Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, Mutlu Yıllar, С Новым Годом, З Новим Роком!

After a last minute Aerosvit cancellation and no promise of another flight for the next week, I rung in the New Year by jumping into a moving train in Simferopol with my mom and sister so they could catch their connection in Kyiv. I saw them off this morning and am now spending a few days in Kyiv before heading back.

I've been wanting to share some New Year wishes from Ukrainian political candidates that I've been collecting, but unfortunately in the rush to the train I left Yanukovich and Yuschenko's pictures (and my laptop) at home. Here is what I have on hand:

Tiger Yulia wish you happiness in the year of the white tiger!

Tyhypko (and his stunning resemblance to John Edwards, as Heidi pointed out) wish you happiness!

And for good measure, best wishes for everyone's happiness from the head of the Beyoğlu Municipality, who has been emailing me ever since I attempted to use the free Beyoğlu wi-fi:

Something about political holiday wishes entertains me greatly.

Death and the Penguin, and the Kyiv Zoo

My mom and Heidi are visiting for winter break, and we spent last week in Kyiv and Lviv. With lots of travel time for reading, Heidi (above!) and I both just finished the English translation of the wonderful Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov, who uses satire, dark humor and a little bit of the absurd in writing about today's Ukraine. Death and the Penguin is the first of Kurkov's novels featuring Viktor and his pet penguin Misha, purchased from the Kyiv Zoo when it was downsizing its collection to meet a post-Soviet budget.

In one chapter, Viktor takes the daughter of a colleague to the zoo.

Not many people were about. Following a sign saying TIGERS, he led Sonya along a snow-covered path past an enclosure with a large drawing of a zebra and a stencilled description of its life and habits.
"Where," asked Sonya, looking around, "are the animals?"
"Further on," he said encouragingly.
They passed more empty enclosures with boards descriptive of recent inmates, and came to a roofed-in area.
Here, behind thick iron bars, sat two tigers, a lion, a wolf, and other predators. At the entrance there was a notice:

FEED ONLY WITH FRESH MEAT AND BREAD

Neither of which they had.
They walked along the cages, stopping briefly at each.
"Where," asked Sonya, "are the penguins?"
. . .
Walking on, they came to an empty sunken enclosure with railings around it and a frozen lake in the middle. A board depicting penguins hung above the railings.
"Well, as you can see, there aren't any here," said Viktor.
"A pity," sighed Sonya. "We could have brought Misha to make friends with the others."
"Except, as you can see, there aren't any others," he repeated, stoppping down to her.
"What does still live here?" she asked.

As the book was written 10 years ago, it was therefore a bit disheartening (but perhaps not too surprising) to then find the following article on the Kyiv Zoo in the New York Times this week:

The Kiev Zoo, it seems, has seen better days. Ukraine’s government is in disarray and the political discord has been unrelenting — and, yes, now even the lions and tigers and bears have been drawn in.

The zoo was expelled from the European Association of Zoos and Aquaria in 2007 over poor conditions and mistreatment of animals. Advocates and former workers maintained that a giraffe and other animals died from the zoo’s ineptitude, and that money was siphoned from the zoo’s budget through corrupt schemes.

The zoo’s director was dismissed last year by Kiev’s eccentric mayor, Leonid M. Chernovetsky, after failing to find a mate for an elephant — or so Mr. Chernovetsky said. The new director has stirred an uproar among the staff for her supposedly tyrannical ways, and in October, a brawl erupted among workers during a celebration of the zoo’s centennial.

секонд хенд спри

In a good example of an imported concept leading to an imported word, second hand or thrift shops in many Russian-speaking countries are known as секонд хенд (which is a Cyrillic transliteration of "second hand"), or just "Second Hand" with Latin letters. Overstocked items are often also sold at these stores, usually as "stock."

The story I frequently hear is that the products found in the shops are often donated by aid organizations and other countries with the intention of the goods being distributed to families and individuals in need. By some bureaucratic hiccup, however, many of the donated goods in the end are sold at these shops. At the store near my apartment, things are sold for 33 hryvnia a kilo (about two dollars a pound), except for some higher-quality items that are individually priced. Another store sells at 19 to 79 hryvnia a kilo, depending on the day. I just read an article on the blog Siberian Light in which the author talks about this trend and some of the buyer services that have sprung up around it:

Two young women from Kaliningrad, Youlia and Yuki, enjoyed looking for a diamond in the rough so much that they decided to help other women and men get unusual things at a low cost. At least once a week, the girls visit local second-hand stores, buy exciting clothing items, take their photos and post them on their lifejournal. Their online “friends” line up to buy things like menthol “Converse” keds, bronze patent leather clutch, and funky dresses by “Atmosphere.” Users can also create wishlists and the girls will seek out the coveted vintage dressed or fancy shoes for them.

Several other websites, modeled after “trendography,” have been springing up all over the Russian Internet. Most of them are run by women. In a country where only 20% of entrepreneurs are women, this trend is an immense achievement. It looks like the overstock items from the medium-priced Western brands help empower Russian women. Way to go, “H&M.”

