Belgrade

Ah, I feel the ground below me rumble and move and the reflective state comes over me like a familiar tide. Belgrade slips through channels leading to the past, though I sincerely hope it will flow back in the future.

Belgrade was, for a me, a town that echoed with a hum of the familiar; with each step I take westward, with each city I pass through, the geographical and cultural arias  more and more contain melodies that resemble those of my home, and I know I'm getting closer.

There were a few melodies in Belgrade that rung familiar: the architecture contains motifs characteristic of Greco-roman art so popular in much of western Europe (including women in togas and reliefs with laurel wreaths); the people adore their pets, particularly their dogs (I saw one small white lapdog with its ears and tail dyed pink); the number of familiar fast-food chains (McDonalds, Burger King, KFC) that have popped up everywhere.

However, perhaps one of the more subtle melodies was the melody of newness than underlies the city.

Don't get me wrong: Serbia has a long history, with its own prehistoric cultures and times of subjugation and rule. Yet, it's Serbia's last hundred or so years of history that tears down everything that came before. Within that time (the time of two Balkan Wars and two World Wars), the city has been bombed about 70 times, and rebuilt more than 40 times, crumbling into dust those structures that once defined its landscape, its skyline, and its culture (or cultures). The poor attempts of the government at preserving what artifacts remain to Belgrade only encourage the disappearance of Serbia's history under the layers of new brick and stone laid above it.

Belgrade, therefore, despite some of its classically styled buildings, is all fairly modern. Familiar for me, whose country is so young. But Belgrade is unique, too. All cities, I think, have something to teach. Maybe Belgrade teaches people not to be fooled by appearances: what's most important--what a city or who a person truly is--is sometimes buried just below the surface.

Now, I listen to the song of Belgrade fade away, and look forward to hearing the one Zagreb sings.

Sofiya

The sweltering heat of Turkey melted into the temperate cool of Bulgaria under the light shower that greeted us at the boarder. All of us flowed in and out of the bus as we passed through passport control, with the moon and star of the scarlet Turkish flag on one side and the bright white, green, and red bands of the Bulgarian flag on the other—along with another, more familiar one: the yellow ring of stars on the EU’s blue flag. Though the US is not part of the EU, there was something comforting about seeing it waving me onward.

Bulgaria held many small signs of my approach westward, from commercial signs in the form of Subway restaurants, to arboreal signs in the forms of maples and other trees similarly native to the Americas, to cultural in the form of second-hand stores (which I never really saw in Mongolia, ever). Yet, the presence of Cyrillic felt like a comforting tie to the past two years.

Despite its reminders of places past, Bulgaria was still awash with the delights of distinctness. Sofiya, its capital (at least the part of it I saw), is pleasantly walkable, dotted with small shops, parks, etc.--and has all the quaintness of a small town. It carries 6,000 years of history as easily as a bard holds a hum, and the architectures and relics of its time as part of the Byzantine Empire, Ottoman Empire, and periods of independence exist intermixed throughout the city, like a garden growing organically as it would. The arrangement lends itself to pleasant surprises and hidden delights.

I took a free walking tour that mazed meanderingly through the streets to many of the city’s major sites, including orthodox churches, catholic churches, mosques, and synagogues, all of which exist harmoniously together. My favorite was, perhaps, the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, topped with gilded domes and decorated with ornate carvings.

Sofia is small, and while I likely could have found this and that to see and do to encompass another full day, I feel compelled to press onward. Right now, I am on the bus to Nish in Serbia (where from I can take a bus to Belgrade), watching the hills rise and fall, the cities resting sleepily, and fields of corn and sunflowers soaking up the sun (and the latter splashing bright yellow across the landscape). I am sleepy from rising so early, but it just lends a dreamlike quality to everything.

By the time I post this, I will be in Belgrade.

Istanbul

When I close my eyes, I can still see the lights of the street glowing in hues of yellow and red, hear the currents of voices and laughter, and smell the scent of hookah and beer drifting through the warm air on my last night in Istanbul. I see the lights of the fountain situated between the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, its waters warbling, laughing in the dimness of evening, surrounded with couples sitting close and children playing with glowing toys that street merchants sell for a handful of liras.

