Village life and tragedy experienced.

So we have been living the village life for a few days and it has been a great deal of fun and a learning experience. I want to be as honest as possible and at the same time be sensitive to cultural differences. Now I understand Russian culture but I do not understand Georgian culture yet. They are very proud and respect weighs heavy on decisions, as does obligation. Past those things, I am a babe in the woods. I know they are concerned I find the place a little rural and that roaming chickens, cows, and donkeys might upset my Canadian expectations. To be very honest, I have never been a country, boy. At no time in my life have I ever wanted to be a farmer. But I respect the level of work these people do every moment to ensure an abundant bounty is on the table. Everything we have been eating has been grown, milked, or collected right here. This is amazing and I have tried to explain that this organic lifestyle is a great luxury in Canada. I know I couldn’t afford to shop in natural stores at home on my salary. Here it is a given that the food you eat is organic. While I write, it is a given it is never taken for granted

This morning I was awoken by a donkey, braying his heart out. This was a first and one not accompanied by my usual thoughts when my sleep is interrupted by farm animals. Usually when the rooster wakes me up at my father in laws farm, I think of all the Kentucky Fried Chicken I have eaten. I haven’t eaten a donkey. Donkeys are loud, very loud and it is a funny saying that they tell time. I have tested this theory in a less than scientific manner and have to admit it seems feasible. The next-door donkey appears to be set at half-hour intervals beginning at half past the hour. I will steal a funny Georgian story, as I don’t know who to attribute the folk tale to.

A man from London was walking a village road when he came upon a Georgian farmer watching his cattle and lying on a hill. Beside him was a gray donkey. The London man asked the farmer if he knew the time. The Georgian man turned his head ever so slightly toward the donkey reached over and lifted up the donkey balls. He called out noon to the London visitor and went back to his sleepy tending of his herd. The London visitor was amazed and carried on his journey. Later he retold the story to an American in a wine bar a little ways down the road. The American came upon the same farmer as he continued his trip to town. He checked his watch. It was ten after five. He called out to the Georgian farmer asking for the time. The Georgian farmer did the exact same thing that the man from London had told him and replied, ten after five. The American was amazed and so he asked how the man could tell the time by lifting the donkey’s balls. The Georgian man replied. “How else am I supposed to see the clock tower in town?”

In this funny little story, we can see how folklore starts. In a country like Georgia rich in tradition and culture, it is a humorous tale that serves to explain some of the quaint beliefs. Some serve to protect us and others serve to entertain. Similar stories have been told to me about the issues sleeping under palm trees heavy with coconuts.

            Today was Vaxo’s, my cousin, daughter’s birthday. A cake was made and preparations in full swing for the ten or so children that would soon be here. Inga informed me that the men would be going to get some meat for the celebration and I was going with them. It was said with much fanfare, more drama than a butcher shop run should ever hold.

First the Soviet era 4x4 had to be gassed up for the journey. This entailed putting four liters of gas, they call it benzene, into a plastic four liter Mobile One oil container that was tied inside the engine compartment. This completed we started it up and let it run for a while as it hadn’t been started in a long time. Kaxa, Vaxo’s friend, joined us as we listened to the old truck run. I was introduced to Kaxa and he reminded me of a friend of mine, P, in Canada. Not that he looked similar but had been built similarly. I called P, Nexus Six after the special combat human
  replicants in the movie Blade Runner. Kaxa was built like a Nexus Nine. Larger and faster this was not a gym built swollen muscle, guy. This was a purpose built guy and I didn’t need to be told he was Special Forces. Quick to smile and share a laugh he jumped in the drivers seat and I again was given the honor of the front seat as Vaxo jumped in the back.

We set off into the countryside bouncing and picking our way to what I was starting to understand was not a mere Butcher shop. We did some serious offroad driving for about twenty minutes and then on a steep incline the truck quit. The load and terrain had combined to overheat the little beast. Kaxa quickly grabbed some water and after a few minutes we were back on the road.

The road ended at a farmhouse deep in the forest between some incredible mountain ranges. Several dogs announced our arrival and in formation circled us. Kaxa jumped out and greeted the dogs and I followed. In the Georgian fashion, he shouted at the farmhouse and soon a few men arrived. Greetings were made all around and we made our way to the goat herd. Negotiations took place and Kaxa identified a black goat that was just right. Separating it from the spooked herd he chased it into the barn and emerged seconds later carrying the displeased animal in front of him holding it by its hooves. I couldn’t help but be reminded of an old saying. “If you don’t want to get eaten by wolves, stay out of the forest.”

The goat was brought over to the trees in front of the farmhouse and killed by a quick, humane, and practiced blade thrust. Three men from the farm went to work skinning the goat and the dogs gathered for treats. The process was equally practiced and swift and when complete we were invited into the farmhouse by an older gentleman. It was obviously his operation and farm. He carried himself in a quiet and dignified manner and commanded respect. We were asked to join him for lunch and as we all washed up a table was pulled out onto the veranda and set up. Toasts were kept simple so I could understand them and the older man started by toasting my country and his. We enjoyed a meal and I tried as best as I could to get the gist of what was being said. I attempted to follow the toasting rules and think I did ok. The rules are different than the ones in Russia. One of the workers presented me with a folding knife that he had on the table. I looked at Vaxo in an attempt to make sure the worker actually meant the Russian word he was using, “Gift.” This was an incredible act of generosity and I was uncomfortable accepting it as I had nothing in return to give him. But it speaks to the countries acceptance of visitors and general respect and kindness they show guests to their country.

