I roll my eyes at you

So what bothers me a lot, and several people have heard about this already, are people who walk around with t-shirts, caps, coats, and other articles of clothing that have some sort of symbol of communism, more specifically Soviet communism, on them. I noticed in the past few days, there has been a re-emergence of caps and hats that have a red star sewn in the front. A few years back, there was a trend to wear Bolshevik-style military coats. And once in a while, you see some twit, wandering around in a USSR t-shirt. Or, CCCP, that’s a special t-shirt for those who really know.

One time, I think about two-three years back, I was at an art opening, walking around, feeling a little bored, not really fitting in with the rest of the people attending the opening. Thanks to my peripheral vision (yes, you’d think I am Wonder Woman), I spotted a kid in a green, ankle length military coat with a variety of Soviet-looking insignia on it. At that moment, I’ve had several drinks already so I felt ballsy enough to approach him and inquire why he wore that coat. I felt a little bad because the kid felt really uncomfortable and said to me in the most pitiful voice: “I don’t know, leave me alone.”

This brings me to my point. Most of these twits don’t know anything about communism. I doubt many of them would be able to compare and contrast the difference between socialists-who-became-communists-but-then-were-classified-as-socialists again, Marxism, Leninism (or, I guess, Marxist-Leninism, pending whom you ask), Stalinism, Glasnost, China and Cuba. Those who can speak at length in an intelligent manner most likely would not wear ‘stylish’ outfits with pre-sewn emblems.

Someone told me that kids wear that crap because they’ve been taught that communism is bad, thus wearing communist symbols would lead others to believe that these kids are ‘bad’ and ‘rebels’ against the establishment. Now, I may be totally wrong on this one, but I just don’t know that many 20-somethings today whose parents repeatedly warned them about the evils of communism. Most of them grew up in the 80s and they got to see the more fun (relatively speaking) parts of Soviet communism. I am sure pictures of smiling Gobachev made everyone feel fuzzy inside (ah, the fuzzy theme again).

Not to mention that a whole lot of people suffered under communism. And still do. Let’s not forget people being forcefully moved or deported, people dying in labor camps, people being overmedicated in a psychiatric hospital because they said the wrong thing. I don’t see anyone wearing swastikas in public, yet a CCCP t-shirt is OK? Why did all the Solidarity-type movements cropping up all over Eastern Europe? Why did the Wall get smashed into pieces? Communism may be fun to read but living in a communist state is another thing. And it shouldn’t be idolized the way it is by a bunch of ignorant twits. If they were sent to present-day China (and I mean China, not the fancy luxury hotels built just for foreigners in Beijing), I am sure all these twits will change their mind and move onto something else to wear.

Finally, it’s all finished

So the good news is that I am finally finished with the semester. The whole ordeal was painstaking. School of Social Work makes sure that everyone’s is on her last straw at the end of the semester by not giving time off during finals week (note that I wrote ‘her’ since the school is full of about 782 women and 13 men). So everyone was writing papers while going to classes and work. I’ve been writing frantically every day, writing so much that my 20 page paper became a 30 page paper and my 10 page paper became a 12 page paper. By the end of the week, my brain was completely fried, I would mumble something to people and no one understood anything I was saying. Not that anyone ever understands me but this time it was extra bad because even I wasn’t sure what I was saying any more.

In all this paper-writing delirium, I also had the weirdest and most intense dreams. Last Monday, in my dream, I was sitting in a New York City bus on the way home from the North 7^th stop on the L and all of the sudden, these two men broke out in a fight. They were really punching the crap out of each other and everyone around them was shrieking and scrambling to get away. And although I was scared and I kept telling myself that I really should get away as soon as possible, I didn’t budge. But the fear and panic felt real and I may have been screaming while dreaming. Not that there is anyone to verify my screaming but that’s a whole new post I am not going to dwell into. I am not sure why I dreamt about a fight although I did take a bus from my yoga class earlier that evening. So Freudian dream interpreters, fire away!

On top of this dream, later in the week, I had a weirder dream. I was at work in a conference room on the 8^th floor a building. Instead seeing the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I saw water that came up to the 8^th floor with snowcapped mountains in the background. At some point, rockets started flying around and planes started exploding into the mountains. At the same time, these cranes emerged from water and started swinging around for no reason. And a group of old people came out of an exit to the side to take a dip in what seemed to be freezing cold water. When they realized that the world was going bonkers around them, they all decided to swim back to the building. I am not feeling super descriptive today so instead, I doodled a lovely picture for you below. I just realized that I forgot to add this creature that popped out of nowhere and started climbing up the window, staring at me and my colleagues. Judging by the expression on its face, it seemed really angry and it kept jutting its sharp tongue over its spiky little teeth. I could even see its little suction cups that attached to the glass so that the little creature wouldn’t fall off. I woke up, feeling really confused.

And then, I had another weird dream where I was scared crapless as well, but I forgot it the minute I got into the shower.

But I am glad the semester is all over with. My plans for the break are to eat, sleep, and finally get back to all the people whom I haven’t seen in weeks. So if you’re one of them, call me! I’ll pick up this time, I promise.

This is what my mind comes up with when I am delirious 

Oh My God!

Someone shoot me! I've been listening to Cat Power for days now...

At least, I am not paying to see her live, now, that would be a disaster!

From the Washington Post

Katrina Victims Testify on Racism's Role

By LARA JAKES JORDAN
The Associated Press
Tuesday, December 6, 2005; 8:06 PM

WASHINGTON -- Black survivors of Hurricane Katrina said Tuesday that racism contributed to the slow disaster response, at times likening themselves in emotional congressional testimony to victims of genocide and the Holocaust.

The comparison is inappropriate, according to Rep. Jeff Miller, R-Fla.

"Not a single person was marched into a gas chamber and killed," Miller told the survivors.

"They died from abject neglect," retorted community activist Leah Hodges. "We left body bags behind."

Angry evacuees described being trapped in temporary shelters where one New Orleans resident said she was "one sunrise from being consumed by maggots and flies." Another woman said military troops focused machine gun laser targets on her granddaughter's forehead. Others said their families were called racial epithets by police.

"No one is going to tell me it wasn't a race issue," said New Orleans evacuee Patricia Thompson, 53, who is now living in College Station, Texas. "Yes, it was an issue of race. Because of one thing: when the city had pretty much been evacuated, the people that were left there mostly was black."

Not all lawmakers seemed persuaded.

"I don't want to be offensive when you've gone though such incredible challenges," said Rep. Christopher Shays, R-Conn. But referring to some of the victims' charges, like the gun pointed at the girl, Shays said: "I just don't frankly believe it."

"You believe what you want," Thompson said.