Istanbul is one of those cities that holds on to its history while embracing modernity, that keeps its past in every heartbeat of its present. Its efficient trams bus tourists through site-seeing districts and across the Bosphorus. The Grand Bazaar is as it always was, with merchants calling its wears and trying to persuade customers into its stores, only that the stores are filled with western brands of shirts and shoes right alongside traditional Turkish pants and textiles.

For me, Istanbul’s architecture rises above all else, from the intricate designs of the Hagia Sofia to the steep obelisks of the hippodrome to the minarets that steeple over the city like totems to the religious and historical texture of Istanbul. I think, of all of them, I loved the Blue Mosque best; its lovely domes and towers stand as quiet testaments to the beauty of geometry; the unity of its structure, the regularity of its design, the simplicity of its coloring…, stalwartness with solemnity, unostentatious and unobtrusive and unaffected… majesty with modesty.

The cats in Turkey are, for me, utterly delightful; they have little of the skittishness to which I am accustomed, and I found them lounging about wherever they could find a spot of shade: on carpets being sold just in front of shops, in the middle of sidewalks and beneath chairs and tables in restaurant… even on the footpath half-way up to the old church that lies on Prince’s Island.

Istanbul is certainly an international city; it has that feel, and as a tourist, especially one staying in a hostel, I felt the internationality fairly directly: rooming with people from Spain and Croatia and Korea, touring Galata Tower and Dormabahce with a Pakistani, doing breakfasts with a Canadian, and spending my final evening talking with a couple, one from India and another from Serbia.

It’s one of those cities that I could see myself living in one day, if fortune is kind to me. It’s certainly a place to which I hope to return, one day.

Today, the weather has turned a little chilly. It was raining as I passed from Turkey to Bulgaria. The scenery has changed, and while I am loathed to leave Istanbul and those I have met there, I look with eagerness to what may await me in Bulgaria.

Cesme

I’ve always found transit an ideal time for reflection. In life, the stillness of place sometimes hides our momentum through the world—the feeling that, because we stay in one place, we’re not on a journey. Of course, we always are. I am fortunate that my life has been filled with moments of movement and meditation.

I journey from Cesme (pronounced Cheshme) to Istanbul by bus, and enjoy watching the Turkish cities and countryside swim by in the form of clean white houses, fields of corn and orchards of olive trees, and occasionally a delicate-looking minaret or two.

Cesme was quite beautiful. I arrived on Saturday evening after missing my flight from Istanbul to Izmir after torrential rains grounded flights and breathed chaos into the functions of the crowded airport. I arrived in Izmir at about 10:30. My bags did not.

My host greeted me at the airport, good humor unaffected by the wait, and carried me to the resort town of Cesme, right next to the startlingly cerulean Aegean Sea. His sister was kind enough to let me borrow her clothes—ones admittedly much nicer than mine. Fortunately, I didn’t have to impose on her for too long; my bags arrived the next evening, and my host and his sister took me to fetch them.

The days I spent in Cesme with my host and his remarkably hospitable and generous family were eye-opening and delightful: my host took me out to a beautiful sea-side restaurant, gave me a tour of the lovely houses and harbors of Cesme, and took me out to the sea, where I enjoyed swimming in the warm waters.

Compared to Mongolia, Cesme is a place of overwhelming color and diversity—the deep greens of the trees, the brilliant blue of the sea, the demur whites and playful pinks of the flowers… I have always felt the environments around me transforming my inner landscape; Cesme has bloomed that landscape into a myriad of color.

More than anything, though, I enjoyed spending time with my hosts—losing myself in conversation as we lost our way through cobblestone streets in labyrinth-like districts, ensorcelled by quaint cafes and darling shops—spending evenings in the fading light of day surrounded by gardens and the harmony of the rushing sea and the rustling leaves and purring cicades. … All the places where words find fertile ground to grow and bloom.

 I owe my host and his family a debt of gratitude for these last several days in paradise.

And now, Istanbul awaits me.

Saying Goodbye

I’ve been utterly remiss in keeping this blog updated. I tell myself I will, that I’ll record everything in due time, but between the lack of internet, the preoccupation with projects and events, and the feeling that most of what I did isn’t necessarily worth recording, I never got around to it.

