Just keep spinning…

Early December, I enjoyed a two-week vacation in Southeast Asia. At least, I wanted it to be vacation. But “vacation” infers you have a job to go back to, something very much not true for me. Maybe it’s more accurate to call those two weeks “limbo”. “Limbo” conjures up feelings of uncertainty. Confusion. Yep, much more accurate. And not only was I confused about my future, I was confused about my past. And lucky for me, I found myself still in limbo-land after arriving in the Midwest. As many of you know, events beyond my control set my head spinning like a top mid-November, and whoever spun it did a fabulous job, because it hasn’t stopped yet. But as I twirl around, I’ll hold to my promise and deliver some more stories as I relive the glories of life as a PCV before the addition of that pesky R-for-returned.

Заходити!
I had long had good intentions of hosting dinners at my apartment. I’d wanted to invite my director, my host family, and other local friends. Finally, the perfect opportunity came along, and I had to pounce on it. My director was on vacation, but word on the street was that she was in town. So, a couple conversations and a few phone calls later, dinner was set for October 8. At first the plan was for three of us – my school director and the director of a preschool where I’ve been helping out.

My mind raced with recipe ideas. What to make to impress such important guests? Spicy is risky, flavor is strange. But I knew I could whip up some delicious chicken taquitos and incredible beans. I threw caution to the wind and diced up some spicy salsa, too. And for dessert, a fresh ginger and pear bread. This was gonna be good. At least I knew I would think so.

Friday night, I got word that the preschool director would likely not be back in time to join us on Saturday. Undeterred, I whipped up enough to feed all three of us women (uh, plus 10 hungry men… oops). My timing was decent, thanks to my school director running late. She wasn’t sure which apartment was mine, so she was walking in circles and calling to get directions from me. Right… (This is as great a place as any to remind us all that these directors speak next to no English. And my Russian? Well, don’t expect me to be able to differentiate between Soviet blockhouses.) I slipped on some shoes and met her at a nearby café, came back, and quickly finished baking the first batch of taquitos.

The two of us sat down in my little kitchen, opened up a bottle of wine, and got down to business. From my short time living with her upon my arrival to Shakhtinsk, I knew she was a great cook and as someone who has traveled a good bit, I hoped she would be up for something new. And whaddya know, she was! She seemed to thoroughly enjoy what I had prepared for us, and asked enough questions to replicate some of it at home.

So food was fine. And I must say, conversation was, too. Our only Russian conversation. ;) Yep. I kept up with most of her mile-a-minute Russian, believe it or not. Lots of talk about food and work, and many mentions of a young man she had wanted to invite in the other director’s place. She had just come from a meeting at the regional Ministry of Education, and had wanted to invite the head honcho, Nikolai. He’s 32 and available, she said with a wink. She also touted his educational background and religious stance. But since she herself was coming to my apartment for the first time, she had decided against the possibility of freaking me out by bringing along someone even higher on the ol’ totem pole. Out loud, I said she should have brought him. Inside, I wasn’t so sure. But it was decided that there must be a second dinner party, when both he and the preschool director could come.

We finished our wine with dessert, which left out the mandatory hot tea. But for tea, we’d go to her apartment. We made the five-minute walk over, and she set out some blini for me to try. On the anniversary of her father’s passing, she had made loads of them to share with family and friends. She showed me what kitchenware she uses to make blini, and upon remembering that my birthday was coming up, determined that her present to me would be a pan perfect for making them. Conversation continued over tea, and my visit ended with her running around the apartment, collecting homemade canned goods for me to take home. My newly acquired goods were heavy enough that she called a taxi to take me back.

October
The 8th was the first of many fabulous evenings that filled up the month. The day after I hosted Svetlana Yureivna, I traveled with a van full of people up to Astana, where a FLEX exam was being held. Marly and I got to help more than we anticipated, which afforded us a fascinating view of the inner workings of the competition’s first round. And then, as we waited for Raushan to complete the second round, several of us wandered around the glitzy capital.

The following Friday, my kitchen was fabulously full of Indian food that Elena, Losha, Marly, and I shared. After some ping pong battles, we went off to a second gathering Saturday night, where the best intents of others to have a Bachelorette Party for Melissa were quashed by Shakhtinsk PCV antics. One thing we now know for sure: not all vodka is created equal. Thank God the party never left the building.

By far the biggest party was yet to come. I had been invited to celebrate my host mother’s 40th birthday, for which they had rented out a restaurant in a nearby village, Novodolinka. Miraculously, I made it to that dinner and to another PCV gathering in Karaganda, involving a lot less drinking and a lot more dancing. Good thing, too, since Sunday night I was hosting two of my local bosses (Svetlana and Svetlana) and their boss (Nikolai).

On October 23rd, I hustled around my apartment, trying to make it presentable as I whipped up (far too much) food. This time, dinner was not ready when I wanted it to be. But three guests mean guests can talk to each other. So they chatted and helped as I finished a couple last minute things. Soon the table was covered with food and we could just enjoy the evening. I was more than happy to listen, but chimed in when I could. As they looked through my photographs after we ate, I sure caught up on words used. They, like so many others, riddled me with questions, learning as much as they could from the snapshots I showed them. A common observation made refers to our silly grins. It’s so easy to spot the American in amongst stoic Kazakhs and Russians. The evening’s highlight came when we took our own group picture. I set up the timer, joined the others, and smiled from ear to ear while the others showed next to no emotion. I chided them as I reviewed the shot. Not to be outdone, they insisted on taking an “American” picture, teeth and all. The result? A bit more emotion and a lot more giggles as they looked at themselves on my camera screen. Let’s call this cultural exchange at its finest. ;)

As for all the food… I turned it into a week of hosting. Volleyball friends after a game on Monday night, a couple teachers on Wednesday night, and chips and salsa for PCVs on my way to Almaty that weekend. Sounds to me like I made just enough.