The hearing was held by a special House committee, chaired by Rep. Tom Davis, R-Va., investigating the government's preparations and response to Katrina. It was requested by Rep. Cynthia McKinney, D-Ga., a member of the Congressional Black Caucus.

"Racism is something we don't like to talk about, but we have to acknowledge it," McKinney said. "And the world saw the effects of American-style racism in the drama as it was outplayed by the Katrina survivors."

The five white and two black lawmakers who attended the hearing mostly sat quietly during two and a half hours of testimony. But tempers flared when evacuees were asked by Rep. Jeff Miller, R-Fla., to not compare shelter conditions to a concentration camp.

"I'm going to call it what it is," said Hodges. "That is the only thing I could compare what we went through to."

Of five black evacuees who testified, only one said he believed the sluggish response was the product of bad government planning for poor residents, not racism.

I think I am in love

Well, maybe not in love per se, but it’s definitely a gigantic crush. Unfortunately, the guy is not from here so I don’t see him very often, which is a little sad. In fact, he won’t be back until spring; at least, that’s what he said, so it’s going to be a long and lonely winter. I may as well stock up on chocolate ice cream and DVDs now.

But he’s thoughtful and really nice. And he’s got a beard! He’s also a musician, and for those who don’t know me too well, I’ve always been a sucker for the musician/writer types. He’s brilliant - the one time I heard him play, I was a little mesmerized. Just a little - I was sidetracked by some guy who spilled his beer while chatting up a girl and I was watching him desperately soak up the spill and make it look cool. It didn’t work out; she turned around and cackled with her friends for the rest of the show.

Anyways, back to my crush. Truth be, he’s drinks a whole lot (it’s a little scary) and he’s married. So there isn’t much hope for me but everyone has secret crush. It just happens that mine is not on Brad Pitt or Jake Gyllenhaal (fortunately for me, my roommate has a magazine for gay men which features an article on Brokeback Mountain so I was able to refer to it to spell Gyllenhaal – whew!). My crush is on none other but the super-dreamy Jack Rose.

I am sure you’ll say: “well, Inga, how do you know that Jack Rose is thoughtful and really nice?” Well, let me tell you. I went to Tonic to see Jack (or as I refer to him – Jackie-poo) play. Now, Tonic listed him first on fliers and tickets. Other Music, a music store on West 4^th, didn’t even bother list other performers, they called the entire thing a Jack Rose show. Now, when a performer is listed first, that usually means that he will play last. Being cool, I showed up at 9pm, rather than at 8pm when the show started, expecting to wait several hours to see Jack Rose play. Well, unfortunately for me, Jack Rose played first and I missed the entire performance. And to make things worst, Tonic wouldn’t refund the $15 tickets even though Ticket Web, which also sells tickets for shows at Tonic, refunded tickets to its customers because Josephine Foster, who also scheduled to play that evening, cancelled.

But, thanks to the addictive nature of nicotine and current anti-smoking laws in New York City, after his performance, Jack Rose bolted outside for a smoke. During this time, I took the opportunity to whine (heck, I am a pro at it, why not?) about missing him play. I even pointed out that I had his show on my calendar for weeks. Jack was really nice, he apologized and ran back into Tonic. After a little while, he came out with a tote bag and gave me a t-shirt. Ok, so I suppose a t-shirt is not really the same as getting to see him play but I don’t care, he didn't have to give me one. So, Jackie-poo, I luv you!

Killer chipmunks and squirrels

I couldn't resist... and I would second the existence of killer squirrels. I've seen several squirrels attack humans on my college compus a few years ago. And these were civilized american squirrels.

Russian squirrel pack 'kills dog'

Squirrels have bitten to death a stray dog which was barking at them in a Russian park, local media report. Passers-by were reportedly too late to stop the attack by the black squirrels in a village in the far east, which reportedly lasted about a minute. They are said to have scampered off at the sight of humans, some carrying pieces of flesh.

A pine cone shortage may have led the squirrels to seek other food sources, although scientists are sceptical. The attack was reported in parkland in the centre of Lazo, a village in the Maritime Territory, and was witnessed by three local people. A "big" stray dog was nosing about the trees and barking at squirrels hiding in branches overhead when a number of them suddenly descended and attacked, reports say.

"They literally gutted the dog," local journalist Anastasia Trubitsina told Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper. "When they saw the men, they scattered in different directions, taking pieces of their kill away with them."

Mikhail Tiyunov, a scientist in the region, said it was the first he had ever heard of such an attack. While squirrels without sources of protein might attack birds' nests, he said, the idea of them chewing at a dog to death was "absurd". "If it really happened, things must be pretty bad in our forests," he added.

Komosmolskaya Pravda notes that in a previous incident this autumn chipmunks terrorised cats in a part of the territory. A Lazo man who called himself only Mikhalich said there had been "no pine cones at all" in the local forests this year. "The little beasts are agitated because they have nothing to eat," he said.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/europe/4489792.stm

And I thought I whine a lot

So thanks to my friend, who is sorely missed, I am posting a story from the New York Times, which accurately describes the trials and tribulations of using the G train. And I gotta meet this Emanuele Zanet, I think there is a talk in order.

December 6, 2005
No Respect (and Soon, a Crew of One)
By SEWELL CHAN

It is the only major subway line in New York that does not enter Manhattan. Its route is short: 16 stations at peak hours. Its trains, 4 cars instead of the usual 8 or 10, seem oddly truncated. Even the color of its route symbol, a sickly lime green, suggests unease.

It's the G line, which rumbles between Queens and Brooklyn, and has never been much loved by subway riders. It does not have the multiethnic charm of the No. 7, the iPod-hipster bustle of the L, the quaint charm of the 42nd Street shuttle or the romance of the A. It has not been immortalized in song.

And now, perhaps, the final indignity: starting this month, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority plans to remove all conductors from the line. Since 1998, the line has been conductorless on weekends - the first line, other than shuttles, to be run under a program known as one-person train operation. (On a one-person train, there is only an operator at the front.)

The authority says that conductorless trains save money and are widely used in other cities, but some riders view the impending change as only the latest slight for a line that too often seems forlorn and neglected. No other line seems to have riders so aggrieved, and their criticism so vituperative.

"Just put lights on the tracks and we can walk - it'll be faster," said Jonathan Lovett, 46, a letter carrier whose house is a few steps from the Clinton-Washington station in Brooklyn. His advice to the G-line neophyte: "Bring an extra battery for your MP3 player."

But the line does provide a vital, if erratic, link between the city's two most populous boroughs, and G detractors may be surprised to know that weekday ridership has risen 10 percent since 2000. Much of that has resulted from residential growth in neighborhoods like Long Island City, Queens, and Greenpoint, Williamsburg and Fort Greene, in Brooklyn.