So next time you think of donating your clothes to charity, it may be a charity of a completely unexpected kind: helping post-Soviet women start their businesses and look well-dressed. Quite an unusual charitable cause, isn’t it?

Average salaries in Ukraine don't go far in the world of fashion, especially as there are no Target-like department stores and their affordable but fashionable clothing. This makes the high standard of fashion and appearance many Ukrainian and Russian women hold themselves to particularly impressive.

I picked up some great finds at my local second hand a few weeks ago: these blue heels decorated with ducks (!), a leather handbag made in "Western Germany," and that cute blue skinny scarf, or whatever you would call it. Today Heidi, my mom and I hit up the second hand shop at the bus station and also found some great pieces- my mom came away with a great houndstooth coat and Heidi found a cute pair of black boots. I scored some cute white and blue loafers that unfortunately scream "urban hipster!" but were too cute to pass up.

More animal names, European languages version

I have comments people emailed me about my woodpecker post, and I thought I'd share.

My grandfather sent me the following email:

Woodpecker in Italian is il picchio and you can add the color behind to be more specific.

In Spanish Pacjaro and the a has a tick over it over it. It also means a nitwit or dummy. also called carpinterpo meaning carpenter

Pic in French

[German] der specht or buntspetch bunt is color

Now to try to understand how each derivation of the word for this bird in each language?

Maggie sent me an email that included the following word:

Smushers!!!!

But I have no idea which animal this is about.

Today I learned from Dictionary.com's word of the day e-mail that the word capricious is partially derived from the Italian word riccio, meaning hedgehog:

Capricious comes, via French, from Italian capriccio, a shivering, a shudder, finally (influenced by Italiancapra, goat) a whim, from capo, head (from Latin caput) + riccio, hedgehog (from Latin ericius). The basic idea is that of a head with hair standing on end, like the spines of a hedgehog.

This reminded me about the famous Soviet-era cartoon Hedgehog in the Fog. Continuing with the theme of this post, the Russian word for hedgehog is ëж, which is a common word for beginning Russian students to learn as it is a short word demonstrating the umlatted e. Perhaps it is also taught because of the popularity of the film? I'll have to find this film in the "public domain." It even has a Chrome theme.

Finally, the Turkish word for hedgehog is kirpi, from the same root kirpik, eyelash. Cuute! Our English word is from Middle English, and comes from what you think it does, hedge and hog. A hog in the hedge? Not so cute, at least in modern English. I've also just learned while looking up this etymology that there exists an adjective: hedgehoggy. The more you know...

tak tak!

Woody the Woodpecker in 1961, Wikipedia

I'm doing some homework and found a good excuse to take a break and blog.

Woodpecker - it is a cute word in English, right? What is a woodpecker? Why, it is that bird out there who pecks at wood all day long!

I just learned the word in Crimean Tatar, and it's такътакъ къуш (taq taq kush), or "tak tak bird." What a great name for such a noisy bird! A bit excited, I looked up the word in Turkish (ağaçkakan, which is a near-literal translation from English) and Russian (дятел), but the words were no where near as exciting.

Oh, but a bird by any other name would be just as adorable...even this "black-rumped fireback" tak tak bird I found on Wikipedia:

Anybody have any other cute animal names they're dying to share?

The Color of Pomegranates

I've been taking advantage of "public domain" films (that's what Maggie's dad calls them) on You Tube and other sharing websites to improve my Russian. Sometimes you can even find them with quite good English translations. I grabbed the picture above as a screenshot from the film Sayat Nova (US title: Color of Pomegranates), which is a simply beautiful film directed by Sergei Parajanov about the life of the Armenian poet Sayat Nova, or Harutyun Sayatyan. I'd recommend.

Snow in Simf City!

Was it really only just a month ago I arrived and bragged about spotting tank tops?

So what exactly have I been doing?

Perhaps it is about time I give a project-related update, lest you all think I'm spending my days perfecting my borscht recipe and dreaming about libraries.

My first month here has been considerably busy considering how little I feel I've gotten accomplished. At least 14 hours a week are filled with language lessons - I study Russian 10 hours a week with a private tutor, and Crimean Tatar for 4. I'm also trying to keep up with my Turkish by reading and listening to online news. I've heard about a Turkish conversation club at a local university that I think I'll attend with two aims - to keep my Turkish fresh and meet some new people outside the study-abroad crowd.

My other main preoccupation this past month has been graduate applications. I'm applying to Anthropology PhD programs for the second year in a row, but feel much better about things this time around. I'm applying to Michigan, Chicago, NYU, Berkeley, Washington University, Yale, UCSD and Indiana. My backup plan is a FLAS-funded regional studies MA, but I'll worry about that after the PhD applications are out of the way. It is amazing how time consuming (adult molar-grinding stressful?) this process is.