Maybe it was worth recording. I am always surprised when I’m told people actually read this blog. To them: Thank you, and I apologize.

The last few months have been a bit of a whirlwind. I suppose all my life in Mongolia has been a whirlwind, even when a frozen winter seemed to deaden the progress of things. But spring in Mongolia makes things teem and stir, and in summer, happenings occur with the corybantic desperateness that accompanies the understanding that, in a place like Mongolia, winter is always just around the corner.

My life in spring was, for the most part, consumed entirely by the dental project. After literally months of working and planning—checking teeth, checking hotels, checking schools; arranging schedules, arranging lodging, arranging transportation; talking to directors, talking to teachers, talking to doctors and governors and NGOs… —it happened. The dental clinic happened.

6 days, 5 schools, 9 dentists, 5 dental personnel… 2126 children.

Countless volunteers helped us. English teachers from every school helped out, and even went to other schools to help with translation. Students came out to help, working with dentists, training adults to do fluoride or dental education. School staff pitched in—school doctors, accountants, teachers, directors.

World Vision provided transportation and printing. Mercy Corps helped out with logistics. The Education department helped with printing and communication. As I planned and put this together, I was witness to something truly amazing: an entire town—people from different and sometimes competing agencies helping one another, working together—all coming together to help the children… strangers becoming colleagues, people becoming friends, and individuals becoming a single community, filled with common purpose.

In other countries KIDS visits, I heard, they sometimes need to hire translators. They sometimes need to bring food for the children. They sometimes worry that children aren’t taken care of at home. Not in Mongolia. Mongolians cherish their children; all the children are well cared for, well loved, well fed and taken care of. And people need no more motivation to give their time but the knowledge that they are making healthier Mongolia’s most precious resource: the children. And it makes me proud, because, though I am a foreigner here, they are ‘manaikhan’—my people.

Every day during the dental clinic I got up at 6am to get to the hotel to deal with any issues that had come up (the hotel was really bad). Every evening I helped resolve any issues that came up. I arranged impromptu meetings, planned for the next day, fielded questions, … and I went to bed late and utterly exhausted. Every day was a struggle to get out of bed, but once the dental clinic began, I didn’t feel it. It always subsided looking into the eyes of the children who came to the clinic, not to return until the clinic ended for the day.

By the last day, the weariness was all-consuming. I was so utterly spent; I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted in all my life. As I told my parents, though, it's that weariness that you get when you give everything you have, not just physically, but emotionally--when you put your whole heart and soul in something for a long time, until you're spent and can't give any more. But it's not a bad feeling, per se, because I know it comes from caring so deeply that nothing short of all you have is enough.

When the dental clinic had finished and the dentists had gone home and I was left with only the weariness and the memory, I realized that, though it would be heart-wrenching, I was able to leave Zavkhan. I gave everything I had and I achieved something good and can leave knowing that I have nothing to regret.

Now I have left my site. It has been hard: in soft, quiet moments I feel the ache that comes from leaving a home that will be difficult to return to.

Some people think the hardest part of being a Peace Corps volunteer is the hard work—the making fires, the irregular power outages, the washing clothes by hand in a shallow bucket. Others think it would be the culture shock, trying to learn the language and integrate with the people. But for me, the biggest danger was falling in love with a place I would have to leave, and the heartbreak of that departure.

 No, not danger; inevitability.

You don’t even realize how many people you know, how many friends you’ve made, how many brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers you have, until you have to say goodbye. I’ll never know the full impact I made, but I feel the impact in me as big as a crater. I feel the loss in me as a deep ache in my chest. I stay moving because if I slow, I feel the longing for that home so acutely and the distance so distinctly and the difficulty of return so painfully that it’s hard to keep the tears at bay.

The ache is great. But the joy is greater.

Dortai. Hairtai. Bayartai.

Baking for Tsagaan Sar

Tsagaan Sar is always an interesting experience. One part awkwardness, one part frustration, but still somehow worth it all: you get to see how your friends and colleagues live, meet their families (with both adorable grandmothers and adorable children), sing songs and play games. It also gives me the excuse to don my deel—which I never really have an excuse to wear any other time of year (the lack of pockets makes it impractical for daily use).