Mr. Lovett was worried that the removal of conductors might complicate a practice that some riders call the G-line sprint. If they hear the train coming and find themselves at one end of the platform, they will make a mad dash to the short train. "Often, the conductor will keep the doors open if he sees you running for the train," Mr. Lovett said. "I don't know if the motorman will do that - or if he can even see you running, since he's in the front of the train."

From its southern terminus, at Smith-Ninth Streets near the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn, the line meanders north, east and then north again. At peak hours and midday on weekdays, it serves 16 stations and ends at Court Square in Long Island City. In evenings, at nights and on weekends, it serves 29 stations and ends at 71st Street-Continental Avenue in Forest Hills.
But even that irregular plan is not often followed. Service has been particularly erratic this year, because of an array of construction projects, including a $47.9 million effort to rehabilitate structures, repair leaks and replace incandescent lights with fluorescent ones along five miles of the line.

For 42 weekends this year, the train is ending at Court Square because of various subway construction projects. For 14 weekends this year and late nights for half of the year, the line is operating in two segments, one from Hoyt-Schermerhorn to Bedford-Nostrand in Brooklyn and the other from Bedford-Nostrand to Queens. And for 10 weeks, the G line is running express in Queens on weeknights.

The constant service changes have created confusion. "Even on a good day, it's chaotic on the G train," said Brenda L. Carpio, 28, a telephone operator who leaves her home in Red Hook, Brooklyn, at 5:30 a.m. to reach her job at a car service company in Sunnyside, Queens, by 7. "On weekdays, it can be pretty reliable, but on the weekends, not at all."

The G line's performance was defended by Emanuele Zanet, the G line superintendent at New York City Transit, the transportation authority subsidiary that operates the subways. "It operates quite efficiently, on time and on schedule," he said.

Statistics show a mixed picture. From 9 p.m. to 6 a.m., en route schedule adherence - a measure of nighttime service reliability - improved significantly, to 80.6 percent in the third quarter of this year from 61.3 percent in the same period last year.

But from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., when most trips are taken, the wait assessment - the percentage of times that the wait between trains falls within acceptable limits - dropped slightly, to 91.6 percent from 85.9 percent. Both of the G indicators are comparable to those of most of the other 25 subway lines.

Mr. Zanet, who has overseen the line since February, attributed the slippage to signal and switch malfunctions, police actions, stops to wait for help to arrive for sick customers and other disruptions.

The G line has been renamed and reconfigured several times since it was born as part of the Independent Subway System in 1933, but probably the biggest change came in 2001, when the 63rd Street tunnel was completed. The F was rerouted through the tunnel, which would have left the E as the only line leading into Manhattan under 53rd Street. To relieve crowding on the E and F, the V was created to run from Forest Hills to the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
Because there were only so many trains that could use the station stops in Queens, New York City Transit proposed permanently shortening the G, so that its last stop would always be Court Square. Otherwise, officials said, the G, R and V lines would get backed up in Queens.
An uproar ensued, and the agency agreed to keep running the G line to Forest Hills - but only in evenings, at nights and on weekends. The change never sat well with riders. "The V wasn't really necessary," said Mildred Powell, 45, a housekeeper who used to take the G directly to her job at Elmhurst Hospital Center in Queens. Now she must use three lines a day, instead of two.
Many riders today say the subway map is misleading because it depicts the G line from Court Square to Forest Hills as a dotted line - a tantalizing representation of what the line used to be and now so rarely is.

Kenneth K. Fisher, who represented most Brooklyn neighborhoods along the line as a City Council member from 1991 to 2001, said the G has long lacked powerful supporters. "It served a largely poor and working-class constituency," he said, "and it traveled through some neighborhoods that didn't have a lot of residents or were perceived as high-crime, which kept ridership down."

That may be changing. Neighborhoods around the G line have been bustling with luxury high rises, art studios and new restaurants. Greenpoint has become a hub for independent filmmakers, loft condos are proliferating in Fort Greene and residential towers are going up in Long Island City.

Ridership has climbed. The G line now delivers an average of 38,869 each weekday, up from 35,227 in 2000, not counting stations south of Fulton Street that are shared with the A, C or F lines. That means more riders are learning the G-line sprint.

"I don't like to see people running after the trains," said John M. Kinyk, a train operator on the G. "It's not safe. The people ask, 'Where's the rest of the train?' "

Oh the horror!

I was sitting in a hole-in-a-wall diner today, eating my two eggs over easy with sausage and I overheard people behind me talking about the Times article on bedbugs. They’re not just taking over our beds - they’re taking over our minds! People are eating, sleeping, dreaming, thinking, and scratching bedbugs!

Not a slightest bit of fuzz

Lately something really weird has been going on. It left me confused, perplexed, and I have no rational explanation for any of it. Perhaps the Apocalypse in nearing or something has been slipped into the New York City’s water.

For some reason, wherever I go, someone calls me “honey” or “sweetie.” And I am not talking about someone who has meaning in my life, because then I just feel all fuzzy inside; I mean people at the deli, the cashier at Duane Reade, random person asking me for directions to Fordham. And there are definitely no fuzzy feelings on my part. I cannot explain this at all because usually I look like crap and most of the time, I am pissed off at some moron who cannot get out of the way quickly enough. Lately, thanks to the never ending papers that are all due in the next two weeks, I look double crappy and triple exhausted. Yet the other day, a guy behind the counter at a deli gave me a cup of steaming hot peppermint tea and said: “here you go, sweetie.” I am sure I rolled my eyes and then when I turned toward to cashier, she said: “would you like a bag for you tea, honey?” I don’t know, maybe the guy behind the counter and the cashier lady had some lovin’ the night before but then a few weeks ago, a cashier at Duane Reade called me “sweetie” when I thanked her. Since the deli and the Duane Reade are fairly far apart from each other, I doubt there was any sort of a connection between all three.

On top of this, all of the sudden, once or twice a day someone asks me for directions. And I checked, there isn’t a sign anywhere on my body that encourages people to ask me for directions. I remember a few years back, someone was telling me that I don’t look very approachable and that I need to smile more. I told that person that I am fine with not being approachable. So if I am not that approachable and I am not all smiles, why are all these people asking me for directions?

I am sure this makes sense to people in the South or Midwest or something but in New York, it just doesn’t make sense.

Enough of procrastination. I wish papers wrote themselves.

Is that little dot on my sheets moving?

Due to a variety of rather pleasant circumstances, for the first time in several years, I read the Sunday’s Times while sipping (or trying to sip) coffee while lying in bed. To my horror, one of the front page stories, which then continued onto several other pages deeper into the A section, I read a story on bedbugs, which, apparently, are taking over New York. Now, we all know that the front page stories are fluff stories accompanied by a dramatic picture of a malnourished child or a dying “peace keeper” in the Middle East - sort of like fluff stories you get on the Fox 5 Channel. But the reason why I was so horrified is that I’ve always had a fear of bedbugs and they made it to the front page of the New York Times!

