the best laid plans…

I was planning to fall into a deep slumber.  I was planning to get to it immediately.  I didn’t see that I could stay awake one more minute.

So it was no surprise–or rather, it ought not to have been–when I got a text that would veer me utterly off course.  L was in the country.  Not just in the country.  To be more precise, he was in the country AND in town, and L and I are usually continents apart.  In fact, I hadn’t seen him for 16 years, not since I left Africa.

So when he suggested we meet up, it was clear that no slumber would be had anytime soon.  I saw through this glass clearly. 

“Come over now,” I said, and with those words dashed out of my apartment to buy groceries.  I would make a delicious, quick and low-fat meal.

That, dear reader, is where I stopped seeing through the glass clearly.  Clearly.

Instead, I served what I’m going to have to call “glump.”  What is glump?

Glump: 

A mass of various undistinguishable mashed foods served from one dish, usually with a ladle. 

Now, glump can be yummy, or it can be horrid, or it can be, as it was when they arrived, tasteless.  It’s miraculous that way, glump.

I was putting the final touches on my glump–in other words removing it from the heat and frowning at it–when the bell rang.  I ran to the door, tearing my apron off.  (My name is stitched on its front as if I get muddled sometimes and must look down to confirm it.) 

As I unlatched it and wrenched it open, I smacked my face with apron and was left with it half on, drooping awkwardly from my waist.  No worries–L’s doubtless seen me much less dignified.  So I let them in and gave them the tour.

“This is my living room,” I said, gesturing expansively to my sofa and dining room table.  They ooh’ed and ah’ed beautifully.  “And this is my furniture,” I said, in case they hadn’t noticed.  They cooed kindly. “This is my hallway,” I said, and stopped as if to survey it, causing them both to bump into me.  They looked about in the tight space and nodded. “And this,” I said, walking into the dark room, “is my bathroom.”

They paused at the door with a giggle. 

“Come in!” I said.  And so they did. “Come here,” I said, and stepped into my bathtub.  With another laugh, L complied.  And then he saw my view and understood the appeal.  We stepped out and P surveyed the view.  (Trust me, it’s worth the extra step in the dark.)

But now I couldn’t delay dinner any longer.

I made P taste the glump before dishing it out, so that he could judge how hungry he was.  He tasted it and maintained a politely interested yet faintly surprised miraculously neutral expression.  In a way that only a South African living in England can.

“Can you save it?” I asked.

I didn’t have to ask twice.  He moved quick.  Rummaged through my spices.  Only two had English lables.  Rosemary and fenugreek.

“Rosemary should be added earlier in, er, the process,” he said, and so we added fenugreek.  And then more fenugreek.  And then P made the executive decision that my expired parmesan wasn’t really expired.  And I have to say…he made it yummy!  We ate the whole pan of glump, the three of us, together with salad and buffalo mozzarella cheese.  ‘Twas oddly perfect with my dark chocolate and the South African pinotage and Chilean cabernet they’d brought.

Then again, I can’t in all honesty report that.  I never made it to the cabernet. 

I think we all had a great time in the end.  We hung out till after midnight, and my new dining room table got properly eaten and spilled upon, so all was wondrousness.    I was TOAST at the end of the night, crawling into bed around 1am, and there was no way I was getting up in four hours to write.  So I slept late; got up at seven and indulged in two cups of coffee and absolutely zero brain activity.

All this is to say that I should know better than to plan.  For although the best laid plans can disintigrate into a much fuller and truly wonderful, irreplaceable evening, they indeed are so prone to dissolving as to make one feel one is brazenly tempting fate when one says (as I’m about to now):

This is going to be a great writing weekend!

Turkish bath and Sunni mosque in Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia

No Pain, No New Plan to Circumnavigate Pain

It was 3:30pm and my legs were killing me.  I was famished, hadn’t eaten a bite all day and had been on my feet without respite, starting at exercise boot camp and then at work afterwards for 6.5 hours.

“I have to go,” I told him.  ”My feet are like the truth:  they hurt.”

“The truth shall set you free,” he answered.

