Yep, I’m still here.

I swear I’ve started to write a blog post earlier than now… on my flash drive, it’s titled January , 2010. Usually a number goes in there. You know, for a specific date. But this month I’m moving slow. Rather than change the name to February , 2010, though, I’ll get my butt in gear and finally post again! So yes, I am still here!

…well, kind of.
This post is coming to you courtesy of the most incredible mother in the world. I haven’t done as much digging as others, but it seems most KZ PCVs are not able to access any blogspot pages. The embassy is looking into it, apparently, to see what they can figure out. There’s something I could download so I could again access websites as though I were in the U.S., but I’ll kindly leave my family’s computer be. I’ll just have to resort to the old fashioned method of keeping in touch with many of you and …e-mail or something. (If you thought I was going to say “write a letter,” consider yourself aged. ;)

Anyway, with the lapse between this and the last post, I’m bound to have a story or two, yeah?? Here’s what I’ll narrow it down to…

Lil’ bro & kitchen… like oil and water
Whether its blinis or sugar cookies, cracking an egg or lighting a gas stove, I’m becoming more and more convinced that a kitchen co-pilot is a must. Blame it on age or blame it on gender, but don’t blame it on heart. This kid loves to help out in the kitchen. You just need to choose wisely the task assigned.

One evening I walked into the kitchen to find самса underway. His task: pinching the dough together to transform a circle of dough into a triangle. Bring the outer edge to the middle, spaced out in thirds. Poor guy was botching it, leaving a disgruntled mother and a pile of самса’s that looked more like a pennant than the equilateral triangle so desired. But boy did he light up when I pointed out how he could change his ways! His countenance beamed with pride as he held a hunk of dough in front of his mother to say, “Hey! I figured it out!”

Eggs, on the other hand, may not happen so quickly. His mother taps the shell with a butcher knife, so that’s what he decided to do, too, on his first try frying an egg. Result: 8 year old bearing a huge knife, an egg splattered down the front of the oven, pooling on the floor, and family members cracking up before offering assistance. I like to think we disarmed him before taking further action… His next attempt with eggs was for my Grandma’s sugar cookies. No knife this go round, but we’ve still got some improvements to make. But hey, he gets an A for effort in my book.

I’ll skip over the blini (aka crepe) bit and round this out with a story from today (January 25th). I came home from class around lunch to find only my little brother and his friend, a fellow 3rd grade boy. Being the nice friend he is, my bro offered to heat up water for tea. Since we had no electricity at this point, that required lighting the gas stove. Here’s how it went. Box of matches: check. Knob turned on full blast: check. Take out a match, fumble a bit. Strike one, strike two… skip to strike …seven? Let a bit more gas billow out. Move the spark no closer than several inches from the burner and POOF! We’ve got liftoff. Yelp from small boy: check. Controlled fire under teapot: check. Knuckle hair on brother’s hand: …uncheck. Rather than stick around to see what other excitement he could stir up, I said a prayer that the apartment complex wouldn’t go up in flames and rushed off to my next lesson at school.

A different kind of “Gosti”
And before mentioning school stories, I’ll back up to last Friday, when it was me who was home alone. Early afternoon, I didn’t think much of it when my host sister hollered goodbye on her way out the door. Sometimes I lock the door, other times I don’t. This day would have been a good day to lock it, but that’s hindsight for you! As it was, I heard a knock and seconds later said hello to a man I’ve never seen before. He stumbles in, but even drunk men know you don’t dare go anywhere inside without taking off your shoes, which effectively confined him to a three foot area. “You’re alone, eh?” Mmm… yep. “Where’s your sister?” Not a clue. “Where’s your host mother?” Work, I think. “How ‘bout you get the home phone. What’s her number?” I get the requested cordless phone and grab my cell, too, quickly pulling up the number. I return to this man, who I’d guess to be around 30, now crouching near the door, vodka seeming to escape from his pores. In my best Russian, I list off the five-digit number, and listen as he eventually connects with the right woman.