We loaded the goat into the back of the truck and made the bumpy and incredible return voyage down to the village. I really was overwhelmed by the experience, and by the beautiful countryside. We made it back without overheating again and joined the party already in full swing. Vaxo and Kaxa starting making shashlik, skewers of goat, using only the best cuts from the fresh animal while Uncle went and got a fire going inside the small barn. The first set of skewers were delivered to the children and women gathered in the large family room and together Vaxo and I prepared the rest for us.

During this time, Kaxa left suddenly and it took me a bit to find out why. His ten-year-old nephew had been hurt by a falling rock. The grandfather and grandmother had taken the boy out to a well-used swimming area for some relief from the hot weather and a BBQ. On the trip home a large boulder fell from the cliffs near the road and struck the car. The boy had been transported to a local hospital. Vaxo continued taking care of his guests despite the fact he would have rather been with his friend during this horrible time. Later while we were eating the goat and drinking some wine Vaxo’s wife received the news that the boy had died from his injuries.

The community as a whole gathered on the street by Kaxa’s home waiting for the news. I went out and attempted to show my respect to the kind man I had only met that day. That he is loved and respected by the community was evident. They shared his pain as a community of peers and equals. I found myself moved by the Georgian sense of community and love in this small village of amazing people.


    For Vaniko, your young life was cut short far too early. Rest In Peace.

First Impressions of Georgia

So we arrived in Tbilisi late in the afternoon and grabbed a taxi to our new apartment. We met our Cousins near the road our place is located and they guided us the rest of the way and helped drag our luggage up to the eighth floor. To be perfectly honest, I was a little concerned. I am used to Soviet era apartments and the general outside being not as important as the inside. However, as I said even, I was a little concerned. If you are coming from NYC, Florida, or Toronto, it will be quite a shock. But relax, have faith and things should work out for you. Fight the urge to run screaming back to the airport. There is that clear enough for you? We loaded the elevator three times as they are tiny here, and you have to pay for them. We are lucky it is a simple monthly fee in other places you have to drop a coin in a very large, compared to  space, box and this allows you to go up and down. My cousin sensing my urge to bolt opened the apartment when we arrived with the first load and went down for the rest allowing me to look at the place.

It is huge, big rooms, modern kitchen, and lovely views. We have half of the floor with balconies on both sides and big windows all around. It is very nice and not at all representative of the downstairs. Curb appeal has even less influence in Georgia! We were sent on our journey in typical Russian form and had loads of snacks, food, and things one needs for a week despite the trip only taking five hours.

Our cousins welcomed us with typical Georgian hospitality. For North Americans, this means treating you like visiting Royalty. Toasts and the food were enjoyed and then we were delivered back to our home for our first night.

            The next morning brought chores like banking, mobile phone sims, and internet connections. Inga’s cousin’s wife helped out and the whole thing was painless and smooth despite a little drama about the machine eating my card. It didn’t and despite general concerns about exchange rates it is like anyplace else in the world that allows you to take out your money from a machine in the wall. This comes with one caveat. In Tbilisi Georgia, you can withdraw Lari, the local currency, or the United States Dollars directly from the cash machine, or cash point for my European readers. My Russian sister Lianna had said you could do this and I thought something had been lost in translation. I have traveled a bunch and haven’t seen this except perhaps at specialized machines in international airports. After the chores and ensuring everything was working fine we sat down for the evening for another feast and discussion about the upcoming trip to “The Village”.

            “The Village” is the little town were Inga’s two Aunts live. It is about an hour and forty minutes by minibus from the central bus station in Tbilisi. The scenery on the trip out reminded me of the Okanagan and the surrounding area. The Village reminds me of my Uncle Jocks farm near Spy Hill by the Manitoba border in the 1960’s. Except I was never there in the sixties, but I remember him telling a story about getting a “throne” in the house after I was born.  The farmhouse has internal plumbing, and an awesome hot shower large enough to wash a horse in. But, the toilet is outside and it is the squat type that causes my calves and thighs to clench. Clenching calves and painful past ninety degree squats are not conducive to easy morning relief no matter how much coffee I drink.  I contemplated changing the design to a North American one. My hosts were very concerned about the rustic bathroom and my Canadian sensibilities. However, a little research on the internet provided me the information that we are doing it wrong. The past ninety-degree angle aligns everything perfectly and it is simply my inexperience at adopting the position that is the problem.  Russian and Georgian people take this position for resting and having a cigarette in casual situations or waiting for a bus. In exploring my bench with a toilet seat idea further, I had to admit a further flaw that even I was familiar with. The dreaded spider!