Tsagaan Sar occurs at a different time each year, aligning to the lunar calendar, and despite the ‘official’ dates—a vain attempt to limit the celebration to a few days each year—it undoubtedly lasts for a week or more. The whole holiday, which celebrates the new year and, simultaneously, the end or ending of winter, is steeped in traditions—some perhaps newer than others.

Tavgiin Edee: a round comestible object made of fried bread (havse)
and covered on top with 'white' foods, usually hardened
yogurt (aral), candies, and sugar cubes.

Regardless of age, all these traditions are followed with great alacrity, from the customary ‘greeting’ (laying arms atop each other and sniffing the cheek) to the exchange of snuff bottles by the men (and some women!), to the stacks of fried bread (havse) covered by hardened yogurt (aral) and the convivial calls of “Saihan Shineleerei” (“Please have a good new year”… or something like it).

Mongolians singing songs in a ger at a hair cutting ceremony during Tsagaan Sar, with the traditional spread of foods, including buuz (Mongolian dumplings), sheep's back, slices of hyam and pickles, dried fruits and candies, and of course a tavgiin edee, one made with havse and topped with candy, the other built of aral.

Most people wear deels, and the site of Mongolians going about in an array of brightly-colored fabrics is, for me, enough to make the world seem a little more magical: crisp crimson, iridescent amaranthine, shimmering chartreuse, popping pink, bright blues ranging from sky-hues to ultramarine… all in different styles with different accessories. It’s a lovely display.

Gifts are given at each home visited—usually by the host or hostess. I’ve received a bottle, two pairs of socks, a shirt, a pen, sweets enough to kill a diabetic, and enough tugrik to cover my taxi costs for the next month. Usually the younger people visit their elders, and so are the recipients of such gifts. However, since my last birthday, I’ve decided I’m a grown-up now (not to mention a victim of American cultural brainwashing) and so the thought of going without bringing SOMETHING is a difficult one for me.

So what do you give the Mongolian who has everything (including, apparently, numerous pairs of socks)? I generally opt for baked goods.

Baked goods for Tsagaan Sar!

This year, I baked up a variety of gifts for the various homes I visited. My oven has been getting a lot of use lately! So here’s what I made for Tsagaan Sar:

Peach Raisin Muffins

Pear Raisin Muffins. Muffins are kind of nice because they don’t require any cutting (yay individual servings!) and they’re kind of novel as far as a baked good goes in Mongolia. To make a batch, I used about two cups of pears and maybe about half a cup of raisins (soaked in the milk that muffin recipes generally call for in order to make the raisins a little plumper). I’ve been looking for more creative ways to make use of all the canned and jarred fruits available here. (Pears courtesy of a gift I got during the last pizza party I hosted.)

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies. I made these a while ago and threw them into my freezer for whenever I might need them. I decided it was time to finally cook them (and make room in my freezer, already filled with cooked beans and pie crusts!). I’ve always admired how easily cookies can be made cute. After baking and cooling, I wrapped them in stacks of four and tied them with strips of cloth left over from my current quilting project (shout out to Bianca!). Adorable, right?

Wrapped Apple Cinnamon Raisin Bread

Apple Cinnamon Bread. I sort of consider this my signature baked good at this point. I adapted it from a recipe for zucchini bread and it’s been a big hit whenever I’ve made it. I’ve gotten SO many requests for the recipe (even to the point of my hashaa brother invading my house so he and I could make it together!). So of course I chose to make it for Tsagaan Sar. I usually make two loafs in one batch (which is super useful, because here in Uliastai, there’s always someone who helped me with something and who I want to thank).

It takes time to make, though, (no food processor, so chopping takes me about an hour and a half; about the length of a movie, which I almost always watch simultaneously) and I have had so many homes to visit, so I’ve been making mini-loafs. In one batch, I can make six of these little guys, and they’re super cute. Making time is usually about 20% shorter, too.