Oy, I staggered out of work and made my way to the train.  Of course it was the 1, which is like, the slowest train since the advent of forward motion.  I step in.  It’s full.  WHY, oh why, was it full at 3:30 in the afternoon?  I cursed the other part-timers.  I cursed children.  I cursed the dregs of society.  I cursed society at large, just to get that out of the way, too.  Then I focused on balancing.

When I got home, I about fell into a burger.  I’d poured wine, too, but forgot about it until I looked up from the remains.  Gulped that down and put my aching feet up.  Didn’t write a jot.  I feel so angry about it…

I don’t begrudge the time working.  But then on the side I’ve got to look for permanent full-time work that can really keep me afloat, and I have to write, which I hate putting on the side like this, and then I so crucially need to take care of my life–my friends, my family.  I hate shortchanging them; it shortchanges me too.  How to balance it all????

I’m thinking my wake-up time’s gotta shift from 5:02 to maybe 4:37.  Only I have a strong aversion to any time that starts with a 4 in the hour slot.  But I’ll have to get over it.  Then, after work, I simply must find a way to write, immediately, without any stops to gasp at sore feet or empty tummies or whatnot.  That way I can also relegate Sundays to hanging out with friends, and maybe one other weekday evening…  Is that a plan?

I’ll try it starting today.  Tomorrow is a lie.  Always has been.

Definitely feeling very overwhelmed with time right now.  That’s the truth.  Will it set me free?

Time, on NYC's Broadway

Need a Point of Reference? The Tattoo Parlor Tale

And then I had another one of my brilliant ideas.

We were in the woods, at a friend’s house, a whole group of us.  Playing made-up games like our version of Scrabble, in which players are forbidden from using real words, and must justify their made-up word by using it in a sentence.  If it passes muster, it passes and enters not only the game, but our group lexicon.  Such are the origins, future etymologists, of the words soon to sweep America:  scunt (v), figscunt (n), Haneod (exclamation), and others.

I don’t really think we were looking for something new to entertain us.  Our group never has to look.  Entertainment cleaves unto us.  But when the idea popped up, I couldn’t keep it to myself, so unfathomably genius was it.

“Hey guys!  Let’s each write down a word, either ‘tattoo’ or ‘piercing’ and put our secret words into a bowl, and then everyone has to pick a piece of paper and do whatever it is!”

Yes, that was my genius party idea.

“Oooh,” said Shawn, appreciatively, I like to think.  But then a look passed over his face.  ”Wait, that kind of sucks for the tattoo people.  It’s a much greater commitment.”

“Pshaw,” I answered convincingly.

His look of concern didn’t ease, though, so I softened my approach.

“Look, the tattoo doesn’t have to be big.  It could be small.  Like, a dot.”

He frowned.  ”A dot?  But tattoos should be of something.”  He had a point.  No matter, I had one too.

“Dude, don’t you see?  It could be a point of reference.”  My voice lowered in glee and delight.  Genius is in the details, folks.

“That way, if you ever state anything, and someone asks what your point of reference is, you can just lower your collar or raise your sleeve or lower your jeans and point!”  I was almost breathless in ecstatic anticipation.

This time he perked up too, and not only that, the whole group jumped in.  The only thing is, compared to having your own personal point of reference tattooed on you, a piercing seemed sort of characterless and wishy-washy.

The bowl and the entire concept of chance was abandoned.  We piled into the car, all eight of us, with Brooke and Phil singing their new song that we’re now hoping they’ll make into a book for kids, and drove to the tattoo parlor.  Another brilliant idea by yours truly.  ;-)  Thank god I have the kinds of friends who’ll tumble into a car on any crazy whim!!!

my crazy friends (or an advertisement for Where the Wild Things Are?)

Kentucky Woman

I have a friend, a great friend, to whom only the strangest things happen.  Maybe you have such a friend too.

She’d moved away from New York in 2007, and we were meeting up again at another very dear friend’s wedding.  It was so wonderful to see her again and enjoy having her special spark light up our city again.

I beamed at her, and finally, when we had a moment to speak, asked how she’d been the past week.