I have always hated sitting in outhouses. I mean who really likes it. Even if the outhouse is of the variety called ‘the long drop’ they always smell. Even in –20 they somehow manage to reek. But, the worst for me is the giant hairy Brown Recluse spider. Each time I am forced to use one of these I imagine this large lonely spider, brown hairs protruding from his hairy back. The violin pattern mottling from which it derives its other name a warning to other lesser spiders to stay away. He is sitting quietly getting fat off all the flies and other insects his ripe real estate affords him when his world gets plunged into darkness. A vibration more violent than an insect strike stirs his web. His multiple eyes focus on the source, a large hairy pale body descending into his domain. Forced by nature to defend his territory he raises his front feet and exposes his sharp fangs. The interloping sickly pale, loose skin intruder does not retreat. He has to attack. In a quick motion, he attacks sinking his fangs and injects venom that causes the flesh to rot. It will destroy a quarter size area of skin, more than enough for the average spider. Except this ‘spider’ is not a spider at all. The case of mistaken identity is no cause for concern to our Violin spider as he is deaf to the screams of men and is happy as the brightness returns and the flies once again fly into his banquet web. So with all this in mind I had to admit that the open pit squat was a far better design. I just have to get used to the position.

The people are great and the farmhouse itself is very cool. The family here has welcomed us with open arms and despite language issues have done everything and more to ensure the Canadian guests are happy. Uncle can speak better Russian than me and we struggle along with this common foreign tongue. But he is as easy going as me, so even sharing silence and a short walk is done happily. The children have been overdosing on English with Inga and laughing their collective asses off getting me to say words in Georgian. We had another huge feast last night and met another cousin who invited me to go hunting in the morning. We had shared a few liters of wine and I was pretty tired so I politely declined. A few toasts later and with Inga’s encouragement I agreed. I climbed into bed with the knowledge that in four short hours I would be climbing into an unknown vehicle, with unknown men to go hunting for unknown prey.

            The roosters dream woke me up. The damn bird must have been dreaming as sunrise was hours away. I am not a morning person, less so when I have only slept three hours. I tried to dress in the dark and not wake Inga, but she must have been feeling slightly guilty for talking me into this and got up to make me coffee in the strange dark kitchen. We heard the men gathered on the street as we exited the house and I tried and failed to complete my morning waking ritual. The morning was crisp, the coffee hot, and the clenching yoga position was looming. Things only loom in foreboding. The dark walk was looming, the men were waiting, and Inga was fussing. She was only concerned about my comfort and happiness and I was focused on ensuring my intestinal fortitude for the drive and avoiding having to make gesturing hand signals to communicate; “Stop before I shit myself.” While this might be a little too much information for the casual reader, I am only saying what you all know and don’t admit to anyone. Five armed and unknown men are not nearly as imposing as rumbling lower large intestine in a vehicle you don’t control and with a driver that you can’t communicate with. Coffee worked its magic and I was able to join my hunting party on time and in reasonable shape.

         

The vehicle was a Delica minivan and while it had some off-road attachments it didn’t look up for any serious off-road driving. This is another instance in which I shouldn’t have judged a book by its cover. This little four-wheel drive machine did things I wouldn’t have believed possible if I’d seen a video of a pro driver on a closed course. The darkness was abating as we climbed deep into the Georgian countryside. The thick bush giving way only for a mud covered track containing hills and corners with angles the threatened to flip us over. On one such hill, I was seriously wondering if it were possible to roll backward in a minivan.

We arrived at the spot. I only knew it was the spot because everyone got out and let the dogs out. I had no idea we had dogs inside the van until this point and they obviously didn’t know a Canadian was in the van as they all came over and introduced themselves in the usual dog way. I was even happier for the earlier coffee. My cousin handed me a Turkish made 12-gauge auto shotgun and five rounds. I couldn’t ask about the legality of me carrying a shotgun in Georgia so I just accepted it and loaded it. I noticed a couple of the men were watching to see if I knew my way around firearms and could safely handle it. I passed the test and with everyone relieved and the dogs pulling at leashes we set off in the dark. We walked in silence and the dogs barked ideas and options at one another. I believe they collectively decided on following the white female dog as it was easier for the night-blind humans.

However, the decision was arrived at we found ourselves in a clearing between three mountain valleys. Two men went north and left and two others went right and Inga’s cousin and I were to remain in the middle. In Africa, this would be called the flush point. I still didn’t know what our prey was. In Canada, we hunt birds and clay pigeons with shotguns and while I know the rest of the world does things, differently I was a little concerned as I saw what looked like cat and bear tracks.

The Sun came up behind our position and it was a beautiful thing to see. The mist caught in the trees before being tugged toward the clouds and I fingered my stolen toilet paper and scanned a nice relaxing location to trundle off for a more normal and relaxing Canadian style squat.

We hunted for several hours. The other men hunted with the dogs and we occasionally heard them bray from our dedicated kill zone. It was a good plan. It didn’t work and it was a very enjoyable. The men returned in slow succession in that defeated way hunters do. Happy to have the time to hunt and wishing it had been more successful. I was happy to share the time and culture of this Men Only sport here in Georgia.