My project is slowing starting up. I've found an advisor at Tavrida University, Professor Adile Emirova, who has been extremely helpful and encouraging. She has connected me with a few more individuals and given me a great deal of materials to read, which I've been slowly but surely crawling through. After the application season and the holidays, I will have much more time to devote to visiting schools.

Every once in awhile I pop out for no other reason than to explore. There is a beautiful park near my house that I like to jog in, and a walk into town following the river that is quite nice (picture above). I've discovered an nice Indian Restaurant that is quite affordable, and came across a lokanta (named Mega Fast Food - Halal) yesterday with ezogelin worth writing home about (which I suppose is what I'm doing now). The market is my most frequent trip, and I'm enjoying some of my favorite fruits while they're in season. My fruit lady is always pretty happy to see me as she knows I'll fill up my entire backpack with her delicious tomatoes, apples, pomegranates and mandarins. But not the precious persimmons - must carry those by hand as they're so ripe they're threatening to burst. Wish I had a picture to share but suppose it will have to wait.

Yes, Virginia, borscht does taste better the second day!

I think borscht could be the perfect American food for the holidays. First off, I do not believe there is a standard Christmas soup. The 4th of July has barbecue and hot dogs and Thanksgiving has Turkey. What could be a better time for soup than December! Second, it's red. Now all we need is Heintz to create green sour cream, and we've got a new American classic.

I've been playing around with my borscht recipe since my roommates in Bishkek shared theirs with me in April. I made a particularly tasty version yesterday, which was even better today. For my dear cold-climate dwelling readers, I thought I'd share with you my recipe to help you through this winter.

A quick note: I cheat with my borscht, as I don't add meat and I don't make a stock ahead of time. I doubt I've got any stickler babushki reading my blog, but if so, let me say it now... I don't claim this recipe to be authentic! That being said, I suppose there is no "one" way to make it. Poking around a bit on recipe sites, this recipe seems to be a safe bet, however, so take a look if you're interested.

My Borscht Recipe, estimated

2 onions

Fresh or dried parsley

Fresh or dried dill

4 cloves of garlic

2 beets

bouillon (optional)

3 potatoes

1 carrot

Parsnips and celery (optional)

Salt and pepper

1 small head of cabbage

Sour cream (garnish)

Chop the onions and garlic. Sauté them over low heat with the parsley and dill. Add tomatoes.

Peel and prepare the beets. They should be chopped in "sticks" rather than cubes. Add these to the pan and sauté for about 10 minutes more.

Heat up some water in a big pot, and if you feel like it add some bouillon. Add the mess you've sautéed in the pan.

Chop up potatoes and carrots in sticks as well, if for no other reason than they look good like that and the Ukrainians seem to do it that way. You can also prepare other vegetables to add, such as parsnips, celery, or whatever you have lying around. Borscht can be a bit of a stone soup in that way. Throw all of this into the pot. Chop up a small cabbage, or half a head of a large one. Purple or green can work.

Now you can add more parsley and dill, as well as salt and pepper. Go ahead and add Mrs. Dash as well if you feel like it. Let it simmer for an hour. Serve with sour cream. Bread is pretty good with it as well, but of course the best of all is pampushki. These are delicious (and adorable) garlic-buttery buns.

Of course you'll be hungry when it is finished, but if you've made enough you can wait until the next day to have the (even better) leftovers.

If you try it out, please let me know in the comments. I'd also love to hear any of your own borscht recipes you're hiding!

Postcards

As you may remember from a previous post, I've been finding all sorts of things in my apartment left by previous tenants. I suppose if I started looking through the pile of my landlord's boxes in my bedroom:

I'd find even more.

Something notable I just found in a drawer is a collection of postcards from the 60's, 70's and 80's featuring various Soviet monuments and buildings. I'm still not sure how I feel about collecting Soviet memorabilia, but these postcards are interesting and shouldn't just be lying in a drawer. I would in theory feel bad about breaking up the sets, but a few already seem to be missing.

I've been looking for an excuse to get back in touch with people and send some postcards. Leave a comment or send an email with your mailing address if you'd like one. And on the off chance I have readers of this blog I don't know personally, I'd love to send you a postcard too! Just send me your address. They may come in an envelope as some are too large to send as a postcard.

Another bit of writing about reading

While the potential list of topics for self-indulgent blog posts is perhaps endless, I am sure writing about reading must be one of the more common themes. I know I shouldn't join in (who am I, Anne Fadiman?), but nonetheless I can't resist.

Living abroad my relationship with books has changed considerably, especially with English-language books. Sure, it is nice to immerse yourself by diving into the local literature - but who am I kidding. I've been reading English for 20 years, Turkish for 3 and Russian for only 1... and there is nothing like flying through a book in a native language.

In Istanbul I was spoiled. With Pandora and Robinson Crusoe, there was no real reason not to have my hands on nearly any English book I wanted, if I didn't mind a wait and paying full price. Their in-store selections as well are wonderful and make for good browsing. In Ukraine I haven't had as much luck; I found exactly two English books I wanted in Kyiv, and have yet to have anything catch my interest here in Simferopol. Although New Headway English Course: Intermediate seems tempting.

