So here I am in a village whose name I cannot say, where at this moment I cannot reference north, south, east, or west. I know I can walk to the Black Sea, but just how I do not know.
I was driven across the country into the west with my principal Nina, another principal, another TLG (Teaching and Learning in Georgia) volunteer (a sassy fun loving twenty five year old women from New Orleans named Ren). A silent driver took us. For the entire trip the car was silent of speech, only the continuing drone of bad imported music, which went inexplicably silent whenever Rhianna and Eminem came on crooning “I Love the Way You Lie”. (When ever I tell any one where I am I hold up hand, say Deetroiteedade, Eminem and it seems to give me some status.)
We had been frothing at the bit to go met our families. Training was intense, felt almost like a cult or an urban version of the televisions Survivor series. People were stuck with high maintences roommates. All kinda crazy going on.
There were cases of food poisoning, and sessions that lasted until eight at night. All the while the lovely city of Tbilisi beckoned, “Come explore”.
Ren and I had been the last to leave. Everyone else got a kiss from their host family and headed off into their adventure.
We waited in the lobby of our faded starlet like hotel. We sang a chorus from Annie, the Broadway musical about orphans, paced a bit until our chariot arrived.
A Beemer (BMW) with the silent man. Lovely vehicle but not big enough to hold the luggage of we two who had packed to live in Georgia for five months.
No room in the trunk. No we must after much discussions (Most decisions in Georgia are collective, even at the pharmacy where I was to buy a laxative which is kept under lock and key five employees discussed this amongst themselves. At least this is what hoped they were discussing.) With no room in the trunk we had to go to the Marshutka station (these are mini busses that fill like sardine cans of humans to escort the citizens to work, family and tend to all life business) The Marshutka hub was crazy in a New Years Eve Times Square way. There were hundreds of mini vans, Russian drivers, and Romali (Gypsies) gather. (Forgive my political incorrectin, I am baffled, her they speak of these displaced people in ways reminiscent off pre Civil Rights movement of African Americans in the states) Once the Marshutka was secured we anticipated our homes and families. I cannot describe this event our drive through this paradoxical land. It was as if random pop up windows were around each curb. I just kept trying to qualify the unquantifiable.
All was lovely as we left Tbilisi, verdant, elbow poking, head turning. Then industry, then striking mountainous vistas. Then placid, willful cows stopping traffic looking all-indolent like this was Delhi and they wee sacred beings.
Then stops at the fruit stands and our first “Georgians Style” toilet (which are holes in cement, which may have sat in the same mound of earth for the last century).
We just settle and think and start feeling the ride just take us, supplicating to the erratic speeds, roller coaster roads and a daredevil ride of no seat belt tapping toes to music. (The protocol is talk all the time, talk loudly, passionately but in the car it is a symphony of resounding Georgian music, Techno or the worst American music. All listen in stillness as if in a concert hall.
Ren and I bound as we are all squashed up together. We encounter the remains of an accident, a toppled car, and Marshutka. Looked like a fatality accident, our lack of seat belts and all we had left behind had me with a case of buyer’s remorse. I was now Dorothy longing for home. What is this I had done?
I do not speak the language, I am feeling like I am in caffeine detox, Further I will never find love here but as single will be certainly offered for a bride. And my mind is buzzing with thoughts maybe I should have asked to go the mountains where there seemed to be more churches. Having seen the accident I understood how it is that all cross themselves shelves walking past a church. Aye. Why can I not be like other sixty year grown ups at home acting sensible, enjoying the Dancing with the Stars. This is no Eat, Pray, and Love novel life, going to make the New York Times with my story. This is just crazy for me to be going to some obscure place called Georgia. So obscure that I have to say “No not where the peaches come from, no not Russia. This is a small country north of…” Blah blah, I keep explaining to folks back home. Yep this is straight up crazy. Where in the whole rest of the world do I have to keep toilet paper balled up in my bra so as to pee in a cement hole and not just drip dry? And just where do I think I am going to wear this Eileen Fisher wardrobe that was my preparation muse when planning to come to Georgia
All the other volunteers, they have right, cause to be here. This group of vital, dynamic world changing young folks well it is a least developmentally appropriate to be on this soul excursion. But I have already had my adventurous decades.
My head is crazy making me. It gets no better when we arrive to a home for a toast of local wine and a bite of dinner. I am not thinking it would be a good idea to drink with my principal as I have already messed up protocol by putting my bare foot up on the seat. Bare feet near personal space are apparently a cultural taboo. Nope I am Dorothy. Well I am Dorothy, but is she, just with no shoes. I want Kansas. Even a sip of wine did not temper my agitation.
But then my Glinda arrives in the form of a cow and I am given hope. The cow at the house where we had stopped stepped into the kitchen and was snacking from the table. I love cows. Though a city kid I milked one at the State Fair. That cow in the kitchen just gave me something. All those years of looking out the window in Dearborn, all the hours I spent straightening the kitchen, all those times I spend times perseverating on unimportant things. That sweet brown cow standing in the kitchen well I would cross time zones and stay there for a bit just to have that moment. Enchanted.
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