            Defeated by chance we returned to the other thing hunters do the world over. We tossed plastic water bottles into the air and blasted them with shotguns. I liked this and in truth was a lot more confident blasting a water bottle than a bear! The hunt completed I was offered the front seat for the drive home and accepted this honor quickly. The drive back was even more beautiful and I shared it with men that only knew my name and family connection. We couldn’t communicate in the usual way, but there were no awkward moments. I pondered this and found it odd. We shared so little past being men and yet we all were comfortable with just that.  The “Village” life is at first glance a little simple, but it does afford people with the gift of time. As we age, we understand time is priceless. While the young people in Georgia move to the big exciting cities of Tbilisi and Batumi to escape the village; many return. Not because they fail in their goal but because they realize the simple fact that sometimes, fast progress and a frenetic life isn’t everything as imagined. Sometimes adopting other designs is just a pain in the balls!

                        In case it is illegal for a Canadian to carry a shotgun in Georgia parts of this story are fictional and only representative of what it would be like actually doing the things portrayed in this fictional account.

My last week in Anapa, Russia.

    I have been doing a bunch of thinking lately. Yes, I know how dangerous that can be. But hey, you’re sitting at home safe and sound so have a sip of coffee or vodka and come along with me on this little ride. I am not going to include a bunch of pictures in this blog as I want you to form your own.

     I am always amazed when life tosses things in front of you when you either least expect it or need it the most. Like catching the perfect iPod mix on random while doing an equally random drive or walk. This has happened to me this week past the point of coincidence. Those of you that know me well understand my love of this sacred geometry of chance. Either you’ve played poker with me or sat next to me at a blackjack table. Winning or losing I love watching the odds. Not that I can understand odds correctly, my math skills are too underdeveloped for that. I just get caught up in the awe of impossible and relish the unlikely. This week has brought this to my door. Inga is running about in a packing frenzy as we prepare for the move to Georgia. Inga hates packing, but she is getting used to it with all our bounces over the past year. She also has her very own system for doing it and my system is to stay out of her way while she does. So I have been getting a great deal of writing done. I try to help as I can, but mostly I just try to be supportive. We have already rented a beautiful three bedroom two bath eighth-floor apartment in Tbilisi. We don’t need all the extra room, but our cousins helped to find and organize it all and got us a great deal so a little extra is better than a little tight. I will be telling you all about Georgia when we actually get there, but I discovered an odd fact just renting the place from here in Anapa. In Georgia, you pay to use the elevator in your own building. Just going up! I am sure North Americans will find this very strange like I did. It isn’t much and it gets added as a monthly charge to your utility fees. It makes sense in that odd way something so different makes you kinda think Hmmm?

     So this couple of weeks have brought a few finished chapters, a stack of boxes, and serendipity. Messages out of the random ether of the internet, Facebook posts, and introspection have been plotting to make me think a little. For example, a random like by a new friend of our wedding photo reminded me what a wonderful wife and life partner I have. Another random comment reminded me of what the two of us find value in; living life. Finishing the last chapter of my latest MSS had me tempted to write ‘the end’. A message from another source reminded me that as satisfying writing ‘the end’ is;  a story is rarely ever finished. So like the look of the packing. But I also know it will be done in time and correctly, I hope just like the latest story. What allows me to see these random strings is time, I am blessed with the time to slow down and smell the roses as they say and see the interconnectedness of these random items in an overall contextual framework. Inga and I pair well in this regard as she continues to put things we need in a pile to take and things we probably won’t need in a box to pack away. Dripping with sweat as if in a Stalinesque exercise video as it is very VERY hot here in Anapa right now. Me counting on her and she counting on me to see the overall picture so something important doesn’t get missed. It isn’t really fair as she is doing much more work. But it doesn’t have to be for each of us appreciates the different gifts and styles each bring to the relationship. We have a common goal and an uncommon bond. It is after all my idea and desire to stay in Russia. The common objective is happiness and it is very uncommon that both people share the definition of that nebulas word.

To that end, I managed to pass my Russian immigration test. The test is very hard. I’ve been told so is the one to pass Canadian Citizenship exam. I am not sure if this is true, but I know in Canada you get three years to do it while I only had three months. My teachers at the CenterSoyus.ru here in Anapa were awesome. So was, once again, Inga. Friends also chipped in to help the lone Anapa Canadian and together we were successful. I passed! I found out after I had passed I needed to achieve seventy percent on the exam to do so! I had been shooting for fifty-one!! So it is official and certified by the Russian Government I can speak, read, and write Russian and understand its history and laws. In truth, I know more than I can say correctly but I can make myself understood and understand written forms and the like. I still mess up masculine and feminine plurals and stuff bringing a smile usually when they know I am Canadian. They understand as most have tried to learn our obscure and confusing language as well.

    So I have already mentioned the latest MSS is complete as far as the creative end goes. It was a joy to write using Scrivener. I don’t usually endorse platforms or products here, but this is the easiest method for writing a novel. If you’re using WORD stop! This is the product to use and while the learning curve is as hard as Photoshop it is just as powerful. I still write in Pages and post into Scrivener as I am used to doing it that way but the ability to export it as a perfectly formatted PDF and search back through all the scenes with a click make continuity edits and editing, in general, a dream. I bought the program after Jack Whyte had said he used it.

