a Starbucks across the street from the World Bank, having left the boy asleep at the nearby Hotel Lombardy. Even at this early hour there are people in the street and they smile to me as they walk by. I find it very comforting. It feels good to be back, it feels very good indeed.

An eternity seems to have passed during the last twelve weeks. It seems that I have stepped back in from a different world, a world that appeared to have an extra dimension to it, making the reality there that much more thicker and harder to comprehend. And now I am back at exactly where I was before I left and there is nothing more distinctly different than DC compared to where I have been in the last 12 weeks. Being here right now makes me realize how long and strenuous this summer has been. Being here makes me realize how much I have changed in the matter of a couple of months and I find this fact slightly disturbing…

Leaving Yerevan was not easy... I realize now that it never fully “registered” in my mind that I was back in Yerevan to begin with and likewise it was hard to fully comprehend that I was leaving…

The last couple of weeks before my departure were so strange, so surreal. I was alarmed and on guard because of the events happening right next door, exhausted and tired of the city, torn to pieces and scattered all over the place in an attempt to juggle work, social obligations and too many last minute tasks, while frantically trying to stay on top of the news as I watched hoards of evacuees from Georgia swarming the streets of Yerevan. It felt like I was in some kind of a script – a Doris Lessing script – I felt like I was somehow experiencing certain passages of the Golden Notebook… and that was making my being in Yerevan all that much more surreal.

Leaving Yerevan was not easy…

Yet, there is nothing more comforting than being back. It truly is. And I couldn't be more grateful.

"...the most serious challenge to the post-Cold War balance of power since the collapse of the Soviet Union"

Yep, this does not smell good at all...

Yerevan
Photograph courtesy of Jan-Michael Breider


Although, as mentioned in the previous post, I am unable to take any pictures of my own of the amazing imagery that I see every day, I feel very fortunate to have found the photographs of Armenia taken by Jan-Michael Breider in 2005, who kindly gave me permission to upload a few here, on my blog. His gallery contains a number of awesome pictures taken both in Armenia and elsewhere. Many thanks to the kind photographer for an opportunity to share images of my own country through his own eyes...

It’s been two and half weeks since I came to Armenia. Apologies for lack of elaborate posts – work has been consuming most of my time and inspiration. Conducting surveys in Armenia proved to be a much more strenuous task than it was in Georgia – partly due to logistical problems with our host organization, partly due to the overall character treats of my country-men. However, after a week of extensive travels, my love for Armenia proportionally increases as my liking of Yerevan gradually decreases. Unfortunately, my camera broke and I didn’t have a chance to capture the magnitude of Ararat, the sparkling beauty of the lake Sevan and the depth of the green mountains in Dilijan and Ijevan. The beauty of my country is humbling and awe inspiring. While working with people requires a lot of skills in diplomacy, I truly enjoy communicating with them, especially the folk living outside Yerevan. There is a lot to be learned from them – a lot more than any report on the state of the country would ever tell you.

The depressing aspect of my work is that I do not completely agree with what the organization that I represent does for the people. FINCA mission aside, it is obvious that microfinance in the region does not defer much from any given commercial bank – it is perceived as such, it operates as such. Interest rates are high, poverty outreach is minimal and repayment schedule is so rigid that at times I wonder why anyone would want to borrow on such terms. But then I realize that there is no other alternative and it makes me even more depressed. I think about the “untapped” market that FINCA executives constantly talk about, then I think of the rural folk who are the part of this “untapped” market… I wonder what it is like in other places of the world – I wonder whether microfinance is really what it is presented to be while it is still hot and “sexy.”

I have five more days of field work left. As of right now I am completely clueless what our analysis is going to reveal. While I know the obvious, I am somewhat reluctant to see the results, knowing equally well that there is no way that it would reflect the stories of the simple folk that I have heard so far…

This is how I know that the Universie really loves me...

Nothing is left to chance, Nika. The choreography of players and circumstances is plotted with mind-numbing precision. Gigantic forces of attraction are activated and engaged. The odds of your inevitable success begin skyrocketing. And every second of every day is calibrated and recalibrated… whenever you remember to visualize.

Who loves you, baby?