But not a drop to drink

No, here I have the books I brought with or a sea of Russian. The only other alternatives I seem to have at the moment are trading books with missionaries or getting into the pdf book swapping scene.

It is not even a matter of specific books that I want. You could offer to send me any 3 books I wanted and I would still complain. The ability to go to a library - even not a particularly good one - and pick from a selection of books that I may want to read. That is what I want!

This next part may be controversial, but so be it. It is not even that I necessarily need to be able to read the books. Let them lay around on the desk, the bed, the floor. I'd like to check out a few books, similar or wildly different, leave them stacked up for a week or two while I read one or two or a little of all, or even none at all, and then return them for another collection, chosen completely by whim. So what if my love of books is related to but also separate from my love of reading. Should a letter writer feel guilty about collecting stamps?

The stacks

When I was in Gaylord this summer, I paid a few visits to the Otsego County Library. The silver lining in the meager selection is the impossibility of browsing without reminders of past visits. Every time I go I see a few books that spent some time on my desk (or floor), even if I didn't exactly read them. A failed attempt to teach myself German. A childhood obsession with Miss Manners.

On my last visit, I picked up Nabokov's Pnin, which I had never read before. I fell in love with the book, and even more so the edition:

Confession: I wanted to steal the library book. I wanted it to be mine. Mine! Never mind there are plenty of other residents of Otsego County who are still to discover this wonderful edition of Pnin, or even Nabokov himself, who of course should not be deprived of such an opportunity.

One of Heidi's friends cited some alleged OCL policy where each patron may "lose" one library book in the lifetime without penalty. Sounded to me like the "students can leave if the teacher is 15 minutes late" rule, but I briefly considered. Regardless of the fact that my go was probably used up when I was a child and the library unfairly accused me of losing some book about a mouse, it didn't seem right. But as I searched online for a picture of that cover to accompany this post, I came across an even better edition. Now if this had been the copy in question I might have had to reconsider.

Want. And no, I don't read Nabokov in Russian, as I can hardly comprehend him in English.

(Of course, for perhaps one of the best editions of all, sneak a look here. Also thanks to Life's archives, you can imagine this as an early version.)

My own libraries, at home and in expatia

Of course I would never go through with stealing a library book. Not even saying I'd lost the book to see if the replacement fee was cheaper than that edition on the used market. Why, that is worse than littering in front of the courthouse, lying on a census or not voting! Try as I may, I am stuck with a deep respect for the institution of the library. Even good ol' OCL.

In fact, as a young, asthmatic perfectionist, I even attempted to create my own. My first act as librarian of the basement was to organize the fiction. Cutting tiny white stickers out of nametags and placing them on the binding of the books, I carefully marked the books with two lines of text. So Matilda looked like this:

FIC

Dah

The non-fiction was a problem, as I did not possess the magical "key" to figure out how books were assigned call numbers under the Dewey Decimal System. I spent a good deal of time trying to solve this problem. I believe I might have been planning to ask our librarian for a "list" before my mother intervened. That is how I remember it, anyhow.

After my first trip to a university library, I lost all remaining faith in Dewey as I learned that not all followed his mysterious code. So like most private collectors, I created my own system. In my little corner of Simferopol, with my small assortment of books, I've settled on the following: books I'm working on strewn in the comfortable reading zones of the flat, the largest four volumes forming makeshift stands for electronics, and the remaining, after much contemplation, organized by some combination of aesthetics and size without heed to subject matter.

İyi Bayramlar, albiet a bit late

This blog as been a bit neglected this week while working on graduate applications. 1 down, 6 to go!

I've been watching videos of the Crimean News Agency (Qırım Haber Ajansı) to follow the local news and to get exposure to the Crimean Tatar language.

Thought any Turkophones reading this blog might be curious about the Crimean Tatar language. I'm no expert, but I'll be making a post soon about my experience so far studying it. The following video is about different Crimean Tatar dishes, especially those made at a specific restaurant in preparation for Kurban Bayrami (Eid al-Adha). This year the bayram fell on the same weekend as Thanksgiving, celebrated from Friday to Monday.

Looks pretty good to me...

Not yet a legal alien...

Thanks, Wikipedia

My legal status here is as follows: although I have a one year scientific visa for Ukraine, I must register within the first 90 days of my residence. Consequences for not registering can amount to fines or a ban from future entrance to Ukraine.

My first two months in Ukraine I was in Kyiv studying Russian. I couldn't begin on my registration there because I had to register in the city of the university I'm affiliated with. As soon as I moved to Simferopol, the swine flu quarantine was in place and someone at my university told me it was impossible to register me until the quarantine was over. I made the mistake of listening to her. When I showed up to the office of International Students the first day of school after the quarantine (the day before my 90 days expired), I got an ear full about not coming into the office, because apparently they were working the whole time.