“Oh, God, honey, you wouldn’t believe it.”  (Which is always a rather good start to any story, barring one between hard bound covers, maybe.)

It turns out the Tuesday night before the wedding, she’d gone to bed without locking the front door.  She’s single and has an adorable young son.  He’d crawled into bed with her, and she was happily dreaming away the night when her son tugged at her.

“Mom,” he asked, when he’d gotten her bleary attention, “who’s the man in bed with us?”

Her eyes widened.  She turned her head slowly.  And there, lying next to her, was someone.  Someone she didn’t know.

She leapt from the bed, seizing her son, and ran to her neighbor’s.  The police took her call and escorted the man from her home.

Turns out, he’d not meant to break in to her house.  He’d gone out, gotten drunk, and hadn’t found his way home.  He’d mistaken her home for his, and had undressed and gone straight to bed.  No checking if the furniture (or house layout?) was his, or if, say, the woman in bed was known to him.  He just tumbled in and fell deep asleep.

The police pushed him out of her place so fast, he left his pants hanging on a door knob for her to find the next day.

Poor man.  Imagine having to explain that to his wife/girlfriend/woman who was supposed to be in bed with him.  :)

**

So… you got a friend like that, who just has these kind of things happen to them, par for the course?  I love that woman…  I could fill a book with stories about her.

Last summer; or Life and Dreams in a Small Caucasus Town

Sighnaghi in the Mist

I served in Georgia, the Republic nestled in between the Greater and Lesser Caucasus Ranges, touching on Chechnya and Russia to the north and cradling the Black Sea to the West, with Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan neighboring in the south.  I was to be there for two years and three months, only the Russian army had other ideas, and invaded after one year.

In a country famous for its dramatic mountain ranges and exquisite landscape, I had managed to be placed in one of the flattest areas, where the earth looked parched despite its great bounty of potatoes and tomatoes.

Hungry cattle wended their way through the town streets, leaving behind manure and a sense of fatigue and never-ending days. Sheep were slaughtered by butchers on the main street, tied up on the pavement where they could see their fate in the fates of necks chopped before theirs.  Chickens were sold live, and carried home by their feet.  Everything was bought amid the din of a huge, bustling bazaar which opened at 5am.  Azeri music blared on stereos, together with Turkish, Russian and Georgian pop.

Schools ran on shoe-string budgets, with paint peeling from walls and the stench of the toilets pervading entire floors.  The hospital was visited by stray dogs and cats, cobwebs hung throughout the dank grey corridors, and it felt a visceral shock to the system to actually see people coming there to get treated to feel better.

Unemployed men littered the streets, whiling away hours in teahouses that women were better off not even looking into for fear of appearing wanton.  Women worked their fingers to the bone, slaving over troughs filled with laundry, preserves and dirty dishes.  Hard working men and women in offices faced electrical outages, gas outages, internet outages and general scarcity to get their jobs done.  The only fax machine in town was in the mayor’s office.  Life was, in a word, hard.

I loved this town, and I didn’t, too.

But most of all, when the days were hard and long, and when I was reeling from the unforgiving and harsh beating the sun doled out every summer, night and day, I would look south, beyond the confines of town, out to the blue waves of the Armenian mountains, and I would drink in the sight and imagine the fresh, wet, cool smell of those beautiful mountains.  And I would dream of going there.

Otar, my friend’s wonderful father, who took care of me as if I’d been adopted into the family, wondered at my fascination.  When I announced to all and sundry that I would spend the upcoming Saturday walking to the border with Armenia, some 39 kilometers away, he was tickled pink but also curious.

“Why, Ruth?” he asked, finally, as he said goodbye to me (and my sitemate who I’d corralled to join me on the trek).  ”Why do you want to walk to the Armenian border?”

I thought for a moment.  ”Because it’s something I can’t do in America.”

Little did I know that one day I’d be on the other side of that self-same border, desperate to return over those now accursed Armenian crags back to my dusty little town from which war had torn me.

*** the photo is from the gorgeous town of Sighnaghi, which is to the east of Tbilisi.  My town remains unnamed thus far in my blog, but was south of Tbilisi.

