The Russian border

Swim lessons... from HELL

This is what the people at the pool look like... in Malibu.

I began teaching swim lessons to young children today at the local pool. Yes, we have a pool in town though it leaves much to be desired. I am fairly sure I will contract some sort of topical disease before the summer's over... but that's OK. Nothing a little penicillin can't clean up.

Of course, I knew that swim lessons in Azerbaijan would be different. Nevertheless nothing could have prepared me for that moment when I walked in the door to the pool. One teacher with... THIRTY FLAILING CHILDREN struggling to stay afloat. The children weren't waiting patiently at the wall for my instructions. Instead they were doing whatever they wanted despite their limitations, namely the fact that they can't swim. Swim lessons last for an hour and a half, and I am fairly sure this hour and a half cost me a few years of life. The lifeguard in me was surveying the pool, which means I couldn't devote all that much time to actually teaching.

This will be an interesting two months. If I don't make it, tell my mom I love her!

Turksen?

"Turksen?" means "Are you Turkish?" I think some of you might know where this post is going. I apologize in advance.

It goes without saying that I don't look like too much Azerbaijanis out there. My hair is far too bright, my skin far too light and my clothes far too... different. I definitely do not mind looking so different, but it is always interesting for me to hear people talk about me. Throughout my time here, I have been mistaken for a: German, Englishman, Russian, Georgian and even a Korean. Very rarely do they guess I'm American. However most of all, surprisingly enough, I am mistaken for a Turk!



*Cue the confused looks*


I have yet to see a Turk that resembles me, but I think part of the reason I am getting more and more confused for a Turk is due to my clothing and hair choices... courtesy of the local bazar. Here are some samples:



1. Pointy shoes. These are horribly uncomfortable, but horribly cheap. Plus there's something inherently manly and fashionable about having points at the ends of your toes.

2. Euro mullet. I'm nowhere near as dapper as this young man, but my hair looks pretty similar. Thank you to the $2 haircut! Actually, this hair gets me so many compliments I almost think that it looks good!



Don't worry, my hair doesn't have that much party in the back... yet. :$

3. Tacky... TACKY shirts. Mine don't quite have the "Ruffles" as immortalized from that Seinfeld episode, but I do have some worthy numbers in my wardrobe including, but not limited to, a brown stretch oxford with gold trim and vertical lines. It is my dress to impress shirt. Lord help whoever has to walk with me when I come back Stateside.

Azerbai-journal 4: All for the story

My parents always told me two things: don't go home with strangers and don't eat something that is unsanitary. I'm sorry to say, living in Azerbaijan has not only silenced these two golden rules in my mind, but it has actually made me rebel actively against them! My new mind set, however anti-Darwinist it might be, is to go pretty much wherever someone takes me and eat pretty much whatever is put in front of me. The thought process being: it's all for the story.

So here are a few examples of such stories:

1. Beer and old fish:

Yum yum yum.

I was walking home the other day around 8 pm. Since it is June, the weather is only mildly Hell instead of sweltering. Suddenly across the street, a random person yells out for me, using the now-familiar "Jamil" instead of Jeremy... which is just too hard to pronounce anyway. I really wanted to get home for some food, but his offer of "beer in the cool place" just seemed too good to pass up. A voice in my brain futily called out for me to check my surroundings, or at least to call a friend, but that was quickly pushed aside in the "name of the story."

When we got to the cool place, which was actually a dusty poorly lit basement (yikes!), we got some beers. I was trying to drink it as fast as I could, in order to get out of gross basement, but my host would have none of that. Thus, he bought some dried (but slimy) fish in a bag! While munching on the treat, we chatted about Michael Jackson, religion, and Muslim concepts of the sun and moon. I really spaced out after Michael Jackson, partly due to the rampant bones in my fish and partly due to the beer I suppose. I am just assuming we were speaking about Muslim concepts of the sun and moon because I heard those three words (Muslim, sun, and moon) a lot of times.

2. "Good morning, Jeremy. Come to a three day wedding, you have an hour to prepare!":

A few weeks ago, my counterpart called me at 8:00 in the morning. Salam Jeremy, she said, wake up! Slightly confused, I asked if we had had a meeting or if I was late for something. No, no she replied. "We are going to a wedding a few hours away and you must come."

AZERBAIJANI LANGUAGE NOTE: As far as my limited knowledge, the Azerbaijanis use the same word (mali or meli) for the English must, should, have to, ought to, it is necessary to. Thus English speaking Azeris often have a hard time choosing which to use and almost always use the word "must" which makes you feel like you are being yelled at all the time.

"A wedding?" I asked, kind of tired and not in the mood for blaring clarinets. "Yes, you must come. You have one hour to prepare. Hurry." *CLICK* At this point I could have called back and said, no I don't want to come thanks... but the adventurist part of me decided to ride out this storm. What I didn't quite know until I got there was that I would be at this wedding for THREE DAYS. It turned out to be a blast despite having to sleep in the same bed with random people, not shower, and watch a few lambs being slaughtered. The best part was the wedding itself. This was an araqsiz wedding (no vodka wedding), much to the chagrin of the men. So, as any high schooler would, we sneaked it in! I felt literally like I was 15 again, but was somehow comforted by the fact that men three times my age were casting furtive glances inbetween hearty swigs of clandestine bottles.

Me with the 'bad kid' table. Some may have drank more than me.

The (happy?) bride and groom. Bet you can guess what the red ribbon is for.

TO BE CONTINUED...