That was Monday, this is Friday and my registration is now late and still not filed. Shall I continue about the rest: the documentation, the multiple trips to the police station, the tax office, some other office that has something to do with residence, and the university? The 50 dollar "insurance" fee? The pack of paper (!) my landlord had to buy for a police officer for him to give us the document we needed, because he "didn't have any paper to print the document on"? The conflicting versions of the law that have confused the university this past week (there's the Kyiv version, and the Simferopol version)?

I see your eyes are glazing over. Perhaps I should let that be, and just mention that I am not yet a legal alien, and if I left the country at this moment, I would not be let back in.

California Flu

Never mind Mexico City - here the H1N1 is referred to as калифорний грипп - the California Flu. I'm a bit late on this post, as the country has been fretting about the flu for weeks, and this upcoming week marks the end (inshallah!) of the nation-wide three week preventative quarantine in schools and universities.

Hanna, a journalist whose husband is one of this year's scholars in the program, wrote a great post about the mania as seen from Odessa. I recommend her blog in general, and will miss her posts about life in Ukraine when she and her family move back home this December.

The Washington Post today published an article attempting to explain the hysteria ("free press is a relatively new institution and media outlets dwell on conspiracy theories", lack of trust in the government), as well as why there have been so many H1N1 related deaths in Ukraine (poor health care system and patients waiting too long to seek treatment, preferring home remedies). The article also discusses some of the political posturing following the outbreak, which isn't surprising given the proximity of the upcoming presidential election.

The clip below can give you an idea of the mania sweeping through Kyiv as of last week. I know at least when I was in Kyiv, the flu had yet to hit the capital but many people were wearing face masks regardless. There were stories of pharmacists drastically jacking up the prices of medicines such as Tamiflu. Things are calmer here in Simferopol, but you still see the odd mask.






How does all this affect me? It certainly has made it more difficult to start on my project, as many of my contacts are out of town given the quarantine-holiday. But I started both Russian and Crimean Tatar lessons here without a problem; my tutors just come to my house instead of us meeting on campus.

My registration is another story. All foreigners staying in Ukraine for more than 90 days must register with the authorities (regardless of the length of any issued visas) and I think you'd be hard-pressed to find one without a story to tell about the process. As you can imagine, this is quite a bureaucratic affair. I need my university to register me, as they are the official inviting party on my research visa. But with the university closed, I can't collect my necessary documents. Oooh, California! What trouble you cause.

In other news, congratulations to David for surviving H1N1 '09! And all you got was that stupid t-shirt.

Pat the bomb, push the button! And home by dinner.

After the trip to Pervomaysk, the Cold War era underground nuclear missile facility a three hour drive from Kyiv, I believe my (post)Soviet kitsch tickets are spent for awhile. The trip was organized by Nova Mova, my language school in Kyiv, and we set off one Saturday morning at 7am with other students from the school, mostly US and British military officers and cadets.

Ukraine.com describes Pervomaysk as such:

Pervomaysk was standing third in line, behind the United States and Russia, for the title of most powerful and dangerous nuclear weapons hotspot. On the outskirts of this mining town stood missile silos that were loaded with nuclear arms. These weapons included over seven hundred tactical warheads, SS24 missiles and SS19 missiles - quite a large arsenal for such a small town. Most of the warheads were facing the American shores. After years of negotiation with both America and Russia, Ukraine agreed to destroy their weapons of mass destruction. On 4 June 1996, the first sunflowers were planted where the mighty silo once stood.

After walking past some decommissioned missiles, we got a look at the Museum of Strategic Missile Troops (which you can find out more about, including how to find it independently, here). A retired General, who had worked at the base during its operation, was our guide, and gave us stats on a litany of missiles. Andrei, an administrator at our school, tirelessly translated the minutia as we stood and stared at paintings and models like the following.





Statistics about the number of missiles and their respective capabilities were flying, and of course it was all Greek to me (Это для меня китайская грамота!) but I stared like a codfish regardless. Even after two years debating issues of nuclear weapons (the weapons of mass destruction topic in high school and the treaties topic in college), I knew this was serious stuff and not merely a tourist attraction...but it seemed so surreal. I felt a bit Nuclear Language and How We Learned to Pat the Bomb, if that can be used as a adjective. (Sure, my references here are a bit dated, but we're talking about the Cold War, aren't we?) Look how cool that diagram is! Look how big that missile is! We actually get to push the button?




The missile control base was built 12 stories underground to protect the crew in the case of an attack. We took turns in small groups going down to the control room with Andrei and our guide. The control room was surprisingly small; I cannot imagine how it would feel to fit in such a small room with such a monumental duty. Before I even knew what was going on, Andrei was prodding me into the chair for a photo opp. I put on the seat belt and he handed me the phone.


"Don't like a boyfriend in New York?" he joked, laughing. "Push the button!" I pointed my finger at it, but strapped in as I was I couldn't reach it.

