A few years ago when Edwin was a baby about Joseph's age, Kathleen became intensely interested in helping Sophia get dressed, brush her hair, eat her dinner, and other domestic tasks. I encouraged this, and Sophia was perfectly happy to go along.
Sophia has reached the same age Kathleen was when I could ask Kathleen to get her sister ready for bed, and Kathleen would do it. Recently she has shown that same strange interest in helping her brother.
Edwin is no Sophia, however, and I don't think that anyone could call him 'docile,' so I figured that I would be dressing Edwin until he showed some interest, any interest in dressing himself. Maybe when he was three. Or four. Maybe five.
Recently, however, he's been letting her dress him for bed and even being so kind as to not kick her. Kicking is such a signature move of his, that when Joseph was born, the girls fought and fought over holding him because he 'doesn't kick us.'
So on his good days, Edwin will submit to having his hair washed by Sophia in the bath, and even occasionally letting her put his diaper on and dressing him. Kathleen, however, has only every gotten kicks for her attempts to dress him.
This evening Brandon and I sent the children upstairs to get ready for bed. Even though we usually get Edwin ready, he followed his sisters. A few minutes later Kathleen came downstairs and told us that Edwin's diaper was dirty. I had known he was stinky and sent him upstairs intending to change him, and was annoyed that Kathleen had come all of the the way back down just to tell us to do something about the smell that was bothering her.
So we went upstairs and found Sophia carefully unbuttoning Edwin's shirt while getting him ready for bed. "See!" Kathleen told us, "Sophia changed Edwin's diaper!" Somewhat in disbelief that our three and a half year-old had changed our two year-old's dirty diaper, we checked. It was clean.
Afraid of how it had happened, Brandon asked where the dirty diaper had gone, expecting to find it in the room or on the bathroom floor. "Sophia put the poop in the toilet," Kathleen explained patiently, "and put the diaper over there," gesturing to the pile of cloth diapers waiting to be put in the pail. I went to check the diaper - a disposable one he wore to church - and sure enough, it was fairly clean and just waiting to be washed.
Now if we could just get her to finish eating her breakfast.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Living in Baku: Church
This post is dedicated to my friend, Bridget. When she comes to collect her prize, she can add Baku to her list.
Wherever Brandon and I are posted across the world, no matter what country or culture or situation, we know we will always go to church. And although that fact never changes, exactly how church itself is run can vary a lot.
In Cairo, we were part of a lovely branch that met in a rented villa every Friday. We had enough members (between forty and ninety depending on the time of year) to have a full three hours of church, complete with a primary of twenty-five children.
We knew when we left that our branch was a rarity for the region, and prepared ourselves to have the Sherwood Family Group in Baku, meeting in our house every Sunday. We were happy to learn, however, that we would not be the only members of the LDS church in Azerbaijan.
When we came in December, we brought the number of LDS members in Azerbaijan to a respectable thirty-seven. The adults barely outnumber the children, with twenty adults and seventeen children. Joseph is the youngest child and takes turns with the three other babies making disruptions during sacrament meeting. The primary has twelve children including Edwin, who got to attend primary the same time Sophia did, since primary and nursery are now combined. There is one youth. And he gets his own Sunday School class.
Just as in Cairo, the church is not officially recognized in Azerbaijan, so we are not allowed to proselytize. We have mostly Americans with a Brazilian, a Taiwanese, a Russian, and two Scots adding to the mix. About half of the branch works for the Embassy, and half for oil companies.
We meet at the Branch President's house, and if you're early you can snag a comfy couch to sit on and avoid the folding chairs or dining room chairs. The whole meeting block lasts two hours, with the time split evenly between sacrament meeting, sunday school, and Priesthood/Relief Society.
Since sacrament meeting only lasts forty-five minutes, we only have one speaker a week. When it was my turn to speak last week, I looked at the number of adults in the room, and realized that it would be less than six months before I would be up at the front again giving another talk. If you come visit, I may or may not recommend a guest speaker.
But it doesn't matter how long church is, or where it meets, or if you get to speak a lot, the spirit is the same and so are the people: wonderful.
Wherever Brandon and I are posted across the world, no matter what country or culture or situation, we know we will always go to church. And although that fact never changes, exactly how church itself is run can vary a lot.
In Cairo, we were part of a lovely branch that met in a rented villa every Friday. We had enough members (between forty and ninety depending on the time of year) to have a full three hours of church, complete with a primary of twenty-five children.
