Toy time

It’s 10:30am on a Sunday. Things are nice and calm, nice and quiet, just as they would have been at home in Albuquerque. There, I would have spent a leisurely morning watching, “Sunday Morning,” “This Week,” and maybe “The Victory Garden” on the telly, whilst eating, oh, let’s say fried potatoes and onions, an egg over-easy, warm tortillas and salsa. Comfy couch, sunshine streaming in the French doors…just a normal, relaxed Sunday with nothing on the agenda. Kind of the same as here.

But what’s this? A text? It’s my counterpart, saying we’ve been invited to a toy (a wedding) at one o’clock and do I want to go.

Not really, I reply, but I think I should.

I know that sounds kind of flippant, but I said it based on experience combined with confirmative knowledge acquired from my fellow volunteers in Azerbaijan. Because toys are all the same. The music is the same, the atmosphere is the same, the food….we’re actually beginning to wonder if the people aren’t all the same, too. (just kidding on that last bit. I think.)

So we go to the toy, which is held in a big wedding palace on the edge of town by the big traffic circle. The parking area is packed with cars all helter-skelter. The building is also packed….I only see about ten empty chairs in the whole place. Pretty sure there were upwards of three hundred attendees. Yet my counterpart, who has lived in this town of approximately 15,000 people all her life, doesn’t know anyone but me. Which is fine….at least we have each other, I say. But 300 people on a hot, hot August day in a room with basically no air circulation, jammed together all perfumed-up…it got to me. I needed something to drink badly before I passed out. We asked for water, which they didn’t seem to have. So I made my way outside, where, with help, I located the outdoor sink for hand washing. The water was delightfully cold, and I ran it over my wrists for a few seconds, as the local people accompanying me looked a little embarrassed. Then I had to go back in.

Wedding behavior is different here. The ceremony doesn’t take place at the toy; the toy is more of a huge, lavish reception which can last up to ten hours. Loud music from a live band, lots and lots of food served in an endless cycle, only the men get liquor (and it flows rather freely on their side of the room). There is dancing….first the older men, then women (not usually both together), then the young men who get quite ambitious and athletic. It’s funny, though. At the end of each song, the music just stops. Nobody applauds. Nothing. It just….stops. And the women never look like they’re enjoying themselves. The men get all exuberant and into their dancing. The women just, well, dance. No expression on their faces, pretty much as little movement as possible, with the exception of incredibly graceful hand gestures which I have tried and tried and failed to master. We didn’t dance.

The other women seated at our table were nice. We exchanged quite a few nods and tentative smiles back and forth. There weren’t any disapproving stares (my hair is terribly, terribly short for this country) or glares or anything. How refreshing! Then the girl seated across from me asked my counterpart if she could talk with me, and she came around to take the empty chair to my right.

Man, but that music was loud! So loud I could barely hear this lovely 20-year-old as she practiced her English and asked me questions in Azeri (which, unfortunately, I kept having her repeat). We talked about me coming to her country and where I lived in the States (they ALWAYS ask which state….I think they’re baffled when I say New Mexico; it would be much easier if I said New York or California) and what I think of Azerbaijan and how many children I have and what they do and whether they’re married. And then, there’s that darned question: “Do you like your son better or your daughter?”

Sigh.

But one thing she said…she thinks Americans are very nice and kind. I did ask how many Americans she has met other than me. And we did have a good laugh together.

Sophie's Choice

I am learning in Azerbaijan! Not just the language, because that’s coming along slooowly and questionably. But I’m learning other things, too. Like how to keep your clothes out of the way when using a squat toilet (I’ve gotten darned good at that). How to never assume I’m welcome in the front of a car, ever. How to buy water and cheese and is that oregano? Because I’ve only ever seen oregano in a jar. But the main things I’m learning in Azerbaijan are 1) they LOVE to compare things, and 2) not to take offense when they do.

You’re not so fat. (why, thank you)

That other volunteer I knew had much better Azerbaijani than you. (just go ahead and get used to this one)

Which is better: Azerbaijan or America? (stock answer: they’re just different)

How much is a kilo of apples in America? (well, which month? Which kind of apples? Where?) How much do they cost in winter? In summer? (we pretty much have the same fruit all year round there)

Are our bazaars more expensive than yours in America? (we kind of don’t have bazaars; we have enormous stores instead)

How much is electricity in America? (uhhh….)