The Universe

I’m in Yerevan now…

Despite all the excitement, it feels very strange and even slightly disturbing to be back here… There is something almost surreal in the way I see the city that I once knew like the back of my hand. I could walk its streets with my eyes closed. I knew its every building like it was a piece of furniture in my old room. I felt at home in every corner of every street at any time of day – morning or night. I would walk the streets for hours at a time, unable to get enough of it, greedily taking in the sights and smells and noise and the night lights… I was still so young, so much in love… and now…

Yerevan has changed. It no longer feels like the city I was in love with. It has become faceless, heartless, has lost its charm. There is so much noise here, so much glitter. The new buildings that have mushroomed here and there in the past two years seem hostile and out of place. The endless stream of traffic –there is so much traffic that the air smells of nothing but exhaust. And then there is dust – a cloud of yellow dust ominously hanging over the city. Yerevan, what has become of you…

All the construction that is happening in every major street indicates that there will be a lot more change. It gives me a feeling of doubt and uncertainty. I no longer know what this change will bring – I already hate it, resent it with all might. It may be good for the economy, but it’s so hard on the eye…

It feels strange to be back here. I feel strange and out of place. I am filled with nostaligia and longing for the old and familiar. I feel the kind of pain that one feels when encountering a loss. I feel like I lost something important and dear. I no longer know my city and I feel strangely out of place.

Interlude

Slowly the sun rises to announce the start of a new day. Under the gray sky is the gloomy city. The sun is ill, her thin rays hardly escaping the thick ivory clouds. With great efforts I make myself get up. I am in the hands of a terrible headache, every cell of mine captive to pain - a constant reminder of everything that I wish to escape...

Yesterday… Where was I yesterday? Don’t remember it well, all the events are vague and in fog. I close my eyes and see rain, a different sky, cars, unfamiliar faces. Charlottesville, I guess I was in Charlottesville yesterday.

Next week I’m supposed to be in New York - another ten-hour trip, airports, delayed flights… and finally the one who has come to meet me. That’s next week, if there is every such a thing...

I stare at the ceiling and the only thing I’m aware of is that I’m exhausted. My imagination seems to have expired itself - and where am I today?

Yerevan, this is Yerevan, with its naked indifference, unconcealed ugliness. There is nothing more Armenian than the view from my window, and it’s depressing. Two women arguing in the corner, kids running home from school, an old man carrying a loaf of bread. Buildings all around - tall ugly giants that seem to be observing everything with their window-eyes. Their look at me is full of accusation and I feel guilt. Nothing seems to have changed, the same view, the same indifference, Yerevan….

The sky is too dark to let me leave. Still too early for New York. Today it's the reality. In a few hours it will completely take over and I know that there won't be a way out - my tired imagination won’t save me today, this pain has left no room for escape. Paralyzed with cold and pain, I will sit motionless on the floor, smoking cigarettes one after another, watching hours pass. I must wait patiently for sleep - a temporary relief to my insanity. I’m ill and suffering from inadequacy and it is more vivid here, in Yerevan.
The Tale of the Cities December, 2000.

Yerevan

Because It Is Summer, I'm Bringing Them All Back Yet Again

Eight summers back I was in Charlottesville, having just moved to a tiny studio in a rundown building off of 29th. Having just escaped almost slave-like conditions that a five-star hotel has for its employees, this ghetto seemed nothing but heaven to me. I will always remember the experience of Charlottesville with bitterness; the misery, hostility and exhaustion of that entire summer will always be there to haunt me, and yet, out of the dark and strenuous experience The Tale of the Cities was born, a story that I wrote and rewrote and shaped and reshaped and cried and bled on paper without knowing that I would be living out that story one day. And despite every single hardship that I went through that summer, I will always be grateful for having found two of my most dearest people – the Bosnian girl who generously let me share her shoe box apartment, and the one who is the main reason why I am here in Richmond today.

Seven summers back I was unhappy, depressed, torn by longing and overwhelmed with regret, feeling helpless and trapped in a city cursed by the sun, the city that only years later I was going to love and accept as home. I remember that long and hot summer of hell, living on ice-cream and tomato sandwiches day in day out, staying up night after night, dreaming, writing, writing the Tale, and when the pain of helplessness was too much to bear, I would cry myself to sleep, dreading the awakening the next morning, knowing that the new day would not bring any possible change. At the end of the summer, when the heat started to break, exhausted and jaded and dry after all the tears I'd shed, I sold my soul to the “devil” and got a full time job and fell in love, hard and fast, against all odds and every reason of rationality, the way you fall in love only when you’re twenty one, still young and stubborn, ignoring and trying to defy the reality with all might. Looking at it now, I realize that it was nothing but desperation – desperation that was to determine the next two years and everything that had to come afterwards.

Six summers back I graduated. And got my first apartment in downtown Yerevan. With five months’ rent I bought all the freedom and solitude I could ever ask for, realizing, for the first time, that I could live like that, alone, hidden in the heart of the downtown, happy in my solitude – a woman, alone, in a big city. And yet, before the summer came to end, I gave up the freedom and was married, without fully aware of any repercussions, waiting for a new life to start under a different sky.

Five summers back I was in Florida. Biding my time in timeless indolence. Hopeful, still in love, waiting for that long expected happiness to dawn, and thinking to myself that there must be something more to this thing that they call marriage.