We knew when we left that our branch was a rarity for the region, and prepared ourselves to have the Sherwood Family Group in Baku, meeting in our house every Sunday. We were happy to learn, however, that we would not be the only members of the LDS church in Azerbaijan.
When we came in December, we brought the number of LDS members in Azerbaijan to a respectable thirty-seven. The adults barely outnumber the children, with twenty adults and seventeen children. Joseph is the youngest child and takes turns with the three other babies making disruptions during sacrament meeting. The primary has twelve children including Edwin, who got to attend primary the same time Sophia did, since primary and nursery are now combined. There is one youth. And he gets his own Sunday School class.
Just as in Cairo, the church is not officially recognized in Azerbaijan, so we are not allowed to proselytize. We have mostly Americans with a Brazilian, a Taiwanese, a Russian, and two Scots adding to the mix. About half of the branch works for the Embassy, and half for oil companies.
We meet at the Branch President's house, and if you're early you can snag a comfy couch to sit on and avoid the folding chairs or dining room chairs. The whole meeting block lasts two hours, with the time split evenly between sacrament meeting, sunday school, and Priesthood/Relief Society.
Since sacrament meeting only lasts forty-five minutes, we only have one speaker a week. When it was my turn to speak last week, I looked at the number of adults in the room, and realized that it would be less than six months before I would be up at the front again giving another talk. If you come visit, I may or may not recommend a guest speaker.
But it doesn't matter how long church is, or where it meets, or if you get to speak a lot, the spirit is the same and so are the people: wonderful.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Lessons Learned
My mother is not a pack rat. She periodically has manic cleaning sprees where she tears through the house, throwing away anything that could have the smallest claim to being useless. I think that she must derive strange joy from filling trashcans with things that once cluttered her house. I'm amazed that any of my baby pictures survived to be foisted of on me once I got married and could take the stuff myself.
I'm not naturally a pack rat, and my mother certainly didn't encourage any tendencies otherwise. Moving around the world hasn't helped either. I confess that sometimes that joy from full trashcans creeps into my soul when a cupboard is cleansed.
So when I was mucking out that Corner That Collects Random Junk and saw the purple booklet that contained all sorts of useful information about my cell phone service - in Azerbaijani - I decided to toss it. I had held on to it for a whole month and it hadn't done me any good and I couldn't read it anyway so why keep it? In to the trash it went, and one more battle was won in the war against the CTCRJ.
Two days later I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket. I am not a habitual cell phone-carrier. Once I Cairo I discovered my phone tucked into a pool bag with a two-day old text message inviting me to a play date on it.
However, that was in a one-level apartment. I now live in a three-level house. So I attempt to carry my phone with me.
My back pocket has been very social lately, attempting to call, and successfully calling various contacts. It might have even sent a text or two. If that was to you, I apologize. I'm trying to teach my back pocket to not be so forward. On Wednesday, I found a message on my screen: enter PIN code. So I entered a PIN code. It was the wrong one. I tried a few more, and then the phone asked for a PUK code, so I tried to replicate my back pocket's favorite number combinations. No luck. So I resorted to a higher authority and asked my housekeeper.
Oh, she told me, you just have to enter the PUK code that came with your purple cell phone book. You mean the book that I threw away two days ago? Oh, yes, that book.
And so that's how I found myself driving around town with Samir the driver looking for an Azercell store so I could buy a new SIM card - and replace the entirely unused 15 AZN ($20) minutes card that I had just put on my phone.
Lesson learned: don't throw away anything associated with your cell phone. Even if it is for the fight against tyranny, oppression, and clutter.
I'm not naturally a pack rat, and my mother certainly didn't encourage any tendencies otherwise. Moving around the world hasn't helped either. I confess that sometimes that joy from full trashcans creeps into my soul when a cupboard is cleansed.
So when I was mucking out that Corner That Collects Random Junk and saw the purple booklet that contained all sorts of useful information about my cell phone service - in Azerbaijani - I decided to toss it. I had held on to it for a whole month and it hadn't done me any good and I couldn't read it anyway so why keep it? In to the trash it went, and one more battle was won in the war against the CTCRJ.
Two days later I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket. I am not a habitual cell phone-carrier. Once I Cairo I discovered my phone tucked into a pool bag with a two-day old text message inviting me to a play date on it.
However, that was in a one-level apartment. I now live in a three-level house. So I attempt to carry my phone with me.