Apple Cinnamon Bread Mini-Loaf

All the baked goods have been well-received, and I expect a fair turnout for a baking series I’m planning on launching (hopefully) in the next few weeks (along with an exercise class… hopefully to negate some of weight-gain baking tends to precipitate!). When I leave, I hope people will still be able to enjoy the breads and muffins I made for them when I was here—and maybe take some joy both from the process of baking and the memory of a Peace Corps volunteer who was also a friend.

I don’t usually dedicate blogs, but this one is dedicated to Bianca, who instilled in me a love for baking—not for myself, but for others. Thanks, Bianca!

Cheers,

Karen

The Holidays

The last few months have been super busy, and I’ve depended on the Facebook updates of others to spread the word of my various projects and activities. But, as a friend recently reminded me, I should write for myself, too—to crystallize the moments, little and large, that I may forget, and yet that carry weight and significance—to my heart, if not others’.

I suppose I’d like to start my recollections of the last two months with those centered around the various holidays that have come and gone.

Halloween

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays; I prepared for it in advanced by going over ghost stories in my beginner TOEFL class and watching a documentary on Halloween in my advanced TOEFL class (being a teacher has its perks).

As was the case last year, Undermaa invited myself and the other volunteers to the Halloween Party at Chandman-Erdene (School 1), near where I live. I agreed to come, and Bryan and Zak later joined me. Virginia had a school function, and so unfortunately couldn’t come. It was fun to see the performances and costumes and to help judge.

This year there was a dance contest. One of the teachers from the school—a hefty, friendly woman none of us knew—wanted to dance. She looked to Bryan and Zak and eventually chose Bryan as her partner; he politely agreed. In the confusion, I stood up, and so did Zak, not sure what exactly was going on, and the two of us ended up unintentionally entering into the dance contest as each other’s partner.

Fortunately, both of us can dance.

When the music came on, we danced, just for fun. I think there might have been a Mongolian waltz in there, and neither of us really had any idea what we were doing, but we had fun. Zak’s a really good dancer—much better than me—but I’m a relatively good follower, and don’t mind getting spun about.

When the music finished, we returned, breathless, to where we were standing before, and Undarmaa went around to judge the best dancer based on the applause each couple got. Zak and I were the last, and we received a resounding applause, thereby winning the dance contest—an honor worthy of the additional torture of dancing through the entire playlist of songs all over again.

Last Halloween, I expended so much energy preparing for the party that I had utterly depleted my energy stores (not to mention my immune system) and fell ill on Halloween day, much to my chagrin. This year, I let one of my CPs handle the affair and was content to be more of a participant rather than an organizer.

My costume was devised somewhat extemporaneously. I dressed in black and, upon seeing there was face paint about the department office, set about painting ears, a nose, and whiskers on my face. Upon completion of this task, I was a passable black cat.

In addition to the face paint, however, the department was also filled with adorable little girls—the daughters of my teachers. Upon seeing my face, they shyly requested their faces also be painted. It began with two little girls—then went to three and four. Soon enough I had five adorable little kittens. … Thereby transforming my costume from Black Cat to Black Cat Mother. But seriously, my kittens were adorable.

Thanksgiving

 [Photos courtesy of Bryan's camera]

I think, for many Peace Corps Volunteers, Thanksgiving is one of the more difficult holidays. It fills you, simultaneously, with an aching patriotism (we are, after all, here as representatives of US, to do good work on behalf of the US) and a desperate loneliness for friends and family back home. Thanksgiving is an American holiday, and last year, we celebrated it as such—all the Peace Corps Volunteers gathered together and made food and talked and watched movies.

But this year, my Mongolian family is more than my Peace Corps family. This year that family has grown to include people for whom America is not a home, but still a place and a culture about which they’d like to learn.

Usually for Peace Corps Volunteers, Thanksgiving is celebrated during the fall break. Secondary schools always have a break sometime during the month of November—and this year it came quite early: the first week of the month. We had invited other western volunteers to come in and celebrate with us, as Zavkhan is a central aimag in the west of Mongolia, but no one took us up on the offer.

Fine, I said. Their loss!