Four summers back I was still in Florida. Surrounded by bliss of domesticity, slowly embracing what was coming to shape as complacent middleclassness, and desperately trying to grasp the finality of marriage. And yet, I’d often long for the woman I had left behind, the woman alone, in a big city… At the end of that summer Another Life was born, which, with its main theme of adultery, was nothing but the longing for all the other lives that I could have had, had I not made that one particular choice that I was slowly coming to regret.

Three summers back I was in Yerevan. Dazed and crazed by the heat and the sun, the cloudless skies, watered streets and freshly cut grass, happy, delirious, a butterfly on the sidewalk, intoxicated with my own freedom, testing its limits and daring it every way I could. Restless. Sleepless. In love – but this time it was the city I had fallen in love with, fast and hard. For the first time I felt that I was at home, finally at home in a place that I had so long hated and tried to defy. At the end of the summer I moved into my second apartment downtown and with another six months rent I bought the dream that I had so often longed for – the dream of a woman, alone, in a big city.

Two summers back I was in Richmond – to come here, of all the places in the world, a decision so sudden and unexpected and yet looking back at it now – the only possible choice that I could have made wondering “whether this was a choice or an inevitable consequence of the past years that brought me here...”, realizing that I’m living out the end of the story that I once wrote and dreamed about night after night before I'd cry myself to sleep out of helplessness and desperation.

This summer I am traveling all over Georgia and Armenia. I am in Yerevan now - the most beloved city in the world - the city that I will always call home, but the city that no longer feels like home. At the end of this summer I'll be back in Richmond again. If you ask me what’s the best that I have had so far, I’ll you that it’s Richmond – [living] in Richmond. Looking back at it now I realize that of all places that's I've been to and all places that I have lived in, Richmond is the place where I have been the happiest. It is the place that I will keep going back to, a place that I call home now - my home of choice. It's where my life is, temporarily on hold, waiting for me. Last summer I asked for nothing more but to have yet another chance to be back in Richmond, living a life without an expiration date, or any urgency to leave. That's what I will be going back to - to all the bliss and promises that any future could ever hold for me...

What exactly is it that I’m doing this summer

-since besides writing a random comment or two and posting pictures I do not think I have told anything about the nature of work that I did in Georgia and now am about to start in Armenia.

I am a fellow working for the Research Department of FINCA International. FINCA International is a microfinance organization operating in many developing countries, including many of the former Soviet republics. Every summer FINCA sends a group of fellows to different countries that it operates in to conduct a comprehensive survey of microfinance client assessment regarding client demographics, land and asset ownership, expenditures and standard of living, access to financial products, as well as nature of client businesses. So my job is to conduct the survey together with two other fellows in each country, clean the collected data, do a primary analysis and send everything back to the Research Department, where they run more complicated cross-country research based on the data that we provide.

The Georgia team has already completed its assignment. While the work was pretty interesting and exciting, to say the least, there have been quite a few wtf moments, as we ran around all over Georgia with our quest of gathering the precious data. The survey itself, while standard for all coutries, reveals quite a bit of cultural insensitivity and plain ignorance of the said department. For example, literacy and level of education may be interesting issues to explore, but when you’re going to a country with 100 percent literacy rate, questions such as “Can you read and write?” appear completely redundant. Asking a Georgian (or an Armenian) man whether they feel capable of making important decisions regarding their lives would evoke no other reaction but a punch on the face (I do realize that poverty is defined not only through some set number, but also voicelessness and powerlessness of an indiviual, but please leave the Caucasus out of that equation, will you?). Under the section of assets, we ask cilents how many metal cooking pots and pans they have – in Africa ownership of a metal cookware may be an indicative of wealth, but seriously, when I asked my own mother how many pots and pans she had, I got “who counts them, anyway?” in response. Dear Research Department, Georgian (and I’m sure Armenian) women have A LOT OF POTS AND PANS, so the numbers that we have been sending you are NOT A MISTAKE, they’re not outliers and they do not necessarily point to the level of wealth in this part of the world. Just deal with it, ok?

Our findings in Georiga have been pretty unexciting to say the least. Knowing a little about this part of the world and futhermore, having worked for FINCA Armenia in the past as a loan disburser and database administrator for two solid years while I was still in college gave me a pretty clear picture that FINCA is not necessarily serving the “poor enterpreurs” – in fact out of the 309 respondents that we interviewed, only 3 happened to live under 2 dollars a day, and only some odd 10 percent is under the national poverty line. Natalie Portman, do you have something to say about this? What also infuriates me is that FINCA, being the good-guy all-compassionate and helpful microfinance organization operates in the region on the same terms as most commercial banks here. I would not count a monthly 3% interest rate (that’s 36% a year!!!!) as charity, so please be kind enough to revise your mission.