So now I have the two-part process of editing this latest MSS and making it a book and finding an agent.  Remember it is only a book after it gets an ISBN! To this end, I have been doing a ton of research for agents that specialize in Military Fiction and don’t mind a non-USA centered point of view. I am not really sure which will prove harder. But the sequel is done. It is tight, sharp and focused. Finds Rhys up against impossible odds still loving his quirky cat!

It's a Beautiful Day in the Russian Neighborhood

     “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…” wait this is a Canadian blog written by a Canadian so neighbourhood.   I am getting perhaps a little sensitive to the spelling differences between British, Canadian, and US English for two reasons. One I have many Russians asking questions about it and I recently switched to a new writing platform that has a learning curve. So along with my upcoming Russian test I’ve become a little sensitive!  So today is a break day. No explanations from this guru of English. Now before you toss rocks and say, very correctly, I am most certainly not a pillar of English Grammar let me explain. I am all they have! The wrench you need to change the flat is not half as useful as the one in the trunk, or boot if we were slightly west! So it is on me, and all me. My simple explanation is that the man the created the American dictionary was politically motivated. Mr. Webster perhaps one of the first patriots wanted to set the language slightly apart from the one they had just broken away from. The next line of questioning is why Canada kept some British spelling and not others. Because Canadians are polite is always my answer. This seems to satisfy the inquiring Russian minds. It is true, but I am unsure if it is the truth. But that is another grammatical nightmare.

            One of the issues facing learning all over the world is correct information. While tomes of encyclopedias are most certainly not as easy as Google, they were reviewed by peers. Now I can post something like; Russians are very superstitious people and it will be true because I will hit on Google’s first page. Now in all honesty Russians are a little more superstitious than Canadians, but my own lack of Russian language prevents me from understanding if they actually believe or just culturally observe. My own Mom used to say things like. “Someone close is going to pass away.” When she had a Crow or Raven taping on the window in the morning. Readers of George R.R. Martin will understand the origins of this belief. But she didn’t actually believe it to be a truth.  Similarly, Mr. Rogers was not a Navy SEAL or CIA operator. But some sources on the net say he was. He was a great man and won the Presidential Medal of Freedom, which is the highest award a civilian can receive. See I brought this back around to the start of this tangent. He also worked for a while in Canada and his show was filmed and aired on Canadian television with the incorrect Canadian spelling. I would love to be able to say that my confusion around spelling and grammar was as a result of these inconsistent rules and application but I would be lying. I said as much to a friend David last night when we discussed some stuff around the topic of language. I had to be honest and say I just didn’t pay attention enough in school. So now I get to pay for it by leaning on the Chicago Book of Styles far more often than I should. It slows me down creatively, but then this is what I have this blog for. I get to loosen up a little.

            So today is a break day. While Inga is still helping out friend's children wanting to improve English language skills, I get to hang by the beautiful Black Sea and enjoy the sun. In keeping with the theme; who are the people in my neighbourhood? Let us continue.

   Well to start my day I go to do some writing in the little café under our building. It is a nice little place and quiet. They have free internet, and while it is slow, it is fast enough to check some simple facts before I mislead you all. The waiter is the same guy from last year and we met with a familiarity not uncommon in Russia but would be at home. He asks about my progress on the book and introduces me to his friend a new waiter. This guy is a yoga instructor and comes from the beautiful city of Saint Petersburg. He learned his yoga skills living in a monastery in India and we shared our mutual love of Indian cooking. I told him that we have many people from India living in our area of Vancouver and explained the Sikh immigration to BC.  His English is better than my Russian, but we understand each other enough to make it work.

The walk to the beach finds us going down our usual hill past all the shops that sell everything one might need and could have easily forgotten on the trip to Anapa. At the bottom of the hill is a jovial, fun man with a shiny set of gold teeth who is quick to greet me in the swinging handshake Armenians enjoy. Next door is Irene and the medical post. She is a nurse from the Ural region and makes the eight-day pilgrimage each year to Anapa to protect and take care of the various issues that can happen at the beach. She is a calm and kind woman who is very knowledgeable.

Next to that is the bar that, if you’ve been following my blog for a while you know I like to sit. The owner is another Armenian heritage family that put on an impressive spread of food and cold beer. A little way down the beach finds another café bar that serves hot food and these people are from the Ukraine, although they have been here for years. Inga helps this ladies son with English and I enjoy her cooking.

That is my little neighbourhood. Most of the people I meet can’t speak more than a few words in English and I can only speak a little Russian. But they have made the Canadian feel welcome and take the time to make sure I understand most of what is going on or if not making sure I am included. I may not understand what we are toasting, but all are quick to offer a drink. Russia is an inclusive society that truly revels in understanding a different perspective and culture.

Today I had a guest. David the boy of a Ukrainian family that recently immigrated here joined me in the water. The waves did their best to chase us from the sea with fury and foam. It was a fun afternoon the ended far too quickly for the both of us. Yet, as I sit here in the quiet writing to all of you I feel tired and think I shall need a little Mama’s Cha Cha to ease the pain in the shoulders. No bad days is really more than an idea it is a way of life. If only you are prepared to travel, learn, and leave your bias, behind in the airport parking lot. While it has been many many years since I have seen Mr. Rogers he gave us a truth, perhaps like many things from our youth we have lost or forgotten this truth. The world would be a much better, and safer, place if we all just remembered we are all each others neighbors.