I spent a few days preparing for Thanksgiving. I deboned a LOT of chicken. So much chicken.  And marinated it all. And boiled the bones up. And rolled out a lot of piecrust. In Uliastai, your chicken doesn’t come deboned; you have to do it yourself. And your piecrust doesn’t come at all! —you have to make it yourself. (Shout out to Bill for teaching me how to make piecrust!).

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving: Virginia made a delicious fruit salad as an appetizer with fresh oranges, apples, kiwi, etc. stirred up in fresh Mongolian yogurt. Bryan was in charge of the first course: baked fish with roasted vegetables (fish courtesy of Virginia’s CPs and my Mongol dad, Tsogoo). I was lead organizer on the second course: creamy chicken potpie with carrots, potatoes, and peas. And the third course was marinated chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and cranberry sauce (from the States). Desert was a traditional pumpkin pie.

Bryan provided both apple cider and a sweet mead. Ganaa brought beers and juice from the local store. Sanaa brought wine. Later in the night came spiced chai.

We all helped each other with the courses, and the Mongolians helped, too! Ganaa chopped onions while Sanaa helped with the carrots. I chopped veggies for Bryan while Virginia helped with the chicken potpie and Bryan checked on the marinated chicken. It was definitely a group effort.

Zak provided musical entertainment, playing both guitar and his Japanese shamisen. Sanaa brought out her keyboard to play a little. Mongolian friends came and went. Some could only stay a few hours, while others stayed for the whole shebang. All and all, anywhere from 10 to 12 Mongolians passed through my doors.

I didn’t have enough chairs. We sat on the floor of my bedroom, using a plank of wood covered with foam as a table. As the meal progressed, each of us—each person, American and Mongolian alike—said what they were thankful for. It was a wonderful evening, one I was delighted to share with these people who have become such amazing and lasting friends to me. For me, it was a truly memorable evening.

And the best part is, my Mongolian friends did all the dishes! (Shout out to Duya, Ganaa, and Sanaa)

For those who might be curious, on Thanksgiving proper the Uliastai volunteers made the trip out to Zak’s ger and made horsemeat chili. I made cornbread muffins the night before, and the combination was delightful. The company, even more so.

Christmas

For me, Christmas is one of the most difficult holidays to be away from family. A few years ago, missing Christmas with my family might not been quite so bad; but when there are young ones in your family for whom Christmas is still a time of pure joy and excitement, you feel like you’re missing out on witnessing that kind of yuletide magic and childlike wonder.

Henry, my nephew, is still just a little boy. I would have given anything to be able to share this Christmas with him—and my mom, brother, sister-in-law, father, stepmother, grandmothers and all my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I was thinking of them, and missing them.

This Christmas, as tends to happen around this time of year, I got sick. It happened on Christmas Eve-Eve (the 23rd) as I was engaged in cooking. I managed to make 6 loafs of sweet apple bread (a favorite among my teachers) and umpteen blueberry muffins for my school’s Christmas party (along with soup for one of my site-mates; I’m dedicated to the task of keeping my ger-dwellers well fed!). Though Tsogoo (my wonderful Mongol dad) was able to transport the baked goods to the party, I, alas, was too sick to attend, and spent the day a-bed.

Feeling somewhat better Christmas day, I rose and proceeded to clean my kitchen, wash dishes, wipe down counter-tops, sweep and scrub the floor, and wash my hair and face in preparation for the day. Virginia came over early, with ingredients, and we prepared lasagna.

So, there’s a lot of stuff that goes into lasagna that you just can’t find here in Mongolia. Fortunately, we do have beef and tomato sauce (spiced courtesy of care packages—thanks Touchan and Marie!). Noodles we had to make ourselves—which was actually kind of fun. We made egg noodles, and they came out really nice. We also don’t have ricotta—only Edamer. The recipe we found called for sour cream. None of that either.

Since my time in Mongolia, I’ve become slightly mad-scientisty when it comes to cooking. So, here’s what I did: I heated two cups of whole milk (Mongolian: “milk”) and added two tablespoons of lemon juice to kind of curdle it. I wanted to make it thicker, but adding flour or cornstarch seemed weird, so I went with egg. Added two eggs, then added grated cheese, threw in onions and garlic, and viola! A delicious cheesy concoction that in no way resembles ricotta but is cheesy enough that people don’t care.