A short conversation later, he hangs up the phone and turns his attention back to me. I do my best to strike a balance between short and snappy, limiting information wherever I can. “How about we sit down and sip some wine?” …How ‘bout no. “Come with me – I want to introduce you to my friends. They’re great guys.” I’m sure they are. But avoiding snappiness, I simply replied, “Later, later…” Praise the Lord, he turned to leave, seemingly content with that. But rather than a smooth exit, we’ve got another hang-up.

Back up a day or two for a second. We’ve got two doors, and on the one that locks, the handle on the inside got loose… and then fell off. So, you now need a key to open ‘er up. Something tells me we’re not up to fire code… but if we wanted to be, I’m thinking the door may be toward the bottom of the list. But I digress. Back to Mr. Tipsy-at-3pm. He turns for the door as I hustle off to find a key. Recognizing the problem, he waits for me and strikes up conversation again. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Sitting on my rear, doing nothing… “Not sure.” “We can drink wine tomorrow!” What a not so wonderful idea. “We’ll see.” With a steady hand (thanks, God), I turn the key to allow for his exit. Behind his wobbly stance was a good natured attitude, and he made his way back out into the snow. I shut (and locked!) the door, thankful the meeting had passed without further incident.

Minutes later, caller id shows my host mother’s work number. “Did he leave? Are you scared? What did he say? What did you say?” Hearing satisfactory replies, she responded affectionately, “Моя умница.” (Translation: my clever person) And lastly, “Did you lock the door? You need to lock the door.” Done and done.

Roll out the red carpet…
With that, how about some school news! All is well (and usually rather humdrum) at school #1, where I continue to teach… most days. Last week was almost entirely knocked out due to low temperatures and ensuing cancelled lessons. The week before, though, had the added excitement of my regional manager coming to check things out. Routine rounds to all PCVs as we’re a few months into our stay. Her aim is to speak with my counterpart and director, watch a class or two, and check to make sure things are smooth on the home front, too. Convincing folks here, though, of the monotony of her visit just wasn’t going to happen.

Days before her scheduled visit, bags of dried fruit and nuts walk in the door of our apartment – essential ingredients for chai. Concerned about her workload, my host mother gives me detailed instructions for setting up chai, in case she can’t make it back home. We also figure out a calling plan – call this number at this time, let it ring once. What a foolproof cue for my host mother to rush home…

At school, tension is multiplied. For at least a week prior, my counterpart began insisting I make up a game for the lesson my manager would watch. Pull out all the stops! I replied with nonchalance, insisting that we shouldn’t change a thing. If the lesson stinks, that means we need to change lots of our lessons. If it’s fine, so be it. I’m not going to get all worked up over her visit, and neither should my CP.

Time marched on and the fateful day came. My CP was fit to be tied. My Regional Manager, a wonderfully bubbly, unassuming woman, reassured us both she was no inspector. Still, my CP insisted I meet her 30 minutes before the lesson so we could review what we had planned. (We can plan 5 lessons in 30 minutes. Review one lesson for that long? …Right.) Thankfully, we ran on a KZ schedule (read: toss out the schedule and go with the flow), eating three different times in a span of a few hours, taking turns talking each other’s ears off. Necessary tasks get done; the rest just gets squeezed out.

We did manage to get out of the school building and sneak over to my apartment, where you better believe there was no waiting around for the phone cue to rush home. The table was covered with proper chai, and lunch was sizzling on the stovetop. My host mother had the same frantic countenance as my CP, but quickly calmed down, enjoying the company of our guest.

And really, without going into the nitty gritty details, my manager’s visit was a joy. I appreciated her constructive feedback (something completely foreign and therefore petrifying to people here) and positive reaction to my site. She mentioned the change in my countenance from the training village to now, saying my eyes speak volumes of how much happier I am here. And she kept telling me how great my site is, how impressed she is with my host family, counterpart, and director. My apologies to PCVs she visited shortly after, for apparently she was all too happy to continue on about my site while at other sites. Whoops. Or, maybe they can come see for themselves if the hype is true. Even when the red carpet gets rolled up, this is still a heck of a place to live.