My Armenia assignment is just around the corner. While I am looking forward to the opportunity to visit the same office I used to work in and talking to my countrymen, I do not expect to find anything all that exhilirating and groundshaking. Good thing that Armenia is smaller than Georgia and that FINCA has branches in only 3 other cities besides Yerevan – at least I won’t be all over the place like we were in Georgia. But then, the sample we collect, although representative of the total population of clients of FINCA Armenia, won’t provide an accurate picture of Armenia in general, since the southern part of the country will be left out (FINCA has not made it to Kapan yet). Wish me luck and patience.

Sidenote

I finally had the time and internet connection to upload some pictures of my latests skitaniya on flickr as well as put some of the snapshots of the Black Sea on Visual. I know there could have been a lot more and I wish I had a better camera, but hopefully this gives some kind of an idea about the places that I've been to and things that I have seen.

Tbilisi again

***

I need to blog. After yet another long drawn silence, I finally feel capable of writing something coherent. The past few weeks or so have been long, full, eventful. During this time I have been in all major regions of the country, including Kvemo-Khartli, Kakhtei, Imereti and Adjaria. Besides Tbilisi I have visited Marnauli, Rustavi, Khashuri, Borjomi, Tsnori, Akhmeta, Dedoplistskaro, Telavi, Gurjaani, Samtredia, Zestaphoni, Kutaisi, Kobuleti and Batumi. Everything has been happening too fast, one experience after another, some good, and some bad. I usually need time to digest the events, sit on them for a day or too, but since our locations and sceneries have been alternating so quickly, I have had neither the time nor the ability to even reflect upon these experiences, let alone share them.

I am in Batumi now, right at the Black Sea. It is the third largest city in Georgia and a major sea resort town. The bulk of our work in this country is finished and I am one final report away from being free for a few days, before I start on my next assignment. In less than 48 hours I will be taking a 7 hour train ride back to Tbilisi (alone), then two more hours further east to Telavi. The rest of my team will be going up north, to hike the mountains of Svaneti (which, by the way is a Unseco Heritage site). Having neither the energy, nor the enthusiasm to go to a place accessible only by horses, I decided to rest in a marvelous guest house in Telavi run by a lovely Ukrainian lady, where we stayed during our work in Kakheti region. In about a week I will be taking yet another long ride, this time across the border, to Yerevan.

Despite all the good and the bad that has happened while in this country, being in Georgia has felt quite odd and unsettling. Georgia makes me miss Armenia more than anything else. Everything looks so familiar, so known, yet not mine, foreign. There is a legend about an Armenian king who was put in a jail cell that had a ground half made of Persian and half of Armenian soil. When the king walked on Persian half, he looked weak, insignificant, defeated. When he walked on Armenian half, he stood straight, holding his head up high, undefeatable and strong. I feel the same way on Georgian soil. Or maybe it’s the proximity to home, to the Armenian soil that makes me miss it more…

I truly hope that at some point during my remaining days in this country I will be able to rest and relax and write something that would at least partltly refect everything that I have experienced in Georgia.

Some random ramblings on my Georgia trip

Tbilisi has been cold and rainy. The weather reminds me of Waltham, the city makes me wish I was in Yerevan. Of all the places I’ve been to, Tbilisi is neither the prettiest, nor the friendliest, and likewise, I neither like it, nor excessively dislike it. Some things are new and impressive – others oddly familiar, and yet despite the similarities that I find in every corner of this place, I do realize that I am merely a stranger here passing by…

Georgians look a lot like Armenians at first glance, except that I don’t understand a word that they’re saying. When I look close enough though, I notice subtle differences between the two in bone structure and facial features - narrower eyes, thinner and longer eyebrows… Although my looks do allow me to sort of blend in, I am often being subjected to catty head to toe glances in the metro, mostly by women, as if they disapprove of the way I dress, or my overall lack of excessive makeup. Compared to women in Tbilisi, Yerevantsis seem to be better dressed (i.e. skankier) – next to dominating blacks, browns and grays that seem to be the preferred colors of choice in this city, Yerevan women look like an eye test in their outfits that happen to have every single color of the rainbow (from what I remember from a few summers ago).

The past couple of weeks of my stay here have brought up everything that I seemed to have forgotten about this part of the world.

Dust - dust and smog everywhere. While living in the overly polluted and dusty city of Yerevan was an inseparable part of my reality for as long as I remember myself, it is the first time that I come to realize that the lack of properly paved roads and absence of grass must have something to do with it.