My back pocket has been very social lately, attempting to call, and successfully calling various contacts. It might have even sent a text or two. If that was to you, I apologize. I'm trying to teach my back pocket to not be so forward. On Wednesday, I found a message on my screen: enter PIN code. So I entered a PIN code. It was the wrong one. I tried a few more, and then the phone asked for a PUK code, so I tried to replicate my back pocket's favorite number combinations. No luck. So I resorted to a higher authority and asked my housekeeper.
Oh, she told me, you just have to enter the PUK code that came with your purple cell phone book. You mean the book that I threw away two days ago? Oh, yes, that book.
And so that's how I found myself driving around town with Samir the driver looking for an Azercell store so I could buy a new SIM card - and replace the entirely unused 15 AZN ($20) minutes card that I had just put on my phone.
Lesson learned: don't throw away anything associated with your cell phone. Even if it is for the fight against tyranny, oppression, and clutter.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Will it fit?
When I was pregnant with Edwin who was my first boy, I constantly heard the refrain, "oh boys are so different..." I always asked why, and nobody could get very definite.
For those of you who are expecting boys, here's a boy thing (or maybe just and Edwin thing): putting thin items into small spaces.
In Cairo, I noticed my credit cards slowly disappearing. I looked everywhere for them, and not a one turned up. Then one day I pulled the mattress off my bed. The credit cards were all stuffed in between the mattress and the frame. Later on they took up residence under the edge of the carpet.
One day I caught Edwin stuffing a pen under the belt on the treadmill. I got the pen out, but the cap is still in there somewhere and the treadmill has never quite sounded the same.
A few weeks ago, the girls caught Edwin cramming kopecks into the transformer. Brandon shook them out. And then he shook out about twenty puzzle pieces.
While I was sitting on the couch, I noticed a few keys slightly depressed on our new digital piano. I went over to investigate, and found another kopeck wedged into the crack in the front of the keys. A few days later, Brandon found two more in the same place.
While I've been typing this, Edwin found out that business cards slide nicely into the DVD drive.
However.
I just remembered an incident from my childhood. Way, way back in the day before iPods and even DVDs, our wood-paneled Chrystler minivan had a tape player. After awhile the player stopped working, so my mother took it to a repair shop to have it worked on.
She came back a few hours later, and the tape player worked again. She asked the technician if they had had to replace the part. No, he replied, it was a simple fix. And then he showed her a handful of coins. 'We just had to take these out and it worked just fine.'
So maybe he comes by it honestly.
For those of you who are expecting boys, here's a boy thing (or maybe just and Edwin thing): putting thin items into small spaces.
In Cairo, I noticed my credit cards slowly disappearing. I looked everywhere for them, and not a one turned up. Then one day I pulled the mattress off my bed. The credit cards were all stuffed in between the mattress and the frame. Later on they took up residence under the edge of the carpet.
One day I caught Edwin stuffing a pen under the belt on the treadmill. I got the pen out, but the cap is still in there somewhere and the treadmill has never quite sounded the same.
A few weeks ago, the girls caught Edwin cramming kopecks into the transformer. Brandon shook them out. And then he shook out about twenty puzzle pieces.
While I was sitting on the couch, I noticed a few keys slightly depressed on our new digital piano. I went over to investigate, and found another kopeck wedged into the crack in the front of the keys. A few days later, Brandon found two more in the same place.
While I've been typing this, Edwin found out that business cards slide nicely into the DVD drive.
However.
I just remembered an incident from my childhood. Way, way back in the day before iPods and even DVDs, our wood-paneled Chrystler minivan had a tape player. After awhile the player stopped working, so my mother took it to a repair shop to have it worked on.
She came back a few hours later, and the tape player worked again. She asked the technician if they had had to replace the part. No, he replied, it was a simple fix. And then he showed her a handful of coins. 'We just had to take these out and it worked just fine.'
So maybe he comes by it honestly.
Friday, February 10, 2012
And no, not even on Facebook
Dear Winter,
This has gotten ridiculous. When it snowed a few weeks ago, I was slightly bemused. I could appreciate the novelty of snow for the children's sake. But then you didn't let up - it just kept snowing and snowing and snowing. And snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing. I lived in Utah for nine years, and never had such a snowy three weeks. You may claim that you gave me a three- or four-day break, but that doesn't count - the snow didn't even come close to melting.
And then you sent the cold in addition to the snow. At the same time that my heat started going out. Every few days, and then every day, and yesterday twice. I'm getting really tired of waking up to a very cold house. Thank heaven I bought the children those slippers for Christmas.