It all started when a few years back my friend announced that her roommate had bedbugs. After telling me about her roommate’s repeated attempts to get rid of them, I was traumatized (I am sure) for life. That evening I ran home, tore off my sheets and, while shaking in fear of what I may find, I inspected every crevice of my mattress. Fortunately, there weren’t any visible creepy crawlers. Nevertheless, that night was followed by my tossing and turning and scratching while imagining tiny little buggers crawling all around my bed. Later on, say a year or so, my roommate started to complain about bites on her arms and chest which, to my paranoid and untrained eye, looked pretty much like bedbug bites. Then again, it was the year when construction started in our backyard and there were puddles of rain everywhere which would have easily lead to an infestation of mosquitoes. Yes, swarms of mosquitoes in Brooklyn. Haven’t you heard of the West Nile virus on the Fox 5 Channel?

The other thing is that in my previous life, I traveled in the US and to several countries and I managed to stay in a variety of fancy and not-so-fancy hotels. According to the bedbug article, that’s where a lot of people have gotten their bedbugs. So, according to it, I’ve managed to place myself in several high-risk situations – my friend’s bedbug infested apartment and somewhat seedy hotels. Not that the hotel in Mongolia was seedy, but judging by the amount of black hair left by the previous occupant of my bed, I doubt the sheets were changed carefully or regularly (hmm, wait, should I have someone inspect my head for lice?).

Despite some comforting words and assurances that this is probably a ploy set up by some bedbug fumigation company which will soon reveal a brand new bedbug killing machine, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ll probably toss and turn all night tonight while scratching every part of my body. I should just stop reading the Times; really, it’s day old news anyways.

Loins on fire

I would imagine an average reading is thinking that I’ve been spending a lot of time writing about the New York City subway lines. The problem is that I take the subway almost every day of the week (that is if the L is working on the weekends, but that’s a whole new post) so I can’t help but spend a lot of time thinking about it. Plus, since I’ve fallen into this slump of not doing any school-related work any more, there is not much to do in the subway but stand/sit, listen to my iPod and ponder.

Anyways, the guest of honor for today’s post is an average man who takes the subway in New York City. It’s your typical, average, non-descript man who sits on a really crowded subway seat, smushed between other riders, perhaps wishing he was still in bed or somewhere completely different. So no big deal, right? Well, the thing is that about 90% of the time, this typical man would sit with his legs spread so far apart that he takes up about 2 seats therefore causing further smushing of seated passengers around him.

When I see such a man, the only thing that crosses my mind is that he must have enormously gigantic genitalia. I mean, if you can’t keep your legs closer together, there must something special going on in your pants. Alternatively, this man is on fire and the spreading of his thighs will cool his loins.

Otherwise, I just don’t have any other rational explanation for lack of any awareness of his inconsiderate actions that lead to discomfort (and, on my part, bewildered wonder) of anyone around him.

It was NYC marathon today. Guess who won the women's race? A Latvian, of course!!! Wooohooo! 

(Smelly) Ode to Greenpoint

I’ve been reading everywhere that sometime last week parts of New York, mainly Lower East Side and apparently some parts of Brooklyn such as Williamsburg and Greenpoint, smelled like maple leaf syrup. Um, wait, I think I mean to say maple syrup. It doesn’t matter; the point is that it smelled sweet and syrupy. Which is quite unusual for New York because usually it smells like garbage or bus exhaust. Sometimes you get a whiff of someone’s body odor but usually happens when you standing in a crowded subway car.

Well, whoever wrote that it smelled sweet and syrupy in Greenpoint which is where I live, must have gone bananas.

Greenpoint has its great spots, there are parts of the neighborhood that still have old brick mansions and some parts of the river have amazing old factories with spiraling stairs that lead right to the water so that a ship can unload. Major streets are named after families who were big in merchandise and trade. Also, some of the architecture in Greenpoint is really beautiful. My friend who is Irish told me that her aunt in her childhood days would go to Greenpoint to see the shops and go to the movies. Apparently, Manhattan Avenue used to be a bustling shopping district with movies theaters and there was a trolly that ran up and down the street. To this day, when you walk down Manhattan Avenue, you can still see intricate decorations carved into buildings and there are remnants of trolly tracks at the very end of the avenue.

There are also remnants of the McCarren pool which was built during the Depression and apparently had floodlights that illuminated the whole pool at night. Also, judging by the size of the ruins, it must have been one gigantic pool.

I don’t live in the historic part of Greenpoint. I live in the shabbily built buildings that barely comply with the NYC construction code. All the buildings are uniform and none are decorated in an interesting way. That is if you find an American flag a boring decoration. It did not smell like syrup where I live. In fact, there is a sewage processing plant near by which is located right next to a garbage processing plant. And when the wind blows in the right direction, my neighborhood smells like a combination of shit and garbage. There was definitely no syrupy smell.

Hahahahahahahahaha

This is the funniest thing I've read to today:

From NYTimes

Vice President Cheney said in a statement that he had accepted the resignation [of Lewis Libby Jr.] with "deep regret."

"In our system of government an accused person is presumed innocent until a contrary finding is made by a jury after an opportunity to answer the charges and a full airing of the facts," the statement said. "Mr. Libby is entitled to that opportunity."

Um, so what about all those people in Guantanamo Bay?

Choo choo trains

So I have this gripe with the subways. Well, not the subways particularly but a phrase that I heard someone say. I can’t remember when this happened or who said it, but a person once told me that subways are a true form of socialism because everyone rides the subway and it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or not, everyone is equal.

Well, I would like to offer my counter argument.

First of all, not everyone rides the subway. The truly filthy rich people have a car with a driver. After all, parking spots on the streets and garages are not that easy to find nor are they cheap. Also, it’s a pain in the ass to drive around the city, especially during rush hours. It’s not the slowness as much as having to watch out for annoying cabbies, messengers on bikes who tend to squeeze in everywhere and those pesky pedestrians.

Actually, let me back up, the truly truly filthy rich have helicopters.

So back to those suckers who have drivers. Well, the layer below those with drivers are those who driver their own cars. But chances are they pay for a spot in a garage which are expensive. Then there are those who drive cars to work but park them on the streets. These are mainly people who live and work in Brooklyn and Columbia students who drive late afternoon for evening classes (I don’t think I’ve seen so many luxury cars on one street before).

Then the following layer is those who can hire a car or cabs. Ok, maybe these people don’t cab every time but during those times when having a cab is crucial, like say late at night or during a fire that shuts down all major subway lines, they can afford a cab.