Smells –of filth, garbage, stinky cheese, rotting fruit and vegetables, cheap vodka, urine, excessive sweat and unwashed bodies… And it is not even hot yet. How could I have forgotten? This is what motherland smells like…

Drivers - remember a while back when I was complaining about drivers in Boston? That’s because I had completely forgotten how bad drivers are where I grew up. The suicidal maniacs of Georgia are ten times worse. Imagine four cars trying to squeeze into a two lane road all at the same time, illegal u-turns and complete absence of any traffic rules, and you got Tbilisi. On top of that, the concept of seatbelt is non-existent, folks here probably never use their blinkers and honking and excessive cussing seem to be what moves the traffic along. The other night, during the cab ride home, another vehicle almost ran into us, as it made an abrupt turn while not having any lights on. “** tboyu mat&” yelled out our driver loudly in Russian (I won’t translate this one), while hitting the breaks and the horn at the same time. The car was only a couple of inches away. How there aren’t any accidents around here is beyond me – a single vehicle behaving like this on an American road would cause multiple calamities in a heartbeat. And you wonder why I never had a desire to drive?

Coffee – Turkish coffee -black, thick, sweet (in Armenia we call it Armenian coffee, of course). I can’t open my mouth to talk to anyone without being offered coffee first. “No, really” I say “all I want is a glass of tap water.” They look at me funny, then bring me a cup of coffee anyway. Although my coffee consumption had drastically decreased in the last two years of living in the States, I quietly sip six or seven cups of this rich drink of gods a day and wait for the moment when someone will offer to tell me my fortune on coffee grounds.

Food in general – although this subject deserves its own separate post, I thought I’d say a few words here, now that I am thinking of it. As sad as it sounds, I am not a big fan of Georgian food (fat bastard, stop rolling your eyes). Now that I come to think of it, I am not a big fan of Armenian food either. Too heavy, too greasy, too doughy and too repetitive to my taste. As much as I like khorovats/shashlik (gigantic shish kababs) or khinkali (Georgian spicy meat dumplings), I can only eat so much of it on regular basis. My post eating disorder palate has been downgraded to lighter, more unsophisticated foods. I’m a deli girl. On any given day, give me a ham and cheese sandwich and I will love you until the rest of your life. Two weeks spent in the Caucasus makes me crave nothing more or less but a Quizno’s sub. Go figure.

Kolbasa – more precisely, varenaya kolbasa or in other words – bologny. On days when we are not being fed the twelve course Georgian fair by our hosts until we can hardly move, I usually end up having a tomato and cucumber salad with red basil and olive oil, with a piece of bread and kolbasa. It tastes like my childhood and I mentally transfer to my grandparents house, where I, as a little girl, sit at the kitchen table, stirring my tea and watching my grandpa slice the kolbasa and bread for supper. Nothing makes me miss childhood more than the bland, comforting taste of kolbasa.

There is a whole lot more that I could write about the past two weeks or so, but time at this point is one luxury that I do not have much of. So bear with me, and I will try to deliver.

P.S. One thing that I’m trying to figure out though is what in the world the US Army is doing in a remote bazaar in Rustavi.

Interlude

I apologize if this post is too overbearing in a sense that it contains something much more personal than what I have been revealing lately. However, I feel especially compelled to write it, since last time I was leaving for this part of the world, I was singing quite a different song – a song of freedom that one gains from one’s own solitude, as one chooses to leave a predictable life of false comfort in return for nothing but turmoil and chaos. This one is almost a complete opposite, showing just how profoundly I have changed in the last two and half years…and as unexpected as this change may have appeared to me at first glance, it was, after all, quite simple and predictable…

Leaving for Georgia was heartbreaking. I cried at Dulles airport. If I were not so tired, I would have cried on the plane to London. I cried when I arrived at Heathrow, cried and slept intermittingly during the flight to Tbilisi. The boy and I had spent the day of my departure together, wandering the streets of D.C., laughing, joking, playing, being silly. Despite my overall excitement over the upcoming trip, I knew that a big part of me wished that I had not undertaken such a lengthy assignment, that I had rather chosen to do my research in Armenia only – and that is merely so that I could see my family.

Eleven weeks suddenly felt like not only separation of space and time, but that of a world of difference that would never be reconciled by merely conveying stories or showing photographs. As if by not being able to share these experiences in real time with a loved one would make them seem less valid, less important or remarkable. Of course, I could consider these experiences as something only of my own – mine and no one else’s, but neither the nature of this trip, nor the “privateness” of these experiences seemed normal or natural any more…

Once all I wished was nothing more than the unshared “privateness” of an experience – any experience. Unshared, untainted moments that were mine alone in their entirety. I remember how I longed for these moments when I was married; I remember how much I wish that I was free, unattached, alone, without having to be a part of someone else’s life, without having to contribute to someone else’s happiness… I remember the painful longing out of which Perfect Vacuum came out. I remember how burdensome was the idea of being attached to someone, which made me write Another Life. Looking back at myself at those particular moments of past I still find myself capable of relating to these emotions quite vividly- but this time only in the past, without being able to bring them into my present.