Written by Fred Rogers | © 1967, Fred M. Rogers

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

A beautiful day for a neighbor

Could you be mine?

Would you be mine?

It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood

A neighborly day for a beauty

Could you be mine?

Would you be mine?

I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you

I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you

Let's make the most of this beautiful day

Since we're together, might as well say

Would you be my, could you be my,

Won't you be my neighbor?

Russian Language 101 and out of the mouths of babes!

      So I should be doing my homework but I feel a little guilty for not writing, well writing enough! I am still going to school and the teachers are still refraining from corporal punishment. But only just. A little frustration is becoming evident as the test date looms on the horizon. It isn’t like I haven’t been trying, but the reality of learning a difficult language in three months is settling in. I think some of it may perhaps be a little transference as students study English in school and can identify it but really haven’t had the opportunity to practice so it gets lost like the Algebra I was forced to learn. I have two new translators, David, who is ten and his sister Barbie.

    Barbie was helping me with my homework the other day. Reading the sentence words in Russian and constructing them into a proper sentence and then telling me what it meant in English. I should point out at this junction she is five.

So the irony was not lost on me that this admittedly brilliant little girl was much more proficient in Russian translation than me. She can read and in some cases guess an unfamiliar word like Vodka and Burrito.

Her brother David is extremely talented as well. He provided a concert of sorts when we were invited to dinner. He is a gifted violinist and treated me to a beautiful Irish song that was kind of fast and technical. His command of English is splendid as well and he can translate concepts easily.  He enjoys asking questions like every ten-year-old boy and practicing English. It is fun to glimpse the world through his questions and help him hone his advanced language skills. What is difficult for their Mother is finding a teacher capable of keeping up with them in this little village, as the locals call it.

Anapa is not a village, and this village reference is a little tongue in cheek. It is like many resort cities in Canada, busy playgrounds with short time residents bothering long term ones. Like our resort playgrounds, it is hard to find advanced educational options.  Their Mother Tatiana is a beautiful, happy individual and a joy to be around. She wants the best for her children and understands the advantage of being multilingual. I find consolation in the way she speaks as it reminds me of the difficulty we “with time under our feet” have learning and trying different language skills. Tatiana speaks English very well and culturally understands Canadian humor and jest so I have a little outlet now for some jokes.

    We all went down to the beach the other day and went for a swim in the Black Sea. Most of the conversations were conducted in English and it was fun to see the looks on the other people around us. It was quite obvious they were very amazed at the spectacle.  Two fellow beachgoers even bid us farewell in English when they left. A clear sign of acceptance and respect, and I responded in Russian.
As we started walking up the hill, Barbie was reading signs to me. A group of twenty-something aged girls were walking a small distance ahead of us and slowed to listen. Barbie was reading a sign that contained the word doma, or house, and another word she didn’t know but knew how to say. Slightly frustrated with this word and me, she repeated it, in a tone we men know well. The one that says, “I might have forgotten, but you should know this.” She continued a little louder, bringing chuckles from the group of girls. “Burrito” she repeated with a cute little accent that is usually missing when she speaks English she understands. The hint of an accent provided the clue I needed to get the word. “Ah!” I said. “The House of Burritos.” “Nyet!” She replied in Russian. “Burrito House!” She said in English and then continued in both languages explaining the missing “The” and the non-plural sentence order. Finished she asked; “what is a Burrito?” Bringing more laughter from the group of listening kids as she asked it using both English and Russian words. I explained this tasty Mexican dish as she nodded her understanding and a few of the girls listening looked back in disbelief.

I have been also testing Russian customer service. I busted both of the screens on my YotaPhone 2 and had to wait to get back to Russia to send it in for service. Lianna, my wonderful sister, took the phone back to Moscow after a fantastic visit in an attempt to get a quote from YotaPhone for its repair. We are still waiting. It has only been ten days and while I know it will cost me money to fix as I dropped it, I don’t know how much yet. We couldn’t do this in Anapa as they don’t have a service center here. In fact, I saw more actual YotaPhones overseas than I have here in Anapa. Locals here ask me why I bought this phone and not an iPhone 6. When I explain that I think, it is a better phone they look in disbelief. I usually have to enlist the translation skills of Inga as I attempt the convince them. Russians seem to suffer from the idea that things made in the country are not as good as things made out of the country. This is simply untrue and I don’t mind attempting to change this mindset.

Things Are a Little Harder in Russia

     Ok, so I think I have come to the conclusion that everything is harder in Russia because it can be. This is to say I believe a culture in which twelve vowels is standard and each plural adjective has as many options as a birthday card the expectations are just higher. Yet just like a birthday card only the correct plural will be accepted. So how can you tell I am getting into the second part of my Russian education? Inga is a great help, letting me study and keeping me hydrated and full as I devote hours to class trying to get the sticky grey matter to absorb at least a little of what my teachers are patiently showing me. Inga and I are speaking more Russian at home and I am finding that my daily responses are coming first in Russian in some cases. I hope it doesn’t mess with my writing, but I shall leave that for you to decide and tell me. Some things are helping my writing. We tend to take for granted sentence structure and now as I sound out a word, that I may or may not know, I have to find clues as to ‘the what’ based on the structure of the sentence. Thankfully Russian grammar rules are very strict and absolute in most cases, unlike sloppy English.