And then you had to send bad weather and ruin our outing to Swan Lake with the girls - a ballet they've only watched the DVD of at least fifty times. Couldn't have you just let up a little for sake of my girls who haven't been out of our compound at all (except for the grocery store once) in the last month?
I suppose that maybe we could still be friends after all of that trouble. After all, you were pretty amazing in Cairo. I can't argue with eighty degrees, sunshine, and bougainvillea in February. And it wasn't your fault that I was gone for part of the winter both years. People have told me that you're usually not so bad here, so I guess I might forgive you on promise of future good behavior.
But no, not any more. We're never going to be friends now.
Our friendship was forever broken when this arrived in my inbox yesterday:
Hello Mr. Sherwood,
I hope this email finds you well.
Please be advised that the vessel carrying your POV shipment has been delayed into port due to poor weather conditions. I have requested a new ETA and will advise as soon as I am notified.
Please advise if you have any questions or concerns.
Why did you have to delay the shipment of my car? Why?? You knew how much I'm counting the days until I can go to the grocery store without calling a taxi or asking a friend for a ride. You knew how much I was dying to try my hand at Baku driving. And I know you overheard me telling everyone how much I love having a car again. How I daydream constantly of climbing into the rich corinthian leather seats of my big, black, V-6 Pilot and having the seat warm my backside as I go wherever I want. Whenever. I. Want. That's just not fair.
Winter, you've got some 'splainin to do.
And that date with my pretty cousin? Definitely not going to happen.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Yes, we have that
This past week I unpacked my last box. Which I consider to be pretty good - only five weeks after arriving in a completely new country, all of my things are unpacked. Our final household shipment arrived on Tuesday, and on Wednesday the furniture warehouse brought over some more furniture for our third floor.
I know, I know life is really rough when you have to go through the trouble of having people bring extra furniture that you don't have to buy up to the third floor of your house. I'm trying to deal with it.
Part of the furniture delivered was slated for our special closet I like to call Little America and the girls like to refer to as 'the store.' We've had our consumables for three weeks now but with no shelves to unpack things onto, I didn't want to open all of the boxes. On Wednesday, however, we finally got the shelves and so that was the day for unpacking.
If you were wondering what I decided was crucial for two years in Azerbaijan, I'll give you a tour.
I know, I know life is really rough when you have to go through the trouble of having people bring extra furniture that you don't have to buy up to the third floor of your house. I'm trying to deal with it.
Part of the furniture delivered was slated for our special closet I like to call Little America and the girls like to refer to as 'the store.' We've had our consumables for three weeks now but with no shelves to unpack things onto, I didn't want to open all of the boxes. On Wednesday, however, we finally got the shelves and so that was the day for unpacking.
If you were wondering what I decided was crucial for two years in Azerbaijan, I'll give you a tour.
I wouldn't be Mormon without my sacks of wheat, sugar, beans, and popcorn
The Great Wall of Charmin. Because you need to take good care of your bum.
Chicken stock, anyone?
To go with the masa and tortilla press.
If you've ever lived overseas, you'd understand.
And this, too.
This is what two hundred pounds of brown sugar looks like.
Don't forget the Cheerio-hugging toddler. Very essential.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Snow Day, part 2... and 3
Baku is not known for its snow, in fact it hardly ever snows. But on Thursday, we woke up to more snow on top of the last snow that fell. Not only was it snowing, but the wind was blowing, so Brandon was happy to stay home from work. And when work was cancelled again today, we were happy to have him home again. However, I'm done with snow days for this year.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
January 29
Today is an anniversary day - we've been here for one month. And one year ago we were in the middle of the Arab Spring. When I think that our crazy year is now over, I can't quite believe that it's already been a year. A friend of mine posted pictures of her baby's first birthday and I was shocked to realize that it was a year ago that we were hanging out in Oakwood with her baby that was Joseph's age at the time. It's been a funny year; it feels like it has lasted forever, but then it feels like it began a month or two ago.
I also can't believe that we've been in Baku for a month. It feels like we've been here much longer than a month. Our house is already starting to feel like home in that way that's hard to explain. When I was reading blogs a few days ago, I finished and looked around me. "Oh," I thought with confusion, "I'm in Baku. That's right. I'm not in America, I'm living in Azerbaijan."
That's when I know I'm settling in overseas - I forget that I live overseas, and when I do remember, I can't quite recall what's so weird about my situation. When I was searching through my consumables heap the other day, Sophia and I had a conversation about how the movers were still living in America and wouldn't be moving overseas. Most people in America, I had to explain to her, live in America their whole lives and never live anywhere else. That's part of what makes them American. I'm not sure she quite understood the concept.