Then we have walkers. These people are just as irritating. Mostly because their jobs, grocery stores, bars, favorite restaurants etc etc are within walking distance of their apartments. Being able to walk to a place that requires you to be there daily is a luxury in New York. Of course, these people also take a subway but maybe once or twice a week.

I am not sure where to put bus riders but I am sure they would fit above regular subway riders.

And then you have regular subway riders. These are the people who don’t have a car or cannot afford gas/parking spot in the city in order to drive their cars. These are the people who cannot afford to take a taxi when something is happening that disrupts their morning commute. They are the ones who are stuck waiting on a platform for 30 minutes at 11:30pm on a weekend (a fairly reasonable time for somewhat regular subway service!).

Now, even among subway riders, there are social layers. On top, you have the ones who have to take only one subway to get somewhere and it takes them less than 30 minutes. Then you have those who live on shitty subway lines and they often require 2-3 transfers but can still make it to central spots within 45 minutes. Although if you live on the G** train, which runs never from nowhere to nowhere, I’ve created a special category just for you. Then you got suckers who live in bumble-fuck Brooklyn and Queens and it takes them an hour to get into Manhattan alone. Of course, then you have people who are even worse off, they have to take a bus to a subway stop. And then there are suckers who live in Staten Island and gotta take a boat. And, last, although I suspect not the least, you have people who can barely take a subway and limit their trips on the subway for essentials only.

Oh, I almost forgot. Train conductors. Those people must think they are czars of the world or something. I am not talking about the people who drive the train, I mean the ones who press a button to open/close doors and they make station announcements. How many times have they shut the door right in your face? For those who live on the G, how many times have you seen them snicker as you dash down the platform at world breaking speeds and they still shut the door in your face? I would comment about their announcements but I don’t understand them half the time so when they make one, I pray to God that the train won’t run express out of the blue. Or worse, just stops running.

**The G train is really not a subway train, it’s only four cars long instead of the regular eight cars. It’s some sort of little choo choo train that thinks it can. That is if it ever comes. They train conductors on that thing. So it takes them extra long to figure out what button to press to open the door. Argh!

Meningitis? Nope. Flu? Nope. Hmm, I guess a cold.

Yea, yea, I know I haven’t written in a while. I blame it on never ending midterm papers, feeling sick and plain ol’ laziness.

Believe it or not, I really was sick for a few days. This happened a couple of weeks ago. I was heading to Brighton Beach with a friend to a Georgian food restaurant and during the trip, these mysterious lumps developed on the back of my neck. They weren’t huge or anything but noticeable enough that I started to freak out. My friend inspected both and refreshingly assured me that they weren’t tumors. The following day, a Saturday, I woke up, sweating profusely. It was weird, I sat by my desk in a long sleeved cotton shirt and shorts and my face was covered in sweat and my shirt was soaked. Being a trooper, I went out that night and I am sure drinking didn’t help because the following day, a Sunday, I woke up shaking. And I continued to shake for several hours. On Monday, I woke up feeling really dizzy and nauseous but since the communists engraved forever their work ethic in my brain (which actually doesn’t make much sense - despite all the communist or socialist messages about how work does a person good didn’t penetrate most of the population in the Soviet Union as the majority lingered from day to day in their factory jobs while drinking home-made moonshine – no wonder communist planned economy failed miserably), I headed straight for work. I am not sure how I managed the hour long subway trip, several times, I really wanted to jump out of the subway and sit on the platform so that I would feel less dizzy. I also contemplated passing out on the floor of the subway but then I realized that I would probably mess up the morning commute for hundreds of other miserable subway riders. So the combination of being a nice fellow subway rider and communist work ethic lead to my arrival to work. Which lead to me sitting in on a two-hour conference call to Kazakhstan during which I fidgeted non-stop and drank insane amount of water so that I wouldn’t pass out. Then I went to the student health center where the doctor’s diagnosis changed from meningitis to flu to a cold with flu like symptoms. Yea, I have no idea what a cold with flu like symptoms really means, but heck, he told me to stay in bed, and I happily followed the doctor’s orders.

But that’s all a side note. Because the true story is that Georgian food really wasn’t so good. We ordered salad Olivier which had egg in it! I’ve never seen salad Olivier with egg in it! The khachapuri (bread with cheese baked into it) tasted like a grilled cheese sandwich and the khinkali (meat-filled boiled dumplings) must have sat out for a while because the part that rested on the plate was really mushy. Needless to say, don’t go to the Georgian food restaurant in Brighton Beach. There is another one on Kings Highway, called Tbilisi, one of these days, I’ll make my way there.

Um, him. Wait, no, never mind. Ok, well, him, I guess

Last night, my friend and I played my recently most favorite game called “You have ten seconds, quick, pick a person you would sleep with.” The rules of the game are as follows: (ideally to be played on the L train as it is packed with hipsters, some who tend to be somewhat cute and most are fugly) your partner counts off to 10 during which you look around and pick a person with whom you would sleep. The trick is that you need to spend all 10 seconds looking for a person even if you spot someone attractive right away. You keep that person in reserve in case you find someone hotter and if by the end of 10 seconds you are unable to find anyone hotter, you can go back to your first choice. But in order to keep your first choice, you need to look at that person again. So if that person walked away and you cannot see him/her, you start freaking out, scrambling around to find him/her. The fun of the game increases proportionally to the amount of alcohol you had ingested previously.

We were returning from a rather overpriced bar in midtown therefore our route back to Williamsburg was to take the E or C to the L. Since the E and C pass through Chelsea, I was syched as I thought the train would be packed with hot gay boys. Unfortunately, it turns out that around 10pm, the E was marginally full of the ugliest men I’ve seen in my life. I am not sure if it was direction that we took or time of our travel but my choices consisted of either short Italian types or fat balding Queens types. It was horrible. I think I settled with some Euro looking dude who kept running his hand through his shoulder-length hair while he kept flashing his smile at the girl sitting next to him. My friend settled for a woman who, judging by the amount and color of the make-up that she was wearing, clearly was legally blind.

The L train platform brought me a little more luck, although it seemed that most of the riders from the E transferred to the L as well; fortunately, there was a somewhat good looking guy. He needed a little of “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” action but overall, cute as a dickens. I spotted him right away but since I had another 8 seconds, I walked around the platform a bit. Unfortunately, Friday night at 10pm seems to be a bad time for spotting hotties so I went back to my original choice and looked at him again. The worst part was that every time I looked at him, he was looking at me so I must have looked like a psycho, running around a platform while saying: “ew, no. Oh, maybe him, oh wait, no. Definitely no.” My friend picked a girl who, at a closer look, turned out to be like 40. That really confused me because all of the sudden, I started to wonder what kind of girls he liked. I guess old ones. Anyways, we got tired of playing the game and proceeded to have a debate whether it is possible for a guy to get crabs in his beard if he goes down on a girl who has crabs. Any thoughts?

