For Tam

When I received an email with my friend's name in the subject line, from someone sharing her last name, a chill ran through my body.  I knew something was wrong as I clicked open the message, which was from her sister.  The feeling of dread was unfortunately not misplaced:  Tamara was gone, having died unexpectedly some months before.

As her sister was cleaning out her apartment, she had found a stack of the Christmas cards I had sent Tam over the years.  Her sister had set these aside to deal with them later, and then the 2020 card arrived.  It was a card that Tam would never see.  Like the others, this card included my email address, and her sister used it to contact me.

Tam and I met randomly in Ethiopia in 2006 when we were checking in for our flight from Addis Ababa to Tel Aviv.  She was an engaging young woman, and we hit it off immediately in the check-in line.  And once we both had our boarding passes, we kept right on chatting. 

While we weren't on the inaugural flight on this route, it was still fairly new at the time, and it had yet to build up a profitable passenger load.  There were probably only 10 passengers on the whole plane, a jumbo jet of some variety, and I found my seat, a window on the left side toward the front.  Disregarding her own seat assignment, Tam took the seat next to me so we could continue the conversation.

A few minutes later, a man approached us.

"Excuse me," he interrupted. "You're in my seat."  He was looking at Tam.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked him.  "The whole plane is empty!  I think you can find somewhere else to sit."

This was possibly an Israeli security agent sent to shadow me, as can happen, and he protested for a second.

"Listen, if this seat is really that important to you," Tam told him, "we will move elsewhere."  At that point, he backed down and left us.

As we talked, we naturally discussed our time in Ethiopia.  Tam recounted her experience, and it was peppered with annoyances and hassles.  Then it was my turn, and my trip had been particularly colorful.  As I told my tales - how my hotel had caught on fire and how upon evacuating I had ended up walking the streets of the capital at 4 AM, how I had walked through the bowels of the Markato, East Africa's largest market, brazenly carrying my expensive camera, and especially how two guys had plotted to kill me - Tam was gobsmacked.

"You live the most exciting life on Earth!" she exclaimed.

Over the years, she would tell me this on numerous occasions.

Tam was an Air Canada ground handler, but I met her while she was pursuing her side-gig as a freelance journalist.  She was also a travel junkie, and we had a running joke over the years about which of us was traveling more.  We both always accused the other of winning this "competition".

When the plane landed at Ben Gurion Airport, Tam and I joined the handful of other passengers on our flight as we all underwent arrival formalities.  I was on diplomatic assignment in Israel at the time, and I had my credentials handy.  Coincidentally, my entry went very smoothly.  For Tam, however, things were not so convenient.  She had a few marks against her from the get-go including an erratic travel itinerary, her desire to visit the West Bank, and the fact that she was a journalist.  Predictably, she was pulled into secondary questioning.

The curious thing was that I was also brought into secondary with her.  I can only assume that the security official who chaperoned us must have pegged us for couple and not just two random people who had only met six hours before.

Whatever he was thinking, I stood with Tam for an hour in that room while they inspected every little thing in her possession and asked her numerous, often repetitive, questions.  The officer addressed me once or twice, but mostly I stood quietly in the background.

In hindsight, maybe Tam shouldn't have told my minder on the plane to take a hike. 

When there were no more questions to ask and no more explosive-residue tests to perform on the luggage, we were both released.  We exchanged emails and said good-bye.  I headed to my apartment in Tel Aviv, and Tam caught a mini-bus to Jerusalem.  

Tam was a great fan of my stories and my writing, and she began to follow my blog, this blog, after we parted ways.  She offered comments on many stories, always wanting me to do more with them, to write a book, or even better, make a movie of my life.  Others have similarly encouraged me, but Tam took it one step further.  When she read my blog about getting hijacked in Albania, she was convinced it needed to be published.  She actually took my multi-page account, which was never intended for publication, cut it down to 1,500 words, and sent it to an editor (with my permission).  As a journalist herself, she had such connections.  That story got front-page billing in a Canadian publication, and when I received my check for CAD$85, my first payday ever from writing, it was thanks to Tam.  