Enjoying a fall weekend

We've had kind fall weather here the past few days, save for Sunday afternoon.


Everyone seemed to be out for a stroll. Perhaps it's the weather, perhaps it's the proximity from Western Ukraine, but people here seem in much less of a panic than in Kyiv about the swine flu. If in Kyiv one in 10 were donning a mask, here it is more of an occasional sighting.




And my favorite weekend sighting:

What no map can tell

The great pleasure in such journeys is in seeing and feeling what no map can tell, no matter for how long poured over in the quiet of a room at home or in the basement of the Royal Geographical Society. Of course, the romance of maps lies in their mystery, in the names of far-off places in strange tongues, such a powerful seduction: Ilisu, Shatili, Ushguli, Batumi, Tbilisi, Baku. I have sometimes imagined a turbanned man of my age sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dwelling in Samarkand wit a map of Britain open in front of him, mouthing gently to himself, while a small shiver of pleasure descends his spine, 'Saffron Walden, Gateshead, Chipping Sodbury, Clacton-on-Sea.

- Tony Anderson, Bread and Ashes: A Walk Through the Mountains of Georgia

I've reread this passage a number of times since my trip to Georgia this summer and better felt its sentiment each time; perhaps alone for the number of times I have poured over maps of far away places, planning extensive overland journeys for which I have not the time nor the resources, purely for flirtation with rising wanderlust. But this passage also reminds me of the feeling you get when finally arriving someplace you've long thought about, and how naturally you can fall into the pace of things, feeling that the far away place is not so far away at all. And perhaps most of all the reminder of what a privilege it is to choose a spot on a map and decide to see it for yourself.

-Trinity Church in Gergeti (Kazbegi) - perhaps one of the most famous sites in Georgia. Photograph once again courtesy of David, Clicking Again's favourite photographer

This summer in Kazbegi, one of the most famous tourist destinations in Georgia and a beautiful mountain region, I met two American brothers (from Michigan, no less) and an Australian around-the-worlder at my homestay. I mentioned to them the small box in my Georgia Lonely Planet describing a hike over the Juta Pass, into another mountain region that is not accessible without going back through Tbilisi. The brothers had already caught wind of it and were in. A Czech couple overheard and joined the conversation, producing a topographic map they had found and printed up of the pass. We stayed up late pouring over it, improvising water-proof gators and organizing transportation to the foot of the pass.

The next day the sky was gray, and reports of a washed out road on the way to Juta squashed our hastily made plans. The Americans had to move on, the Czechs as well. Alex (the Australian) and I had a bit more time and made plans for the next day.

The next morning our homestay drove us to where the road had washed out, and we were picked up on the other side by someone who would show us the path to the Pass.


Even after spending the last week hiking in Mestia, I was not in the kind of shape I should have been to go over the pass. Yes, I got over it in the end, but if anyone had been keeping score, Juta would have certainly won regardless. Although it was June the pass was still covered with snow, and the trail was often washed out or nonexistent. The fact that I took few pictures of the breathtaking view is good indication of how scared (near to death) I was. There I am bundled up next to the cairn, and there's Alex eating a well deserved Snickers. Behind him is the side we had just climbed up.




The descent was gorgeous, but not much easier. When we reached the cow line, we knew the end was near.


And of course the village of Roschka was the most welcome sight I had ever seen.




A few days later, I reached the chapter on the Juta pass in Tony Anderson's Bread and Ashes. I carried that book up and down the pass without realizing that the cover of his book is a picture of the very same place.


Writing this post now, and reading again at these far away names on the map - Ilisu, Shatili, Ushguli, Batumi, Tbilisi, Baku - I look forward to hiking through these mountains again soon. With that in mind, perhaps I should go for a run.

gorilla tape, and other finds

I believe nearly everyone in expatia has their own “must-have” - something that seems illogical to bring from home or abroad to which you nevertheless dedicate precious luggage weight. For Maggie this is cooking ware and pet supplies. For me (or rather my friends and family visiting me) it is mostly peanut butter and Cracklin’ Oat Bran. Jen, a friend of mine from Istanbul, wrote quite an entertaining post about this in her blog here, which is a good argument not to move to Turkey if you find pork, palatable wine or European cheese necessary ingredients to your happiness.

Settling into my new flat has me thinking quite a bit about this, because I keep finding items brought from abroad by the six years of Americans who have lived in this same flat before me. It started in the kitchen cupboard, but there is evidence stashed away in the bathroom, wardrobe and dresser drawers. I have moved to a little slice of expatia!

Among my finds:






Duct tape (actually Gorilla Tape, of which I had previously never heard), three bags of Ricola cough drops (various fruit flavors), a 680g container of McCormick Taco Seasoning Mix Premium (expired May of this year), Energizer batteries, a ten bottle collection of Encore Herbs and Spices (made in Canada), a L’Occitane Travel Candle (lemon scented), a Sony Discman with a copied Nickleback album (!), a pocket New Testament, The Very Best of Elvis Costello (book for Piano/Vocal/Guitar), a three-pack of Trader Joe’s scouring pads, tiny Christmas lights (red) and Cooking Basics of Dummies. Two Washington D.C. postcards near the bookshelf.