Robert Zimmerman

Any guesses on how many people are listening to Bob Dylan today? I am one. Then again, I’ve been listening to Another Side of Bob Dylan for the past week. It’s comforting at 8:30am when the G is not running and I am way late.

Bob’s a funny man. I must admit, I didn’t want the whole 2 hours, around 10:30 I got really sleepy and needed to go to bed asap. But nevertheless I was highly amused at his attempts to say something deep and profound yet after a pause of thought, he would just say “…or something.” Except that one time, when he was describing his first two girlfriends and he said something along the lines of: “They brought out the poet in me” which was followed by him looking straight into the camera with a playful smirk on his face. It was almost startling and hilarious after watching him for an hour with a dead-pan stare to the side while he spoke.

Boring McBoring

I am afraid that I am becoming really boring. And I don’t mean it in the context of this blog (which, I am sure, is quite boring), I am talking about me being boring in general. I realized the other day that my pop culture knowledge has dwindled to two recent facts – that Renee just got a divorce and Britney gave birth. The thing is, no one really cares so it’s not like I can sit around, shoot shit (is that even a saying) about recent pop culture events. When my friends start talking about some band, everyone chimes in with some opinion. I nod and smile politely, pretending like I know what they are talking about. And it hasn’t been always like that, I remember distinctly being able to chime in myself.

I can’t talk about politics because I’ve lost track of what is going on. And I stopped reading the Times about five months ago. Mostly because it’s a repetition of the same news and there is no progress. Well, I check the front page of nytimes.com but that’s not really being on top of the current political events. Although yesterday I heard about North Korea’s disarmament agreement. Very exciting. Wonder how long that will hold up in this administration.

I can’t even talk about the weather any more because Sam Champion keeps blabbering about some tropical storm off of Cuba. Who cares, I live in New York, gimme New York weather!

The only two things that I can really talk about are merits of buprenorphine program over a methadone program. And how sex workers are always looked at in the context of public health, as if once they step off the streets, they magically become like anyone else. The thing is that I don’t have any friends who are looking for a drug treatment program and whenever I talk about sex workers, everyone starts the “sex worker or prostitute” debate. Or ask me for their numbers. Now, I can imagine that who ever is reading this is already dozing off or hitting the next blog button.

There is this person that I know. Secretly, this person has been voted the most boring person in the world. When I am with this person, I get bored. And I wonder, is this what it is like to hang around me? It’s really kind of depressing. Hmm, I should go out and buy the latest Spin to read up on Chuck Closterman’s skewed and not so interesting or even funny pop culture observations. And then buy a latest edition of People’s magazine.

Then again, maybe I got it all completely wrong and in reality, I am just bored with everything. I noticed the other day, there was a conversation going on and I was listening to it but it was kind of boring so I had nothing to say. There was an awkward pause, followed by a silent moment which felt like a signal for my turn to speak. So instead, I turned around and walked away.

oh man

it's friday night at 11:30pm and i am sitting at home, writing my report on sex workers. i am such a loser.

Call me Carrie

So I am really confused about “dating” etiquette in New York. Well, not even ‘dating” as much but I’ve noticed that there is discourse on when sex should occur.

You have your school of thought that states that a girl should never sleep with a guy on their first “date” or meeting in a bar. Apparently this gives the couple a chance to get to know each other and also it makes the girl look less slutty. For example, I know someone who said that he sleeps only with girls once they have become friends. But apparently, oral sex is not part of the sleeping deal, it can occur whenever. Then someone else said that he sleeps only with his girlfriends. What defines a girlfriend, I have no clue. I am not sure if oral sex is ever involved in this situation.

Then there are others who think that if mutual sexual attraction is there, doing it right away is just fine. This, although fine with me, sounds way too optimistic because it seems to me that people who sleep together right away generally don’t end up seeing each other again. Then again, I am not sure if this is due to the fact that either party is so horny (or read drunk) that he/she fails to notice the night before that the person next to him/her the following morning is physically repulsive or, even worst, turns out to be a Republican.

Then again, I remember talking to a Swedish girl who told me that in Sweden, it’s quite normal to sleep with someone the same night you meet. And apparently this often results in people seeing each other again. Somehow of my own experience of “dating” outside of United States brings me to the same recollection – there were never wishy washy lame excuses.

So the question really is – is this city full of freaks who are just too afraid to show their sexuality? And in order to preserve their own integrity or embarrassment, do they wait a certain amount of time to sleep with the other person? Am I not aware of these norms/rules that people follow? Or is there an intricate hierarchy of horny winners and losers (people who can separate sex from affection/love, people who associate sex with affection/love etc) who have repeated one night stands?

Ok, this post merits a lot of eyerolls. Clearly, it’s a manifestation of my own insecurity (Oh, crap, am I too slutty? Was this too soon? Will he call again or was that a one night stand? Am I a horny loser?). But I just don’t understand why sex has become such a big deal.

Actually, my own admission of my insecurities is a lot less embarrassing now that I realize that this post is an emulation of some lame Sex and the City episode.

if you're offended by shit or maggots, don't read this

I am beginning to realize that since my return back to the city, this blog will become extremely boring. There is not much write about. And I am not sure if I want it to become one of those stupid philosophical crap blogs that everyone tends to have. Then again, there are people who care for that.

Anyways, for something completely different, I will carry on with a continuation of my previous theme – shit. So my stomach is still feeling funky and in order to figure out whether I have maggots living in my stomach, I decided to go to a doctor. The lady ordered me to collect samples of my shit before any diagnosis. And I am not allowed to eat dairy for about five days. So, following the doctor’s orders, I proceeded to head to the laboratory where a nice lab technician with a Caribbean accent told me to: “take da poop and put it on da plate. Then take da spoon and scoop da poop.” I left the student health center with seven (!) shit vials in a brown bag. As I crossed Broadway with my shit bag, I started thinking about scooping da poop with da spoon and I could not stop laughing. I must have looked like a total moron, waiving a brown bag of vials for shit, laughing hysterically.

That evening, after harassing my friend about the content of the Korean dinner which he made for everyone, I made sure there was no dairy in my food and explained my shitty situation to everyone around me. Then for dessert, I asked for extra ice cream. Of course, only after I finished my two scoopfuls of ice cream did I realize that ice cream has dairy as well. So there went my ‘no dairy’ diet.

Fortunately since my stomach is going topsy turvey (hmm, is that spelled correctly?), I have had no problems filling seven vials. So I have a brown bag full of shit sitting in the bathroom, waiting for its trip on the subway, back to the upper west side.