***I returned after the war was officially ended three weeks later, this time not as a Peace Corps Volunteer, but as an independent citizen, volunteering without the aegis of a sponsoring institution.

Rhyme and Reason

So J comes home late last night.  She’s hiding something under her jacket.  Her smile is wide and guilty.  So pretty much I know something good’s coming.

“It was a impulse buy.”  Her eyes are wide, serious.  Hopeful.  Which worries me.

Then she reveals it.  Only…I can’t see anything.  I peer closer.  Then she moves into the light, angling her arm.  Ah.

Wee turtles.  But not normal wee.  We’re talking almost invisible turtles.

We spent the rest of the night coming up with names.   J wouldn’t accept my first pick:  Snape and Harry.  I loved the idea of mortal enemies living in loving couplehood forever…even when I heard these poor turtles don’t often make it to adulthood.

She voted for Kirk and Spock last night, foregoing their titles.  Who was I to argue?  She tried to connect with them, cooing at them and expressing encouraging opinions on their appearance.  But they would hear nothing of it.  J would open her mouth, and they would paddle away, desperate looks etched on their faces.

Well, okay, I anthropomorphize.  But J had apparently spent the better part of the day looking up The Habits of Tiny Weeny Turtles and was full of wisdom that unfortunately revealed that Kirk and Spock lived in abject terror of her.  For instance, when J speaks, the Turtles:

a)  paddle away quickly
b)  breathe
c)  hide their faces in their shells
d)  stick their necks out
e)  stop looking like they’re breathing
f)  roll upside down and play dead
g)  submerge themselves desperately

According to J, all of these–including the polar opposite reactions–are signs that turtles are afraid.  Very afraid.  I mused.

It reminds me of when my mom asked me if J’s dog Axel understood my commands.  ”Yes, yes,” I assured her, nodding vigorously over the phone.  ”Well, what words does he understand?” my mom wanted to know.  I thought for a moment.  ”Chicken.”  I kept it private that I generally have to wave a piece of it in front of his nose for him to get the drift and pounce.

What can I say.  When you love an animal, you tend to think it’s smart, for some reason.  Or adorably dumb.

Anyway, this morning J comes back from work, a frown plastered on her face.  ”Ruth,” she says, “their names are all wrong.  They don’t fit right.”

I think.  (I mean, not at that moment, I simply think all the time.  I’m just saying.)  And then I answered her.  ”Their names are Rhyme and Reason.”

My friend P, who has turtles, had just informed me that fewer than 10% survive to adulthood in captivity.  And, although this was sad news in and of itself, on the other hand it begged, BEGGED for the turtles to be named after something you’d like to say has died.  And what better to proclaim dead than all Rhyme and Reason?

And how better to enjoy life than to do so while watching all Rhyme and Reason flee when J tries to speak?

Fun times.  Good times.  :)
(These are the smiles of a happy woman.  I’m on page 128, by the by!  28,168 words down on what I s’pose will come to a book about 50,000K or slightly more.  First draft, naturally.  Loving it!)

Tbilisis's Botanical Gardens, Overlooking Church

Remembering My Favorite Frontier Town – Dogubayazit of Eastern Anatolia

Dogubayazit Street Scene

“Oh. My. God.  There’s the most amazing place we MUST SEE.”  This I announced to Brian, whose face lit up as he entered the hotel room.

“What? Where?”

“But we can’t go.”  And I went back to reading the guidebook on my lap.

“What?  Why did you tell me?”  But I held my silence.  ”Ruth!  Where is it?  Why can’t we go?”

I looked up.  ”It’s called Ishakpasha Palace, and it’s, and I quote, ‘breathtakingly beautiful, the star attraction of Eastern Turkey.’”  I snapped the guidebook shut.  ”But it’s about nine hours away, and–”

“That’s no problem!”  Brian’s eyes were wide.

“It’s on the border with Iran, and–”

“So what!”

“And,” I continued darkly, “there have been violent protests in the town where we’d have to transfer minibuses to get there.”

“How do you know?”

I gestured at the TV set in our little room.  He glowered.  ”You don’t understand Turkish that well.”