And the biggest prize of all - non-metric measuring cups, lined up lovingly along the wall. One cup! ½ cup! ¼ cup! 1/8 cup!

Then there are the items I am almost sure were purchased locally by my fellow countrymen. The French press - yes of course Ukrainians drink coffee as well, but call it a feeling. The giant coffee mugs. The smaller, more expensive salt with iodine that you can poor right out of the container. Non-sugar sweetener.

Finding these things gives me such a nice feeling, something nostalgic, or romantic…I’m not sure how to describe it, but I’d bet the Germans have a cute compound word for it. Not just finding little pieces of America, but finding the little pieces that others have put together. Something like: The Best of American Consumerism [Abridged Pocket Version].

Austin, if you are reading this and any of these things are yours, please do not think I am mocking you. On the contrary, let me share my list of ridiculous “must-have” items to which I devoted precious space in my luggage: 10 pound yoga mat. Carbon monoxide detector. A collection of McCormick spices (albeit not Taco Seasoning Premium). Memory foam pillow. Calcium supplements. Peanut butter.



So here’s to carrying on the American legacy on Turgeneva Street, with enough spices for a few curries, and then some.

And now to Crimea

After two months in the capital, I’ve finally moved down to Simferopol, Crimea to begin working on my project. That's me there in the middle:

Thanks to Lyuba for the picture, on which she tagged me on Facebook :)

I arrived yesterday morning on the train from Kyiv and my landlord Sergei met me at the train station. I originally got in touch with Sergei through Austin, who just finished his Fulbright year in Simferopol a few months ago and lived in this same apartment. Interesting side note - Austin taught English a few years ago at the London School in Bishkek, where I studied Russian last spring. Yes, he also gave me a list of his friends on the peninsula so I totally take over his life completely here.

So I come off the train with my 10 months of clothes and books and other necessities and make a little mountain with my baggage on the platform. Dad- imagine what I looked like when you drove me to TVC plus winter clothes and an overnight train ride. I waited not one minute before seeing a friendly looking man in a “Birch Street Elementary School” gray hooded sweatshirt holding up a sign reading “E L I Z A B E T”, looking at me but trying to pretend he hadn’t already pegged me as the American student with a year’s worth of baggage looking around clueless.

As we drove to the flat he told me about his previous tenants over the past 6 years - they’ve all been Americans. The first found him through a real estate agency, and worked for two years at a local museum before returning to Baltimore. Since then the apartment has been handed down by word of mouth, good for us in the line who didn’t have to go through a real estate agency to find accommodation, and good for Sergei, who prefers to rent to Americans because they’re аккуратные. And of course we don’t mind paying in Dollars. But I am quite lucky to have Sergei as a landlord, who seems like a really nice guy. I am comparing this to my Kyiv landlord, who called all our mutual acquaintances, told them I stole antiques, left blood in the refrigerator and wrote all over her walls, and tried to get them to pay her for the "damages." I suppose I've been busy lately and didn't have time to blog about that...

The place is more or less how Austin described it. The building itself is typically post-war, and the entry way and courtyard formed by the surrounding apartments look exactly like the area I lived in Bishkek, except in the middle there is a common laundry line instead of a playground. A kid about 14 years old sat on the stairway to the building and played Russian rap from the tiny speakers of his cell phone.

Inside the kitchen has plenty of space, getting bonus points for the oven and microwave. The bathroom has a nice large bathtub. The living room is large and has all the necessary furniture. There is a television, but when pointing it out Sergei sighed and said that it only gets Ukrainian programming. “Watch it and you can teach yourself Ukrainian!” he laughed. The bedroom is actually a storage unit mostly full of boxes belonging to Sergei’s mother who now lives in New York. But there is a large comfortable bed in the corner and what’s left of the space is still considerably larger than my Kutlu Sokak flat where I had to get dressed either in the kitchen or standing on my bed.

In about a hour and a half I have my first lesson with my new Russian tutor, Laryssa. We're meeting at my house because all the schools and universities and Ukraine are closed in preventative quarantine due to the swine flu. I don't have internet at my place yet, so I'm blogging and catching up on email at the Hotel Imperial near my house, in their cafe decorated only in pink.

A trip to Chernobyl and Pripyat

Ask a Ukrainian when he stopped believing in communism, and the answers vary. A few quote the invasion of Czechoslovakia, some the Afghan war, others the discovery of Stalin's mass graves at Bykivnya. Many, like Lyashenko, look blank, because they have not really stopped believing in communism at all. But by far the likeliest reply is 'Chernobyl'. ...Imperilling everyone impartially and in the most basic and dramatic fashion, no other single piece of communist bungling did more to turn public opinion against the regime.