How much does five liters of gasoline cost in America? (hmmm…well, what time of year? Winter or summer? Which state? Because in California it’s about a dollar 25 for one liter, but in Albuquerque one liter is about 85 cents. Our government doesn’t set the gas prices in America.)

Do you like the food better here or in America? (well, in America we have a big variety…here, not so much)

Do your children like you or their father better? (huh??)

Do you like your son or your daughter better? (what the heck??)

That last one, which I call the Sophie’s Choice question, gets under my skin. I mean, seriously. Are they expecting me to blurt something out? Raise my eyes to the ceiling, thoughtfully put my finger beside my mouth and evaluate the pros and cons of each child? Am I supposed to gush and pick one of my kids over the other?

So I asked someone….do you choose between your children in Azerbaijan? Oh no, they said, grimacing at the thought.

So why are you asking me, then?

I have a new theory. I’m being tested. To see what I’ll say, see how I’ll react. The whole, “I’m not touching yooouuuuuu,”thing. I’m foreign. They’re seeing how uncomfortable they can make me.

You know. Just for funsies.

Aye Aye, Cap'n!

It’s been a rough week. Or maybe two. Nothing in particular has happened to make it rough, really. I’m just going through a down period. A blah period. A severe absence of motivation period. I’ve been reading (and speaking) too much English and not enough Azeri lately, causing my already limited language skills to be even more stunted. So I’m getting more intimidated, and it feels kind of like water must feel when it’s spiraling the drain. I know I should be speaking and studying more, but….meh.

I also need to exercise. The most exercise I’ve gotten lately is on Sunday mornings, when I can usually find time to go for a walk for an hour or so. Before I left the States, I was going to Zumba classes three times a week. I had dreams, before I left the States, visions of myself starting Zumba classes in Azerbaijan, wondering if I’d be able to convince the girls here to shake it and get crazy. I convinced my American Zumba instructor to let me borrow some of her music, and I actually HAVE, like, hours and hours and hours of pop and latin and world music on my MP3 player. Heck…I bought an MP3 player (yes, I’m years behind the times, thank you) and speakers so I could do these classes in Azerbaijan! And hopefully, I will. Someday. But right now? Meh.

I miss home. I miss my family. I miss driving my car and my scooter, neither of which I even own now. I miss my cats. I miss the freedom to go to the movies or out to a solo dinner or for a hike. I miss wearing short dresses. I miss being understood and understanding others with no effort. I miss bacon and pulled pork sammiches and Jif and spinach salads with feta cheese (not all together). I miss a lot of things. And sometimes, you know, it gets to me.

So today, when I was leaving work for lunch, the driver had a box which he was showing to my counterpart. He was showing her the mailing label on the package, wondering who would be sending a package to our office, and she pointed to the name on it…

It said “Leigh Maddox!!!!!!” (well, without the punctuation. That’s from me.)

Someone sent me a care package! I couldn’t believe it…the timing of this was impeccable! How does that WORK?! I mean, seriously. There have been periods of my life where I was so low on money I was unable to buy my kids a 25-cent pack of gum, and poof! Like magic, a refund check from the insurance company or a “just because” check from my mom would show up in the mail. Times where you wonder how you’re going to make it, and suddenly, what you need most appears at your door. That’s how I feel right now. Humbled and relieved and incredibly, unbelievably thankful.

My counterpart hasn’t yet asked me what was in the package, and for that I’m also thankful. Because how on earth do you explain Cap’n Crunch? How do you explain Jell-O? Or graham cracker crumbs and pie pans? Spices and tee-shirts and some new-fangled-towel-cooler-thing? But the best part? The best part was the hand-written letter. Not typed, but an old-fashioned pen-on-paper loopy-letter-handwriting kind of letter. Because not only did my friend spend all kinds of money on the spices and the shirts and the Jell-O (J-e-l-l-O), and an EXHORBITANT amount of money on the shipping (I’m so sorry!!!!!), but she took the time to sit down and write an actual letter. That was definitely the best part.

Though the Cap’n Crunch was a close, close second.