So, after a month in my Baku, here is my assessment. We love the housing. Our house is beautiful, spacious, and comfortable. Of course it has its maintenance quirks - our downstairs heating being the most frequent - but that's to be expected. The mission members are wonderful; we've had dinners and breakfasts and rides and offers of help and a very warm welcome. The city itself looks to be fairly reasonable, but I haven't been out much since our car hasn't gotten here yet. Brandon's job is... interesting to him, but so far much much busier than his job in Egypt ever was. But I suppose there has to be a pill in all of that jam. Otherwise we wouldn't want to leave at the end of two years.
So for now, so far so good. I'm crossing my fingers that no revolutions come our way. But if they do, I suppose that I'll have a better idea of what I'm doing. How's that for optimism?
I also can't believe that we've been in Baku for a month. It feels like we've been here much longer than a month. Our house is already starting to feel like home in that way that's hard to explain. When I was reading blogs a few days ago, I finished and looked around me. "Oh," I thought with confusion, "I'm in Baku. That's right. I'm not in America, I'm living in Azerbaijan."
That's when I know I'm settling in overseas - I forget that I live overseas, and when I do remember, I can't quite recall what's so weird about my situation. When I was searching through my consumables heap the other day, Sophia and I had a conversation about how the movers were still living in America and wouldn't be moving overseas. Most people in America, I had to explain to her, live in America their whole lives and never live anywhere else. That's part of what makes them American. I'm not sure she quite understood the concept.
So, after a month in my Baku, here is my assessment. We love the housing. Our house is beautiful, spacious, and comfortable. Of course it has its maintenance quirks - our downstairs heating being the most frequent - but that's to be expected. The mission members are wonderful; we've had dinners and breakfasts and rides and offers of help and a very warm welcome. The city itself looks to be fairly reasonable, but I haven't been out much since our car hasn't gotten here yet. Brandon's job is... interesting to him, but so far much much busier than his job in Egypt ever was. But I suppose there has to be a pill in all of that jam. Otherwise we wouldn't want to leave at the end of two years.
So for now, so far so good. I'm crossing my fingers that no revolutions come our way. But if they do, I suppose that I'll have a better idea of what I'm doing. How's that for optimism?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Snow Day
When we were posted to Azerbaijan, often friends would ask us about the weather. Was it pleasant? Did it snow much there? I had read the post reports and watched the weather for awhile, so I felt pretty confident in telling everyone that we would be fine, not much if any snow to worry about. Maybe the wind, but not snow.
And if I had lived here last year, I would have been right. According to friends, the weather stayed in the fifties or high forties all winter. This winter, however, is evidently unusual, and in November, work was cancelled due to snow. Evidently the bad driving is made completely disastrous when four of five inches of snow are added to the mix.
This past week or so, it has snowed every other day or so. When I looked at the forecast a few days ago - low thirties and snowing or raining the whole time, I remembered exactly why I hate karma. The snow, however, hasn't been much, just the frozen equivalent of drizzle.
Yesterday it finally worked itself up to half an inch of accumulation, and so the girls went outside and tried to ride their bikes on snow-covered tile while Edwin slipped and fell every five steps or so. It wasn't much, but the girls were thrilled. "Mom, we played in the snow!!" they told me the rest of the day, after which Sophia would add, "but it's not good for riding bikes in."
So this morning when I woke up and opened the curtains to this,
I was shocked. When I went to get the children from their room, Edwin was excitedly shouting "no! no! no!' and gesturing to the window. I suppose if they're happy it's okay. But right now Brandon is outside playing with the children and I'm nice and warm inside, which is how it should be.
And if I had lived here last year, I would have been right. According to friends, the weather stayed in the fifties or high forties all winter. This winter, however, is evidently unusual, and in November, work was cancelled due to snow. Evidently the bad driving is made completely disastrous when four of five inches of snow are added to the mix.
This past week or so, it has snowed every other day or so. When I looked at the forecast a few days ago - low thirties and snowing or raining the whole time, I remembered exactly why I hate karma. The snow, however, hasn't been much, just the frozen equivalent of drizzle.
Yesterday it finally worked itself up to half an inch of accumulation, and so the girls went outside and tried to ride their bikes on snow-covered tile while Edwin slipped and fell every five steps or so. It wasn't much, but the girls were thrilled. "Mom, we played in the snow!!" they told me the rest of the day, after which Sophia would add, "but it's not good for riding bikes in."