Ugh, it’s the first day of school. The round trip subway ride to school will be as lengthy as my only class today. I wish I could stay home and not put up with awkward intros: “Let’s have everyone go in a circle and tell us your name, what you are studying and what you did this summer. Yey, social work!” Actually, I take that back. I don’t want to stay home. I would rather spend another week in Montauk. Sleeping in until 10 (I don’t know what’s going on, I’ve been waking up before noon lately), rolling onto a beach, rolling off the beach to an ice cold beer and a lobster roll. Hmm, I don’t know what else a human being really needs. Well, maybe a surfing lesson because laying on a beach gets a little boring after a while.

So what did I say? 

Oh Katrina

What annoys me the most about the Katrina devastation is that media is comparing the disaster area and its inhabitants who were unable to leave in time to a third world country. I think it's a shame. Mainly because when one refers to a third world country, most don't think of white people. And the people shown in New Orleans, for example, who are now stuck and trying to leave are mostly not white either. I can see how easy it is to make the comparison to a third world country but it also shows how racist media is.

I am also not sure why all these people are referred to refugees. Yes, they are seeking a refuge but generally, when people are called refugees, it's because they are fleeing from a war, political oppression, or religious persecution. Call me crazy but there must be another word to describe people seeking a shelter.

And, of course, the last point - so why is Bush appointing Bush Sr. and Clinton to head the recovery effort? Can't he appoint them to run the country instead?

And my little sister just got maried

Aw, they make a cute little ol' family

Mmm, Polopian food!

I realized today that I’ve really neglected the blog lately. The thing is that not much has been going on. At least nothing noteworthy. I spent last week laying on my back and occasionally getting up to eat some food. Essentially, I resembled a beached whale although I was nowhere close to the beach, occasionally you could find me near a pool. So, I guess a pooled whale…

Last night, I went out to meet a good friend whom I hadn’t seen yet since my return. It was a hot and humid night, the kind that makes your skin all sticky and nothing that you do, besides taking a shower which are generally not readily available on the streets of New York, relieves the hotness and the stickiness. We decided to go to my favorite Moroccan restaurant for my favorite chicken kebob with French fries and beer meal. The beauty of New York City - you can always find food from any corner of the world, not to mention that confusing trend of food fusion. It’s some sort of illness that plagues local chefs – they combine the most random combinations of food and call it “fusion.” I may as well start selling Polish pierogies with Ethiopian dish of raw meat. Ooh, look, it’s Polopian food!

So anyways, once we got to the restaurant, my salivating thoughts of chicken kebob sandwich were completely crushed as I learned that they eliminated a sandwich section of the menu. Not to say that there were many sandwiches, really just the chicken kebob sandwich and a falafel sandwich. Of course, they decided to keep the falafel platter which essentially was the ingredients of the falafel sandwich on a platter. When I asked if I could get chicken kebab as a substitution, the waiter, who was super nice, said that they don’t do substitutions. I cried, I pouted, I pleaded, nothing worked. So I got something else.

The real reason topic of this blog – and you thought I’d be writing about Polopian food and chicken kebob sandwiches – is the difference between Georgian men and American men. Briefly after sitting down, we started chatting with two men who were sitting next to our table. It turned it was a father and son dinner and the father was a really chatty fire spark! He proceeded to chat with me for the whole duration of the meal and got up to leave right as my friend and I finished our meals and the waiter brought dessert menu. Now, mind you, I hadn’t seen my friend and she had great news to talk about and I had to tell her all about my trip to Georgia so it’s not like the two of us were sitting there really bored, looking around the restaurant to see what other patrons were doing. Of course, truth be told, the son was quite attractive so partially I was hoping somehow we would start chatting as well. The father was so chatty that the son had little to say, not to mention that he kept looking at his cell phone and occasionally texting someone while his father talked to us from dumpster diving for books, German Balts, and some covert job he was doing for the government. Or something like that, I couldn’t hear him about half the time.

Now, if a similar situation occurred in Georgia, the men would have paid for my friend and my dinners. And offered to get dessert and coffee. I realized this as I walked home, how disappointing it was that we never got contact info from the handsome son and the father didn’t realize that talking to us for an hour didn’t warrant a free meal. I’ve been spoiled by the Georgian men, I should reacquaint myself with the monotonous NYC gender relations where people play eye ping pong but are too afraid to approach each other.

Back in town

Well, I am back in the States. The return flight went really well, without any major glitches. Except when checking in at the Tbilisi airport, it turned out that my single suitcase was 35 kg which lead to my rummaging through it to dig out 5kg worth of crap. Fortunately, my friend’s brother-in-law had checked my tickets the night before to figure out how much weight I can have in one suitcase and I knew ahead of time that KLM takes up to two suitcases, each up to 32kg so my friend argued with the check-in lady and I had to dig out only 3 kg worth of crap. As you can tell by my previous posts, I am brilliantly smart (hmm, brilliantly smart, is that an oxymoron?) - I also packed an empty Prospero’s Books plastic bag so I proceeded to fill it up with books, a collection of DVDs and my Ipod charger. The charger was then carefully inspected by security personnel who must have thought it was some sort of a terrorist device. Actually, I wonder if they knew what it was since Ipod people brilliantly designed it so that prongs retract and all you see is a small white box. So essentially, my carry-on was a back bag with three bottles of wine which turned out to be heavy, my laptop, and a 3.5 kg yellow plastic bag. I definitely wasn’t stylin’ with a set of matching Louie Vuitton luggage. Considering all the posters around airports, indicating permissible amount of carry-on luggage, I am shocked that they let me carry on three bags but I guess my usual bored look is a deterrent from being approached by KLM personnel.

When getting on Georgian airline plane, I was dreading my previous experience of flying to Georgia when I sat in front of several Georgian men who proceeded to speak loudly throughout the flight in addition to wobbling the back of my chair by leaning against it. This time, I sat in a completely empty row, keeping my fingers crossed, hoping that some young, dashing, and brilliant lad would sit next to me instead of some loud mouthed seat wobbler. I sat in the middle seat (I assume this was punishment from the check-in lady for arguing over the weight of my suitcase) and to my disappointment, every seat around me, including a row in front and a row behind, was taken by Georgian men in their 30’s and 40’s. All were laughing and joking as they sat down and at that moment, I knew that I would not be able to get any shut eye and someone would wobble my seat again. It turned out that crossing fingers does work! Kind of. All the Georgian dudes around me were car drivers, making their way to Düsseldorf to pick up cars to drive back to Georgia. Generally, most cars in Georgia are bought overseas and they are then driven individually to Georgia. One of them took a particular liking to me and chatted with me for a while and then delivered drinks when the stewardesses were taking their naps in the first class seats. He even assured me several times during turbulence that there is always turbulence on those particular spots and he knew this because he flew to Germany seven times in the past three months. He also asked for my email address so if any of you need a car driven from Europe to Georgia, I know someone.

