Ferekeeko Lives & Conquers!

Coming home from my Georgian lesson, I got a second one for free, on individual responsibility. On Chavchavadze Avenue again, in the Vake neighborhood, I’m busy furtively checking myself out in the shop windows when all of a sudden I see a beast of a man shove his petite wife, a shove such as two men do just before they throw punches at each other. She stops, drops her head and waits for the man, presumably her significant other, to grab her by the throat with his left hand. He holds her thus, screaming at the top of his lungs into her ear. I have a big choice to make . . . and I decide, gutlessly, to keep walking and pretend that it doesn’t concern me. Taking a punch from some swarthy-souled cretin in the name of chivalry? — Ferekeeko, do not put the blame on me! But another man walking towards me makes the right choice. In his sixties, of a slight build compared with the cretin, he seems to be on his way home from the shop. As soon as his eyes hit the couple, he acts.

I first met the Bear on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. We sat on his balcony and were supposed to be discussing a job. But I squinted against the warm sun, and the Bear puffed a thin cigarette as we drank coffee from exquisite tea cups. A lively little jazz number reached us from inside his den. The Bear’s paws drummed the tune in time. This large omnivorous epicure smoked only hand-rolled cigarettes, which smelled like rain-kissed earth. He sipped only the darkest Turkish coffee, laced with just a touch of sugar. Naturally, he also listened to only the smoothest jazz, the transitions of which, he said, were made as flawlessly as can be done on any instrument in this world. He got quiet, closed his eyes and lifted his paw as if to command me to wait in silence for the next one. . . . Later the conversation turned to a mix of language and politics. Growing up in Belgium with one parent from the UK and one from Austria left him speaking three languages, and he’s a

The dangers of idealizing a place include the overesteeming of men and the exoticizing of their attributes. It was an exhilarating time to be in Tbilisi. Young researchers, mainly from the United States and Europe, older practitioners and inquiring minds from the world over had flocked to the city. Change of every kind abounded, with academic niches just waiting to be carved out and political glory there for the taking. Though I had had trouble finding my place, I was eager to learn from and praise the higher-ranking members of the growing expat community. Then came a singular stroke of luck. An enlightened friend, himself an entrenched expatriate, called to say that he was throwing a party that very night. He insisted on my coming and mentioned that all of Tbilisi’s renowned rays of light were due to attend. And even the Big Yin would be there. Now, my main interest in the country was originally the Georgian tongue. The Big Yin, said to be from Iowa or Indiana, speaks

“INITECH” —  The minor play that follows is an actual e-mail exchange, which speaks to the rigors of office life .  Be afraid because you know that it could occur at an office near you.  (The e-mails are unabridged; anything in square brackets represents my own insertions meant to clarify the exchange.  Names and offices have been changed.) Characters ( in order of writing ) BARRY Strongchin, our fearless and erudite leader JOHN Doe, yours truly, former über-eager lackey ALEX Wildeyes, former asst. dir. RITA Careerist, new asst. dir. [Initial e-mail to all, 24 Aug.] John,  Just looking at the Pew publications, I realized that actually they do use the % -- do you have any strong views on this issue? I'm happy to take my cue from you guys. All the best Barry [24 Aug.] it was alex's suggestion back in the day. i have absolutely no preference [John] [E-mail forwarded 24 Aug.] Alex,  any suggestions from Uganda? We're

Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it last for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. — C. P. Cavafy, “Ithaka” Time to idealize another place. Road trip to Laramie to secure a flat so that Iphigenia can start law school there next year. We career through the striking Columbia River Gorge, a two-faced monster, one cool and leafy, the second desiccated and wind-blown.  Then it’s up and over the Blue Mountains, where wolves haunt the slopes once more, only to find ourselves in dun and drab southern Idaho before having to traverse the north-east corner of a certain religion’s welcome mat. At last we enter the Equality State.  Next day, after Evanston, the high plains! Visions of a cranky wizened Eastwood and his trusty horse on the sun-scorched steppe are marred by sc

( Cont’d from Part I ) . . . V. E.’s size works against him.  He is unable to lower his center of gravity and thus has to grab Rhappy around the chest rather than lower down — that is, what would be beneath Rhappy’s center of gravity.  This makes V. E.’s task of getting Rhappy into the dumpster hard going, and, as such, Rhappy at length wins the struggle.  Winded, V. E. shifts his attention to our fourth character, the proud and poised Giorgi, “Gio” for short. Giorgi, the energetic young go-getter working his way out of hard times, is as stark a contrast to his peers as it is possible to be.  Each morning Gio brings delicious-looking baked goods to the supermarket.  Sober and walking tall, he delivers the delights with a quip and a smile not only for the drunkards but also for the ladies working in the store.  He even tosses V. E. a warm treat for free.  Thunderous lip-smacking and finger-sucking — and the jelly doughnut is promptly reduced to oblivion. Gio then holds the

I have a drinking problem.  That is, I have a problem with drinking in Georgia. At least five times a week I am awoken at various early morning hours by the so-called street boys.  It is usually a youngish crowd in their twenties barking in the street outside my flat. Some, admittedly, come home with an honest boozy glow about them: though their wits are dulled, they seem good-natured and maintain a modicum of respect for their sober sleeping neighbors. Others lack this restraint.  They yell at their friends’ windows ten storeys up.  Hanging all over one another, they cry out their friends’ names in drunken exuberance at the top of their formidable lungs: “Avto-o-o!” and “Lu-u-uka-a-a!”  They finish the lively conversations they must have been having earlier indoors, and they turn up their car stereos to the point where the bass grabs my window and throttles it like a can of paint in a mixer. Surely, all must be stolen away from dreamland at these times, no?  (I sleep