So this morning when I woke up and opened the curtains to this,
I was shocked. When I went to get the children from their room, Edwin was excitedly shouting "no! no! no!' and gesturing to the window. I suppose if they're happy it's okay. But right now Brandon is outside playing with the children and I'm nice and warm inside, which is how it should be.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
You can take the Georgian out of the Soviet Union, but you can't take the Soviet Union out of the Georgian
For my birthday on Saturday, Brandon took me out to eat. Since we're in a new city, we have new restaurants to explore, which is one of my favorite things about new places. Brandon jokes (and he's only half kidding) that he joined the Foreign Service for the food. And I'm okay with that.
He had always heard that Georgian food was quite tasty, so he decided to take me out for Georgian. Our car hasn't arrived and the deep distrust of taxis that we gained in Egypt hasn't faded yet, so we decided to take the Metro and then walk to the restaurant.
After giving instructions to the babysitter and wishing her good luck, we headed out the door. Brandon checked his map and we plotted our route and closest Metro station. It looked simple, which of course should have been our first warning sign. Nothing that looks simple on a map in a foreign country ever is.
Forgetting that cardinal rule, we set off and boarded the metro for 28 May stop. After getting off, we checked the map, and marched off into the darkening evening. We marched for awhile past little hovels, store after store of dried fruits and nuts, and through a few traffic lights. We checked the map. We kept marching. We found some street signs, and checked the map again. Oops, a few streets further up than we had thought. More marching, more checking. March. Check. March. Check. I'm glad that my cell phone comes with a flashlight.
After marching through dark muddy streets, past newly-facaded government buildings, in crowds of people in busy thoroughfares, in front of buses, and in between cars, I saw a sign that looked like it might be the place. We marched closer. It was. Hungry and ready for a tasty birthday meal, we went through a low door, down some steps, down some more steps and finally, into the restaurant.
The proprietor came up, gabbled something in Russian, and then walked off. Brandon and I waited awkwardly in front of two empty booths wondering which one we were supposed to sit in. The man walked past us and started moving things in a third booth while another man pulled his things from the booth. Then the proprietor came back and started talking to Brandon in Russian again. While talking he walked us back to the door and pointed down the road.
When we were outside and walking away, I asked Brandon what had just happened. The man had told Brandon, 'Oh well, those two tables are occupied for someone, so we can't help you right now. But there's a nice Georgian restaurant just down the road.'
I started laughing. I suppose I should have believed Brandon earlier when he warned me about 'customer service' in the former Soviet Union.
So we went to the other restaurant. And since I've never had Georgian food before, I thought it was quite tasty.
He had always heard that Georgian food was quite tasty, so he decided to take me out for Georgian. Our car hasn't arrived and the deep distrust of taxis that we gained in Egypt hasn't faded yet, so we decided to take the Metro and then walk to the restaurant.
After giving instructions to the babysitter and wishing her good luck, we headed out the door. Brandon checked his map and we plotted our route and closest Metro station. It looked simple, which of course should have been our first warning sign. Nothing that looks simple on a map in a foreign country ever is.
Forgetting that cardinal rule, we set off and boarded the metro for 28 May stop. After getting off, we checked the map, and marched off into the darkening evening. We marched for awhile past little hovels, store after store of dried fruits and nuts, and through a few traffic lights. We checked the map. We kept marching. We found some street signs, and checked the map again. Oops, a few streets further up than we had thought. More marching, more checking. March. Check. March. Check. I'm glad that my cell phone comes with a flashlight.
After marching through dark muddy streets, past newly-facaded government buildings, in crowds of people in busy thoroughfares, in front of buses, and in between cars, I saw a sign that looked like it might be the place. We marched closer. It was. Hungry and ready for a tasty birthday meal, we went through a low door, down some steps, down some more steps and finally, into the restaurant.
The proprietor came up, gabbled something in Russian, and then walked off. Brandon and I waited awkwardly in front of two empty booths wondering which one we were supposed to sit in. The man walked past us and started moving things in a third booth while another man pulled his things from the booth. Then the proprietor came back and started talking to Brandon in Russian again. While talking he walked us back to the door and pointed down the road.
When we were outside and walking away, I asked Brandon what had just happened. The man had told Brandon, 'Oh well, those two tables are occupied for someone, so we can't help you right now. But there's a nice Georgian restaurant just down the road.'
I started laughing. I suppose I should have believed Brandon earlier when he warned me about 'customer service' in the former Soviet Union.
So we went to the other restaurant. And since I've never had Georgian food before, I thought it was quite tasty.
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