I also realized last night that my neighborhood Greenpoint, Brooklyn, is a total dump. Before I get hate mail from people telling me to go back to Georgia, it really is dumpy. I am fond of some of its architecture, throughout you can still find amazing facades of former theaters and banks, but I have to say, garbage thrown all streets, red-nosed Polish drunks, and perpetual smell from the local sewage plant classifies it as a dumpy neighborhood.

Anyways, I am getting back into swing of things so if you’re looking for me, call me! Well, except that there is something screwy with my phone and it seems that calls go through straight to voicemail and I am notified of a voicemail about 15 minutes after a message is left. But I will call back, I promise.

No good byes

So I decided not to say good bye to Tbilisi for several reasons. One being that the likelihood of me coming back is somewhat high. I am also not a sentimental person therefore any tearful long thank you’s to all the wonderful people etc etc rarely happen. Actually, I can’t remember the last time when I cried when I was saying good bye to anyone. Hmm, I think it was with my grandparents and that was in 1996.

Anyways, the point is that I will be back soon enough. Thanks to all those who supported me in the past two and a half months, thanks for listening to my whining and thanks for hanging out with me. Thinking back, I can’t really remember a time when I was having a really hard time, there was always someone around. I had a lot of fun, Georgia is wonderful country and I recommend it to anyone. On that note, I shall end this post.

Actually, I just realized that there is another reason why I really should not post any “I am blessed to have known you” posts. No one in Tbilisi, except for one person and perhaps his wonderful Italian roommate reads the blog. I’ve managed to keep is somewhat secret. So heck, to those two readers I say: arrivederci!

I am such a boob!

Ugh, I didn't think it through when I started posting pictures below so read the in reverse order.

Here is another picture from Mtskheta I forgot to add. It's a castle in the night with a wall of showers behind it. Didn't catch the lightning for the full effect. 

Aha, and here is our lunch.  

Hmm, not sure what this was, the wall behind it is part of an outhouse though. 

Didn't wash in here but I thought the old school sink was really cool 

Then I looked at this fire place. 

Speaking of grapes, we had some wine 

Typical country side scene in Georgia 

Here is Tbilisi a little clearer 

So after all the farewells and happy birthdays we ran away to the hills. Here is a pic from daytime, in the distance to the left, you'll see Tbilisi.  

If you're a regular reader, you may remember me mentioning heading out to a church on top of a hill where priests in dark clothing were peeking at everyone. Well, here it is, from the bottom of the hill, in lights. 

This weekend my friend took me to his summer house. Before venturing out to the hills, we stopped by a restaurant in Mtskheta to wish an expat a happy birthday and bid farewell to bunch of other expats. So on the way, I snapped some pics.  

Last few days

I haven't written much lately as my past week has been full of last minute meetings, shopping for gifts (last night I had a nightmare that I forgot to bring a bottle of wine for a friend), and running around Imedi TV station to get a tape of their show about sex workers in Tbilisi. Oh, I also spent several hours at Georgia Times, a local English language newspaper, digging through old editions to find an article on hourly wages for women who work in shops and stores. Never found it but they seemed really nice. Even invited me to come back to share my views of their upcoming article on sex workers. A reported I spoke to told me that she was embarassed to stand on the street while interviewing sex workers for the article out of fear that someone may recognize her and think that she is a sex worker herself.

Anyways, I am heading off to a friend's summer house in the hills for the weekend so I will have so much more and I am sure some sort of a tearful good bye to Georgia as well. For those who are still wondering when the hell I'll be back, note Tuesday, 4pm as my touchdown at JFK. Hopefully everything will go well and KLM won't be pulling any more stunts. Although an upgrade would not cause any objections from my side.

Trip to Shatili

As I wrote before, the trip to Svaneti didn’t work out. I backed out before going to the airport as I had to work the night before and after thinking about weather conditions and lack of flights to Svaneti during previous week, I decided not to bother going to the airport at all. In the end, it turned out that the flight was canceled due to poor weather conditions in Svaneti and the troops that were ready to leave decided to turn around and go to Kazbegi.

I went to Shatili instead. UNESCO declared Shatili as a World Heritage site some time ago and after visiting it, I have no objections to its declaration. We drove up in two SUVs, provided by two Indian guys who work at BP and were looking for company to go up to Shatili. Those BP SUVs turned out to be perfect for driving up mountainous roads which at times were really steep and at times were covered in mud or had a stream of water or a landslide crossing it. Turns out that driving over a landslide on a road that is about 10 inches from a cliff that plunged into freezing cold rapids is a tricky thing to do. The driver rode over the top part of the landslide which was above the road so in case it starts sliding again, which it did, the car would slide with it, but instead of plunging right into the white rapids, it would slide onto the actual road part. So that was scary. There were other obstacles as well, mainly in the form of cows.

Originally we planned to spend a night in Shatili, do a little hiking and drive back. Once we arrived in Shatili, it turned out that the village was really tiny and there was nowhere for a group of nine people to stay. We also did not bring enough provisions with us so our day in Shatili was marked with munching on bread with sausage and checking out the Chechen side of the mountains. We also poked around death houses and greeted the locals. I was a little disappointed as it would have been nice to spend the night, I am not sure if there was any electricity in Shatili, but it didn’t work out and everyone was hungry. Plus, we didn’t bring a tent so camping out wasn’t an option either.

I posted a number of pictures below; yes, I know the some of the descriptions are misspelled and grammatically incorrect. But posting these pictures is painfully slow and I was in a rush. I am sure you’ll enjoy them anyway.

By the way, here is an article about a trip to Svaneti published in the Messenger I mentioned before. As you see, flying there is difficult.

The smaller side roads in Georgia are not well marked so of course, we got lost quite quickly. Someone had a Lonely Planet guide which didn't help much and we hung around until a passer by gave us directions. By the way, Toyota Landcruiser, especially one that has been custom made for BP with reinforced frame interior, really great for driving on an awful mountenous road full of mudslides and ice. Not so good for the paved streets of New York City. Damn SUVs clogging up the streets, polluting my air. 

Bathers in the valley 

Picture pefect 

The ice had not melted in some parts - the white that you see in between mountains is snow 

Yup, those mountains are huge 

On the road, we ran into people others knew.  

A tower on the way. In the old times, they used towers as means of communication and protection during blood feud. Such towers are more common in other parts of Georgia. 

And then we passed a little waterfall 

As we drove, we saw this gigantic chunk of ice over the river. It was about 80 degrees outside and the ice had not fully melted from wintertime. So I grabbed my camera. 

In case you didn't believe me, here is a close up 

Road to Shatili