     So my Saturday finds me down on the beach, doing a little studying, and enjoying beautiful Anapa. It is a gorgeous hot day and like the locals I am enjoying a glass of beer or three and relishing a culture mature enough to allow a casual beer on the beach. No draconian law enforcement, chastising us and treating us like children for enjoying a beer here! It is normal and perhaps one of the reasons this country is not Muslim.  Back when Russia was forming into an actual self-determining country a choice had to be made. The choice was between being Orthodox Christian and Muslim and the ruling King, for lack of a more accurate descriptive, is quoted as saying; “It is the joy of every Russian to enjoy a drink.” Henceforth the Russian people’s official faith was Orthodox Christianity, as it didn’t have rules against casual drinking.  This was called the Byzantine Empire and happened in 988. Let’s think about that for a second, before America had anything resembling an organized society and Canadians of the time were worried about the size of beavers, Russia had an organized society! If we look at these people from within this framework, it is easy to see how they are a little reluctant to accept that the West knows best ideology bantered about with impunity. This country has been built, or perhaps forged is a more correct word, by revolution. We have learned from Marx that only true change comes from violent revolution. Russia has had more than a few of these while America has had, but one and we Canadians have had none. When you have paid for your current society with blood and death, you cannot help but respect it more. To add a little spice, most Russians remember the last revolution clearly while their American counterparts of the same age are digging up relics of their own or reenacting them in costumes.  I guess the difference is like the taste of a cake your Grandfather told you about and the one you ate in New York twelve years ago. One is significantly more real.

     Ok, so what have I learned in my courses? I have learned the alphabet and, for the most part, the different sounds the letters make. I never sounded out words in English. Rather I learned them on sight and I’ve had to change this process in my learning style. Sounding out words is difficult if you are unsure of the word you are attempting.  Add to this the insecurity you have with the new alphabets sound and you get my difficulty. Some of these sounds are entirely different, even alien sounding. Others letters look like English ones yet have different sounds. Multiple syllable words are the norm as well. For example, the word fridge is one syllable in English and in Russian it has five. Russian has 33 letters and believe me they use them, well except for the one letter that has no actual sound of its own. This letter looks like a B and just separates the sound of the letters on either side of it. Plurals are a new horror. If I designed an English test for plural rules and the students added an S to each answer, they would be right about seventy-five percent of the time. But this is Russian and as far as I can tell it seems that they have about sixteen different plural adjectives that depend on masculine, feminine, or neuter. It gets complicated past that as different letters modify different parts of the sentence, not just the noun or verb equally. But this is normal here and no one thinks about it. Just like in Canada when I get asked why I used an emotive adjective in my crash description and I have to think; “Shit ok which is the adjective again?” Here is a good example of some of the sound differences the SHH sound. There are two different yet close sounds to SHH. Borscht is a great example, as well as an excellent traditional soup, The last letter that looks like an upside down w in printed form has a tail and that makes it a hard sign. Like the great sports car Porsche, there is no t or ta sound after the shh sound. With such a challenging language, it is no leap to understand how accepting a little more difficulty in getting things accomplished is normal.

    We went out for a BBQ the other day. This prevented me from doing my homework and so my walk to school was very reminiscent of my high school days when I often walked to school without doing any. The difference being I rarely had to apply myself in school while here, pushing 50, I most certainly do. Luckily for me it was State holiday and the school was closed when I arrived so I was saved by the state and didn’t have to show disrespect to my teachers by not doing my lessons. My friend Vladimir and his wife Irene brought their kids and the newest addition to the family a grandchild. Lova wrestled some time from his very busy life to attend and our friend Natalie came with her brother and his wife and kids. Natalie’s little nephew is ten and has been taking English in school and greeted me in English and then had loads of fun practicing his English. He was jubilant to hear about the ease of plural adjectives in English! The BBQ was held in a little out of the way place that the locals call Snake Lake. I have never seen a snake on the three times I have been there. Drinks and food were plentiful as was catching up and enjoying each other’s company, as is the culture here in Russia. During a swim in this man-made lake, I lost my glasses and while I tried several times to find them, I was unsuccessful. Dejected I gave up and returned to the table to eat and made the statement that it was impossible to find them in the murky water and it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Vladimir’s boy didn’t give up and searched further out and found them for me! This was an impressive demonstration of this polite and attentive culture. A guest lost something and this would not stand until it could be rectified. It also showed the never give up Russian attitude. Meanwhile, Lova was organizing a recovery team that it used to pull bodies from the lake to suit up and come help the stupid Canadian that forgot to take off his glasses! It is just the way things are here! Many people and family ask why I love it here and am working so hard to stay…this is why, friendship and comrade mean so much more. As with anything English, there are exceptions and I have friends like this at home as well and you to a person know who you are. You are in my thoughts when I go to sleep and again when I awake. I long to see you here so you can experience this wonderful Russian lifestyle personally. Russia it is not just sitting on a gorgeous beach with incredible views and cold beer. It is the ethnically diverse culture that shares the ideologies that respect and hospitality are far more than mere ideals. I am typing this and four Kavkaz boys in their late twenties are dancing to traditional Kavkaz music and trying to get their girlfriends to join them. The girls are traditionally a little more conservative and are shyly being lured into the dance. Now to go order another beer from my Armenian bartender and host at my favorite seaside bar and answer questions about the price of cigarettes and booze in Canada and watch his eyes raise in disbelief and then wonder if I understood his question. Yes, my friend I understood and understand Russian pretty well. I long for the day I can express my thoughts to you in Russian. One day I will.