For dessert, apple brie flatbread (brie courtesy of Ulaanbaatar, apples courtesy of Zak) drizzled with honey.

We opened gifts later in the night. Virginia and I got the boys each a snuff bottle. I was able to get a good deal on them because I know the shopkeeper—she’s a good friend of Tsogoo’s. I picked them out especially for them, and they seemed to really like them, which makes me super happy. For Virginia, I put together a little craft box that includes thread for making friendship bracelets, string for making necklaces, and a bunch of beads of all different shapes and colors. I also gave her a friendship bracelet I made. She, in turn, gave me a beautiful silk scarf from Thailand; it’s so elegant—I love it!

New Years

New Years, I was still sick, though I’d spent the last few days recovering from my malaise. The day before New Year’s Eve came a flutter of texts from sitemates inquiring what our plans were. I had none, but to be honest, we’re all pretty happy just spending time together.

New Year’s Eve, I went over early to Virginia’s place, laden with ingredients for our evening.

So one thing I’d ask for from home was pudding. Pudding is delicious, and absent from Uliastai. My father, being the wonderfully thorough person he is, sent me both chocolate and vanilla pudding—along with four different flavors of gelatin, which is made by the same company. I had no idea what I would do with so much gelatin. Until New Years came around.

A little gelatin, a little warm water, some vodka, and a fridge, and ta da! Jell-O shots. So I picked up a bottle of cheap vodka from the store, went to Virginia’s apartment, and filled her fridge with a colorful army of plastic cups of red, green, and yellow Jell-O.

So, I rarely deep fry things in my house, because the noxious fumes hurt my eyes and can sometimes make the air thick with oil. So I fry at other people’s dwellings!

We first made onion rings. Onion rings is one of those things I love to make with others, because everyone can take up a job. Virginia dips the rings in flour and drops them into the batter; I take them from the batter and cover them with bread crumbs; Bryan takes them from me and fries them up.

Afterwards, I cut up and floured pieces of chicken, and Bryan fried them up. I threw them into a buffalo sauce inherited from Bill and Bianca, and they were delicious!

Later in the night, I tipsily deboned some of Virginia’s chicken (no injuries!—I have come to debone masterfully) and Virginia and I made chicken alfredo pasta. Delicious!

As the hour turned the year from 2013 to 2014 (a change that, even now, I struggle with!), Zak opened the bottle of champagne Bryan had brought for the occasion and we toasted to the New Year. And we continued talking late into the night until at last we all made out way out into the night.

So that’s been the last few months of holidays for me. There have been a myriad of other events and projects we’ve worked on, of course. Maybe, in due time, I’ll compose similar bricolage-blog posts to commemorate our various activities. Maybe.

I’m still too close to 2013 and everything it’s contained to really be able to take a step back and forth. I suppose chapters of our lives rarely follow a strict annual cycle beginning on the 1st of January and ending on the 31st of December. I’m currently in a chapter that promises to last two years, and maybe when that chapter finally concludes this year, I’ll be able to shake away the residue of this life and reflect on who I am, what I’ve gained, and what I’ve had to leave behind.

Until that time, there’s something to be said about enjoying where I am now—the place I live, the things I’m doing, and the people I’m with.

Cheers,

Karen

P.S. As a final note, I thought I would include a short reflection I included in a letter to my mother:

New Year is supposed to be a time of reflection, but I really should be reflecting more than one day a year. You know how I am--I've always been somewhat self-reflective (maybe, at times, to a fault). I haven't been reflecting as much as I should, maybe, because everything seems so hazy. Maybe that's life, though. During this time of life, when there are so many unanswered questions, so many dreams yet unachieved, and those dreams seem to shift and change and you can't decide what will make you happy... maybe this is the way it is. I am increasingly aware of a need for faith--not faith in any particular religion, or in any specific god (in my life, I feel like I've had many)--but faith that I'll be OK. In spite of all my insecurities and concerns and trepidations, I truly believe that. I truly believe that I will be OK. I am in the maelstrom of my twenties, but I will be OK. The purposes of my heart will manifest in a calling, and love will somehow find me.