I no longer want to be alone. And I am attached, more strongly and securely than I ever thought I would be able to get attached to another human being. It no longer hurts; it is no longer a burden.

It’s quite simple, actually. Wishing that I had another life, however twisted and far-fetched explanations that I used to rely on in the past was nothing more but the fact that I was unhappy with the one I had then. Another Life was merely a distraction, an escape to another reality; Perfect Vacuum was nothing but the desire to be alone during a destructive and unhealthy relationship. I no longer need another life, because I am way too in love with the one that I’ve got. I no longer want to be alone, because I see that being with someone is more rewarding than all the solitude in the world would ever hold… I am happy with a kind of happiness that is beyond being happy on one’s own – that is, being able to be happy from within, while being able to share it with someone else. And I find it truly remarkable. I do not think it could get any better. I do not think that I could have ever asked for more.

What hurts now is long separations. What is distressing is having to spend this summer alone. Despite the fact that throughout the last ten months or so we lived in two different cities, miles and miles away, we never spent more than three weeks without seeing one another. This summer will be the longest we have been apart. Of course I do know that I’m neither the first one, nor the last one, nor it has been my only time to go through such kind of temporary separations. Even if I have, in the past, weathered long-distances for much more than some two and half months, I can no longer take it like I used to before. And yet, however trivial all of this sounds, it is still hard, sad and heartbreaking, yet comforting at the same time to know that I have so much to go back to in Richmond. And that makes me that much more impatient.

Welcome Team Georgia

Last time I tried to blog (and failed miserably) I was in Washington D.C., going through five-day training for my summer fellowship. I am in Tbilisi now – having arrived less than 30 hours ago, jetlagged, tired and still somewhat lost. I am not sure how regularly I will be able to post in the next few weeks or so, but I’m hoping that I will be able to find time (and internet connection) to share some of the highlights of my experiences.

P.S. Since I do not have a picture that would be a good representation of Georgia (or Tbilisi) I am posting the view that I see from my window. More later.

I don't live thea(r) anymore...

I’m finally done with Brandeis. Finished, verj, prtsa.

Leaving Waltham felt like a whirlwind. The few days prior to my departure were so busy that I hardly had time to sleep. Finishing up the finals, staying late at school to work on a project with my group on the last day, barely making it home to pack the rest of my stuff before heading to the airport Worrying that my luggage would exceed the weight limit, anticipating hold-ups at the checkpoint, flight cancellations and what not else... Sometimes I get antsy like that when big things happen and what was happening was big – I was finally leaving.

That last twenty minute walk from school to home felt like an eternity. I remembered what it was like to walk to school for the first time for orientation – hurried and excited. Amazed at how naïve I was then, how unknowing. I thought about how much I’d changed since then – how much these past few months changed me, for the better or worse. I tried to picture where I would be had I not come here. I thought about where I was going now - this time no longer afraid of uncertainties… After all, I was going to the only place I would rather be in the whole entire world. I was going home – to Richmond.

Mother Sugar took me to goodbye dinner to Cambridge. We strolled in Harvard Yard, talking about stuff – the past, the present, our future plans, her kids, my mother… promises to visit her from time to time, promises that she’d come to see me in Richmond. Meeting Mother Sugar and living in her house was perhaps the best thing that happened during these months of being here. As happy as I am to leave this one passage of my life behind, I know that even if I don’t miss much, I will truly miss this most understanding and loving and eccentric and passionate woman. And this is all I have to say before getting any sappier than I already am. And yet, I’m glad that there was something preventing me to simply wrap up my farewell with “So long, suckers, don’t bother to miss me” and that something was Mother Sugar.

Updating the Grant Countdown

In less than a week I will be leaving Boston. Till then I will have to finish a conservation project and write two final papers - one on human right standard of affordability when it comes to cost recovery of water and sanitation services, the other one on an evaluation report of inner-city youth sex education program. Someone please kick me so that I can sit down to work. In the past few days I have been very successful at distracting myself with anything that will keep me away from finishing school work. I packed most of my belongings. I made thousands of phone calls. I paid all my bills. I went for runs. I painted my toenails. Does anyone need their bathtub scrubbed? Procrastinators of the world, lets unite tomorrow.

I am still trying to make up my mind whether I want to buy any keepsake trinket or a clothing item associated with my alma step matter. Trust me; it’s a tough decision to make.