To my dad My intestinal fortitude can be summed up in one basketball game fifteen years ago.  It was my junior year in high school, about halfway through the season. I was supposed to be improving and readying myself to play full time on the varsity squad the following year. On to glory. But my will failed me. And to think of my actions now makes my heart hurt. The ankle had been sprained but was undoubtedly on the mend. By half-time, though my body felt as light and nimble as it ever had, I was defeated. Barlow, the lively bastards, had us down big, and were showing no signs of slowing. The full-court press was kept up in spite of the lead. We had spent the first twenty minutes watching their guys take the ball from us and drop in easy lay-ups. They seemed to have sprouted wings. Instead of talking to my teammates and suggesting a strategy, I would take the inbound pass and delude myself into thinking I could break Barlow’s press single-handedly, dribbling thro

Intense summer heat makes my sweaty feet itchy.  This is mostly because I will forever associate the most aesthetically pleasing walk I’ve ever taken with the midday heat in one of the hottest places on earth.  Dála (in Greek ντάλα) is when the sun has warmed the land so much that it then commands it.  The heat dances riotously over the pavements, and brows become sore from squinting.  But try not to wilt on me.  This is the best time to strike out to collect the dust from the streets on your face and clothes.  My best dála goes like this: As we walk down the quiet main strip, the vineyards come into view.  Their vines have crept up and over the trellises of the open-plan dwellings, giving families a precious defense, even if it is perforated here and there by arrogant rays of sunlight. The dust indeed collects, and we sweat even while strolling leisurely.  But we are impressed, delighted and alone.  Cold white water rushes past us in an orderly fashion, directed by n

You know you’ve failed to adjust to a place when you start viewing daily trifles as culturally anomalous. Riding the bus f rom Freedom Square to the university on Chavchavadze Avenue: a trip of a few kilometers.  Easy enough. But at each stop the denizens pile themselves in.  Stop after stop, a distressing number of people are insisting on getting on the No. 140 .  At one point the doors cannot be shut.  The driver shouts testily, “There's another bus coming, eh!  Why don’t you wait for it?” It doesn’t work.  More people get on.  Strap-hanging, I can no longer move.  Stuck between university students and a couple of older guys, I realize that I no longer have to hold on.  Jolts from the road or otherwise, I’m not going anywhere. We arrive at my stop.  “Excuse me,” I say. No one looks at me, no one moves.  I can see the light pouring in from the door.  Fresh air and personal space.  I gently nudge those unresponsive ones around me to show that I need to aligh

Intrepid Iphigenia and I needed to go out to buy some fruit and veg.    We had just arrived in Tbilisi a couple of days before.    Tense and touchy, we start arguing about where to buy the said goods. Iphigenia spots a stand in which she says the produce looks agreeable.    But I’ve been to that one before during a previous stay in town and I say, “No, let’s go to another.” She doesn’t understand why, of course, and I have to explain, but I don’t have time to expound on Patrick Leigh Fermor’s brilliant theory of the way in which locals perceive outsiders.* Instead I tell her that the lady is a bit nosy and she wants to marry her daughter off to me, probably because I know how to string together a few sentences in Georgian.    Iphigenia replies with a   Don’t be silly , but I am adamant.    I am cold, cranky and, as such, determined to avoid niceties, conversation, explanations — hell, all human contact, for that matter.  Iphigenia shortly lets me have

It was while I was extolling, rather formulaically, the virtues of Athens that I learned to appreciate life in a small town. O Nonós, the Godfather, rhapsodized (swift, tight flicks of the wrist, palms always open, furrowed brow) over life in Agriá, from which I interpreted the following : I, Iphigenia’s godfather, the free spirit of Agriá, am fulfilled. Insouciant, I jump on my creaky moped and speed off. With both legs hanging over the same side of the scooter, I wave and smile at each passer-by.  A large cup of coffee and a chat at the same café every morning — this routine is not to be broken!  I know everyone, and everyone knows of me. I am practically toothless now, a testimony to my love of sweets, but also to my je m’en foutisme. My shirt is dangerously unbuttoned, the top four or five ever undone regardless of the clouds or sun. Tufts of grey hair emerge with confidence, virility and enthusiasm. I am old now, but don’t you go telling that to anyone!

When they think that they know the answers, people are difficult to guide. When they know that they don't know, people can find their own way.  — Tao Te Ching , chap.  65, v.  2, ll.  4–7 Teaching English was a good way for me to earn extra cash in my spare time in Tbilisi. Passionate and eager students of all ages would get in touch each month to seek my infinitely vast and untapped knowledge of The Bard’s tongue. But surprisingly, all of my students secretly turned out to be know-it-alls, often having a grasp of English far beyond mine. During our lessons they would indicate such knowledge in Georgian by saying ‘ ho, vitsi ,’ which means ‘yes, I know.’ Now, this may sound harmless enough, but let me tell you why I often had to fight off the urge to reach across the desk and administer a swift smack upside the head as if it were 1805. Ho, vitsi ’s literal translation does not convey the meaning in its truest sense. In particular the non-v