“I understand video of running people and guns, and I can read the bottom of the screen where they announce where it’s happened.”  I set my chin obstinately even as I felt that pin-prick of excitement which means the slightest effort will have me on my feet, backpack on and ready for adventure.

Apparently my stubborn face is rather convincing, though.  Brian just sighed and threw himself onto his bed with a book.

It wasn’t yet 6am, but the sun had been up for over an hour.  Eastern Anatolia keeps the same time as Istanbul way out west. We’d gotten into the habit of taking predawn strolls through Kars, taking in the sights and sounds of this different world. Like us, the locals were up, washing down freshly baked breads with hot tea.

It wasn’t long after we left the hotel before we bumped into someone interested in driving us to Ishakpasa.  For a price.  And it wasn’t very much longer before we agreed to it.

***

The next day we sat for hours in the car, snapping photos of the undulating Eastern Anatolian landscape as we drove to the farthest reaches of Turkey.  At Mount Ararat our driver condescended to stop for a few seconds, but otherwise he hurtled along the road as fast as Turkishly possible.  (A Georgian would have driven over us, but an American wouldn’t stand a chance.)

We drove past checkpoints and tanks, and through beautiful Turkish villages that screamed for us to stop and marvel.  But they were nothing compelling for our driver, and he refused every request to stop.  At one point I asked him why.  ”Dogs,” he said curtly.  I raised my eyebrows.  I understood that concern; in Georgia stray dogs can be dangerous.  But…really?

“We will risk dogs,” I said firmly.  (Well, I actually said something more like, “Dogs are okay.”  My Turkish is limited.)

His look in the rearview mirror was stern.  ”And terrorists.”

Ah.  Now that I understand.

***

We finally reached Dogubayazit, described lacklusterly by Lonely Planet as “a dusty frontier town crawling with soldiers” with “few charms of its own.”  I couldn’t disagree more strongly.

Brian and I both were stunned, taken aback by its color, its vibrance and its bustle.  We loved it.  But no rest for the wayward traveler, our driver seemed to think.  And up we crawled through the winding roads up the mountains to Ishakpasha Palace, perching majestically atop one craggy peak and gazing down at a hazy valley rich in blue, green, yellow and red hues.  The view was breathtakingly beautiful, as per Brian’s explicit demand.  It was just…beautiful.  Lustrous, rich, exotic, a perfect gem.  It was worth it.

It was also closed.

***

Now, when you’re a Peace Corps volunteer, disappointment is no shock to your system.  So I could say I felt that familiar friend creep up my spine, and I knew after a moment of mutual silence we’d be back on course.   This just required a moment to groan, to laugh at ourselves, and to bask in the joy of being here, despite the forces being united against our entering the palace.  So I took a moment to climb alone to a picnic table up the hill while Brian scanned the knick-knacks sold at a kiosk nearby.  Rejuvenated, we reunited and climbed up the mountain a ways together, looking over the palace walls from above, and to the horizon reaching into deepest Turkey.

“Let’s hike,” I suggested.  That would be cheerful and bring endorphins, and we could get a magnificent view of both the palace and our beloved Dogubayazit below.  Brian agreed and we jumped up and set off.

But not too far.   Almost immediately we agreed the mountain was way to steep and dangerous for us to dare it.  Which was approximately when we saw about five teenagers prove us wrong in the most frightening way.  No climbing for us, then, even if it proved we weren’t sure-footed locals.

Our driver was itching to return, but we were enchanted by the palace and weren’t ready to leave it.  Through the foliage above I made out a little building.  We headed there and found a cafe overlooking the palace.  We sat ourselves down and enjoyed a hospitable cup of Turkish tea and conversation with the proprietor.   It was, in the end, magical, even though the palace itself remained a locked haven from us.  It was the sweetest failure ever.

And fortified by our tea, we took a lovely stroll through those gorgeous streets of Dogubayazit.  It was amazing being somewhere so very different from any place either of us had ever been.  I’ve literally never been somewhere so different in my life.  I look on it as one of the best trips ever.

I absolutely loved this town, visually.