Yesterday was my last day of class. We went on a field trip (yay!!!) to The Food Project – a local organization that “engages young people in personal and social change through sustainable agriculture.” Youth groups of various social and economic backgrounds work together to grow organic produce that is then sold in low income neighborhoods of greater Boston area at the price of conventional produce. A couple of Heller SID students have worked as interns at the Project, studying the model to replicate it elsewhere in the developing world. Although I think that the Project is rather neat and perhaps will work well anywhere in the US, doing something along these lines in certain parts of the world might not after all be that great of an idea. It’s one thing to compete with big corporations selling you genetically modified food of unknown origin choke full of pesticides. Yet in countries and regions where the majority of the population depends on subsistence agriculture, doing a project like this might simply create competition that would end up hurting local farmers. I think you’d be better off creating farmer co-ops which can significantly reduce operating costs and make farms more efficient. But I digress (or stop pretending that I know what I’m talking about).

In other news – FINCA International just offered me a six month (unpaid) internship in D.C. once I’m done with my summer research fellowship. The reason that I find this amusing is that I never applied to or even asked for it to begin with. Either my resume has been circulating and impressing everyone around, or a word got out that Brandeis SID students are desperately in need of a second year practicum. And what better way to employ free slave labor than hiring interns! Most of the kids in the program haven’t found internships yet, and they are now operating in “freak-out” mode. In a way, I am glad that I chose a different route, even if it will take me much longer to graduate. For now, I need to come up with a way to politely reject the offer of FINCA International, while still “maintaining a good relationship” with them. For the future, just in case. Does this count as kissing ass?

One more amusing factoid for those who really care to know – I calculated that out of less than nine months since I have been here, three months (or thirteen weeks) were spent in Richmond. No wonder that I now am the lucky owner of a free JetBlue roundtrip ticket anywhere in continental US. How about that!

For now I need to get my act together and finish the semester with whatever dignity I have left. And since there is not much of it left at this point, any help on the above referenced topics will be greatly appreciated. Fat bastard, I am looking at you.

My grand countdown has almost come to an end – only one more week left.

I guess we were never meant to be…

I am sorry, Bean Town. This is not how I expected things to turn out. I tried, I tried my best and I tried really hard to come to like you, but every time I turned to your cold embrace, I was greeted with indifference, bitterness and downright rudeness.

I could deal with indifference, I could even try to put up with bitterness, but rudeness is just a bit too much of a stretch. I think I deserve better than that. Hell, I have been treated much better than that. I think it’s time for me to come to terms with the fact that our relationship is ruined beyond repair. It’s time for me to move on…

See, I actually liked you in the beginning. I thought you were beautiful, I thought you were magnificent. I still think that you are… but you’re so tough to grow into, so tough to like. If you were a little bit friendlier, if you gave me something to work with, just a little, as much as a single smile…

“Dude, my anus is friendlier than Boston,” one of my friends from the Midwest once told me.

I’m not sure how true this is, since I never really had the desire to find out how friendly the said part of her body was, but I also know that to be more unfriendly than you are would require tremendous effort that no single human being is capable of. So I have to take her word in this regard.

Your attitude is unbearable, your customer service is horrible, your drivers are maniacs, your cabbies never miss a chance to rip me off, your pedestrians with their frozen, expressionless faces elbow their way through, hitting me left and right and heaven forbid if I happen to get lost in the maze of your streets, heaven forbid that I as much as dare to stop someone in an attempt to ask for directions and distract them from their already overly busy and important life…

“Excuse me, do you know how to get to X?”
"Yep.”
“Will you tell me then, please?”
“Nope.”

End of conversation.

Where are your manners, Bean Town? Is this how your mother raised you? I bet she’s real proud of how you turned out. You may consider yourself the center of the universe, but seriously, is it all that counts?

I tried really hard to like you. I even sympathize with the bitterness of your working class… But what gets to me more than anything is the hoards of over privileged “pretentious intellectual hipsters” of yours lurking around with bloated sense of importance and entitlement. You see, I never got that. You see, I never cared whether they went to Harvard (or MIT, or BU or Tufts for that matter). So I guess I never had a chance…

Maybe I never really had a chance to begin with…I refused to wear any signs that showed any affiliation with either you or any of your schools. I never had any appreciation for beer, let alone your infamous local brew. I never cared for baseball which, I was told, is an act of blasphemy worse than being a fan of the Yankees. And I never rejoiced or took part in any of the festivities after the Sox won the series. Maybe I never gave you a chance to begin with – after all, it’s hard to top my overflowing, overwhelmingly obsessive love for that other place that I kept going back to every time I had a free day or two…

I still think that you’re a beautiful town. I still think you have so much to offer. And I’m still hopelessly in love with your boys Matt Damon, Ryan Montebleau and Josh Ritter. But even that is not enough to overcome the great sense of disappointment and anguish that you inflicted upon me since I’ve come to know you.