- Anna Reid, Borderland

So many have photographed and written about Chernobyl I almost hesitate to even take a stab at it - what more can be said about this tragic, lonely post-Soviet space? Over Photoshopped pictures of abandoned buildings with orange skies, the ferris wheel, the empty classrooms. But a few weeks after my visit I'm still thinking of this place.



A trip to Chernobyl comprises not only the nuclear plant and exploded reactor, but the city of Pripyat and surrounding villages, locked in an open-air 1986 time capsule. The Fulbright office organized the trip for us with a local tour agency. We got on the bus at 7 in the morning and set off for the exclusion zone. Technically, tourism is still not allowed in the "zone." Visitors are allowed under the guise of "educational excursions." For this reason, independent visits to Chernobyl are difficult, and most visitors chose to go with a tour agency.


When I first told Anna, my Russian teacher, about my upcoming trip to Chernobyl she seemed a bit disappointed. She knew that some of the Fulbright students were just arriving, and she didn't think it right that the first thing they see be Chernobyl, when Ukraine has so many other beautiful destinations. "Why is everyone so interested in Chernobyl?" She asked me. Melissa, another Fulbrighter, told a woman on her Odesa-Kyiv train that she was going on an excursion to Chernobyl. The woman gave her a similar look. "Why Chernobyl?"




As you walk around the city of Pripyat and the other abandoned villages in the area, you see a lot of what a Frenchman on our trip constantly referred to as "hyper-reality." Almost 25 years after the disaster, thousands have visited the site, and some have rearranged the left items. In one small house in a surrounding village, a day calendar was still hanging on the wall, with the date "April 26, 1986" never removed. Family photos were carefully placed around the room. Many toys have been rearranged so the visitor encounters them in doorways, on tabletops, on sidewalks. Yet regardless of what was arranged here and there since the disaster, all of these things were once part of the lives of the citizens of Pripyat.


Throughout the city of Pripyat, it is obvious that scavengers have removed materials of value, such as metal hand railings and fences. Our guide pointed this out to us, and one of the others on the tour asked him what the metal had been used for. He shrugged and said there was no way to know. A joke from the crowd about silverware and utensils got a few chuckles as we walked on.

In the prison, some found discipline slips scattered on the floor, issued to individual prisoners and listing their infractions and punishments. The doors to the individual cells were all open and the rooms were dark. In the maternity ward of the hospital and the back of the kindergarten, white metal cribs and beds were scattered and rusting. The floorboards of the sport center's court were warped and peeling.

In one of the schools, there is a room where several boxes of child-size gas masks have been dumped out onto the floor. They were delivered to the school in the confusion following the disaster but never used. This is a famous stop on the tour.


The day after our trip to Chernobyl, I happened to meet one of the first photographers to photograph the city. It was quite an opportunity to talk to her about her first trips there, and the ways in which the zone has changed over the years. She talked a bit about tourism to the area, and visitors changing the space when they visit it. She commented that it was much more striking years ago, when the disaster was fresh and tourism had not yet begun.




I asked her opinion on the graffiti that can be found throughout Pripat. She just shook her head and said that it was something new. That it wasn't there before. Although I found much of it quite striking - and even beautiful - I can understand her negative feelings about it. To visit the zone again and again after so many years, and see it change from a deserted Soviet city with everything locked in time to an international space evolving in its own way.


Since visiting Chernobyl, I've looked at a number of blog posts and photo collections of Chernobyl visits and impressions. Many of them include at least one photograph of these Banksy-like haunting images. One thing that struck me when viewing other's photographs from a few years before my visit is that even this art is fading away as the forest takes back the city. The color in the dress of the little girl by the elevator is fading and the wall is showing through. The dancer in the city square are turning from black to gray.




I'd like to think I'm not prone to excessively dramatic thoughts, but in the few weeks since the excursion, I've found myself thinking quite a few times about some of the specific apartments and buildings that we visited - sitting the same way, slowly wearing away as my own inhabited spaces are dirtied and tidied, swept up and reorganized.


Towards the end of the tour we climbed to the top of one of the tallest apartment buildings in Pripyat. By this time it almost seemed normal to be walking around an abandoned zone, looking in other people's bedrooms and classrooms and offices. On the top of the apartment we looked across the forest and town, squeezed past the giant neon sign on the top of the building to get to the other side of roof. Then we suddenly heard a noise from across the city and we all turned to look - it was a tour bus starting its engine in the silence.


Despite its current state, it is not difficult to imagine Prypyat as the beautiful city it no doubt was. And although it is difficult to detach our emotions from our post-Chernobyl, post-Five Mile Island skepticism of nuclear power, imagine how great it must have been to stand in this city built on nuclear power. How proud this city must have been, before that sign of radiation took on the terrifying connotation it has today.


On our way home, we all turned in our radiation measurement devices and received a "certificate" indicating how much radiation received during the day and a 5% off coupon for any further excursions organized through Chernobyl Tours.