Back in Anapa Russia and going to school.

       So life finds me back in Anapa and back in kindergarten. It also finds me alone. I see it as a vote of confidence that I can make my way in this city without Inga’s help. Well, I have always been a little overconfident. In reality, it is all-good and I get to practice my language skills and when that fails charades and re-enactment sound effects. Inga and I were planning on visiting our parents on our return to Russia. But like all plans things changed. Russia now requires any residency applicant to write, read, and speak Russian. So I had to start school right away as I only really have three months to master this exotic tongue.  This meant I had to stay at home and as much I hated this, I miss my Russian parents as much as Inga, it was unavoidable. Russian is hard as it has an entirely different alphabet and while Russians have had to learn English in school for years, they fail as much as I do in mastery. However, I have great and motivated teachers that are enjoying teaching me as much as learning from me. My history teacher is a Radio personality here in Anapa and used to be on TV. Her degree is in Psychology and my English teacher is even more qualified, or over qualified with Ph.D., as is the case but it makes for a rich and rewarding learning environment. They all are very intelligent and accepting of me as I struggle to learn with encouragement.  This new law came into effect in January and while I totally agree with the requirement, I wish it came with a few months to learn. I hate it when Canadians can’t speak the language, especially when employed in the service industry. I recently had an issue understanding a Canada Customs Officer. She wasn’t speaking French either!! Inga had said I was hard on her when we got loaded on the plane and now…Well, Karma is a bitch! So taking a little time to enjoy the beach while I listen to the phrases over and over learning how they sound and feeling a bit odd about the children’s workbook on my lap. Finger following along as Google reads it.

Yeah, I am heavy rolling prime beef on the beach! But I am learning it and remembering it and at fifty that is an accomplishment in itself. I was going to do a bit of a change in style on this installment and write this in the travel writer style but I am no longer holding out hope for an easy out to this Visa issue by getting a job doing travel writing. So life is a little in the wind and both Inga and I are practicing our Thainess by just accepting the things we can’t change and roll with the punches.

My Russian is actually improving, as the signs that accompany me on my walk to school are slowly starting to catch my attention and I understand them. I have been putting in the effort two or three hours of school and then four or so doing exercises on the computer in the evening. It has been cutting into my writing time to be sure and this blog is evidence of such. When I started it, Inga had just left and tomorrow she comes home. So almost two weeks have passed.

I managed to order a Gyro and understand the spoken amount the other day returning from school. The little Armenian guy who has opened a new shop on the corner was a bit perplexed until I told him I was Canadian. He was patient and together we got it done and paid for. He asked why I moved from a great country to Russia, we have a rep Canucks, and I told him I loved Russia and the sun. He smiled and nodded his agreement and understanding although I think I switched up the genders of the two. Russian has three gender assignments for adverbs and the noun changes the word before and after. It also changes the sounds of both these words as well. They also assign gender to numbers and hierarchy or proper, polite speech. Yeah, it is confusing as hell but I am slowly getting it with the help of my teachers. Inga is back tomorrow so we will get to practice live instead of drool computer speak. Google isn’t as good a translator, for Russian, as Facebook is. I know my Russian fans and friends are enjoying the struggle and proud of my effort.

The other day I was walking down the street and an old women stopped and asked me directions to the post office. She had no doubt noticed my tan and assumed I was a local. I managed to explain I was from Canada and a tourist. Her eyes went wide like she was witnessing a rare animal species. I stumbled through saying I understand Post Office and then gestured and said let’s go in Russian. We walked in silence, slowly as she weighed the cost of getting lost with this strange creature against her energy level. I walked her to the post office and then asked her if this was correct. She smiled and nodded her head and I noticed she had tears in her eyes. She saw the concerned look on my face and took my hand and in very slow Russian said; “Thank You May 9.” May 9th is a holiday in Russia commemorating the Allied victory over Germany. I was confused at first and then got it. The only connection to Canada she had was our help during the Great War as it is called here and while she didn’t look old enough to have personal experience from that time, she must have been. The look in her eyes was the same look my Father used to have on Remembrance Day. I nodded my understanding and said in Russian “your welcome.” I watched her old eyes dart back and her brow creased as she searched for a memory. Finding it with a smile she said in English “welcome to Russia” let go of my hands and shuffled off towards the doors of the post office.

I walked back down the street named after Lenin towards my school and remembered the 22.6 million Russian lives lost in that conflict. My mind making the connection that at home our vets struggle to forget that horror while paying tribute to those that were lost and reminding the community to remember. In Russia the community never forgets and are grateful each day for the sacrifices of the defenders of their Mother. Rodina!