Maybe I never had a chance with you. Maybe I never gave you a chance in the first place. But I’m more and more starting to realize that we simply weren’t meant to be… and I could not have been happier to leave.

P.S. And you know what, I’m actually glad that your unbeatable Patriots lost the Super bowl. And that they lost to no one else but the Giants. So take that, Bean Town. After all, there is only so much ego that one town can bear…

P.P.S. And for the record, I will never get your suit clad professionals walking around in tennis shoes (!!!), your women in coats and flip flops (my God!) and your crowds proudly carrying their scarlet “B”s on their caps and chests and backs like it is some kind of a divine badge.

Math Follows Me Wherever I Go - Part II

As described in my previous and overly lengthy post, I have been having a love/fear relationship with math since I first started studying it in middle school. Despite my “stellar” performance and success in the said subject during my high school years, I never thought that either math or natural sciences were my thing. I was, after all, the only member of my family who chose to go into ‘humanities.” The undergraduate curriculum consisting of foreign languages, linguistics and Area Studies did not consist of any hard-core science or even a hint of math.

I did not think that I would ever have to deal with math again until I had to prepare for the GRE exam in order to apply to graduate school. Not having used any math whatsoever for almost a decade, I was faced with my childhood fear – I was not all that bright when it comes to math. Needless to say, I was horrified.

That particular period of my life can be described as a year long partying where I, as kindly noted by a recent commenter I was “drunk on Noy (locally bottled water), high on condensation and preoccupied with the few, the proud…” This, combined with my natural tendency to procrastinate was certainly the least favorable environment for preparing for the test. Knowing this I decided to hire a tutor, thinking that both the money and the time invested in studying in between bar hopping and strip clubbing would act as enough motivation to help me study. In as little as a couple of classes I not only realized that GRE math was not as hard as I thought it would be, but also rediscovered my long forgotten affinity for math. I also learned that when down and in distress, there is no better anti-depressant than a series of neat mathematical problems.

I took GRE prep courses for about a month and a half. My expectations were quite modest – I would be happy with a score anywhere within 680-700 range. Can you imagine my surprise when I found out that my score was in mid 700s for the quantitative part? Ironically, the verbal score was disappointingly low, but combined with the rest, I still ended up with a pretty decent average. I got accepted to graduate school. I got modest, but much needed partial scholarship. I was ecstatic. But I was more proud of my mad math skills than anything else.

After having taken the GRE and getting accepted to graduate school I thought, once again, that I would never have to deal with math. Fast forward three years and here I am with my decision to study Economics. Despite the fact that this particular decision has grown out of necessity and my combined interest in economic development and research/data analysis, it is also due to the fact that I really enjoy the subject. I also know that the courses that I will start taking come this fall require a strong background in mathematics. While this time around I didn’t freak out with the idea that I would have to know hard-core math in order to succeed in Econ, I was curious to find out where exactly it was that I stood when it came to college math. So for the past month or so I have been looking into this matter, as well as brushing up on my math skills. To my surprise, I discovered that I have not only already studied most of the concepts in high school, but I actually remembered most of them.

Last week, during my meeting with the department head, I found out that the program is especially designed around the said analytical skills and mathematical modeling, which was exactly what I lack and need to learn in order to be able to do the kind of stuff that I want to do.

“Here’s the tricky part though” I said to the department head. “I haven’t had any math courses in college.”

The department head rolled his eyes and chuckled. But before he would say anything, I quickly added:

“This doesn’t mean that I don’t know math though…”

“And how is that?” he asked.

I told him the redacted version of the facts that I laid out in this and previous posts. To my surprise, he actually took it pretty seriously. Turns out, they have had quite a few students from motherland to be able to fully appreciate the merits of the Soviet educational system when it comes to math.

“It seems like you guys get a master’s degree in mathematics in high school before you go on to study anything else.”

I told him that I would be willing to take any math placement tests that they would deem necessary. He said that I wouldn’t have to, given my GRE test scores, unless I wanted to be exempted from one of the prerequisite Calculus courses. I told him that I rather take the course before I move on to anything more advanced. He said that he appreciated my rigor.

So here it is, kids, my saga of math that looks nowhere close to being ended. And frankly, I am quite excited about it. In case you were wondering as to what I have been up to for the last month or so, picture me at a desk solving math problems for hours at a time, sometimes not leaving the house for several days and actually being happy about it. After all, I do enjoy math. I think it’s neat and fun and cool any way I look at it. I may not be bright enough to solve probability problems at the age of eight, I may not be apt enough to tackle linear algebra and real analysis quite yet, as long as I remember that one way of getting good at it is not being afraid, I think I will be just fine.