Half a year after we met, I included Tam on my Christmas card list, and she loved those as well.  She told me once my cards were one of the few things she had to look forward to at Christmastime, and even though they were often months late, she always kept an eye out for them to arrive.  As with my stories, she encouraged me to produce a line of cards to sell, but the cards were a little too personal for that.

The years rolled by, and one day I was applying for my next assignment.  I told Tam I was tempted to go back to Ethiopia for work.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked me, recalling both of our experiences in 2006.

I ended up spending three years in Addis after that and loved it.  Tam, the world traveler, was even tempted to give it another try, but somehow three years goes by in an instant when you are busy making plans.

Tam also started planning trips to see me in Papua New Guinea, Afghanistan, and Uzbekistan, but those plans also withered and died for various reasons.  In the case of Papua New Guinea, her boyfriend mucked things up, and I felt terrible for her.  In the case of Afghanistan, she wanted to put on her war-correspondent hat, and she asked me about the conditions on the ground.

I gave her the scoop, and she got the message loud and clear.  She pulled the plug on her trip.

"You know you have the right to refuse unsafe working conditions," she told me.  "Come home!"

I had to smile at the 180 she had pulled.  In no time flat, she had gone from wanting to be a war tourist to wanting both of us out of there.

As far as visiting goes, I didn't do any better.  Tam invited me to visit her in Calgary several times.

"We've got world class hiking and skiing," she offered me like a worm on a hook, but it was the Calgary Stampede that got my attention.  It's hard not to get excited about "The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth".  That too wasn't meant to be, though.

We would never see each other again after our day together in 2006.

As the years went by, Tam lost interest in writing, and by 2013, she had basically hung up her press pass.

"There's no money in it," she told me.

She spent her time instead sailing and supporting animal rights, a passion of hers.  Her love for animals landed me in slightly hot water in 2017 when she received my Christmas card that year.  On the front of the card, I'm standing in an Uzbek market, and the description mentions some of the products in view, including horse sausage.  Tam didn't freak out about it, but she did send me pages of material about the horrors of the horse-meat industry, sprinkled with photos, videos, and links.  She seems to have been legitimately disturbed by this card.  When her sister found the stack of cards in her apartment, 2017 was not among them.

A few years ago, Tam added another feather to her cap.  As part of her job at Air Canada, she produced a welcome video for the new hires in training.  She wanted to use a KISS song for the video, which she successfully did after several months of negotiations.  KISS was so impressed in the end that they retained her as Media Rep, and she worked on their "End of the Road" tour in 2019. 

After she had passed and her sister contacted me, she asked me, "Were you close?  Did you know Tamara well?"

Our relationship basically amounted to the eight hours we had spent together in 2006, about 100 emails, 15 Christmas cards from me to her, and about five cards in the opposite direction.  But, I had decided that I wanted Tam in my life, and she had decided the same about me.

Did I know her well?  I knew her well enough, and I miss her. 

Rest in peace, friend.

Montenegro: Kotor

Having not stepped out of the front door of my apartment for the first two weeks of my assignment in Montenegro, in compliance with the Embassy's mandatory self-isolation requirement, I was itching to get out and see something.  My house arrest ended on a Thursday, and due to the worsening coronavirus situation, Montenegrin authorities had announced new restrictions banning intercity travel during weekends, along with other pandemic-related rules.  The new policy would go into effect on Sunday, however, leaving that Saturday as my last good chance to do something fun.

With the help of one of my Montenegrin colleagues, I made a booking for a rental car.  The rental car office was affiliated with a car dealership, and it was about five kilometers from my house.  Happy to have the exercise, I headed for the dealership on foot, and in just under an hour, I arrived.

I had emailed a copy of my passport and driver's license to the rental agent Bato the day before, so when I arrived to pick up the car, there was very little processing to do.  I signed one form; Bato ran my credit card for the very reasonable amount of 25 Euros, and we went outside to visually inspect the car.

"This car is brand new," Bato boasted as we approached it, "only 800 kilometers!"

We walked around the car, a small black number, and neither of us found any blemishes worth mentioning on the form.  I did notice that the entire top surface, roof and hood, was slightly dimpled, probably from hail damage, but I didn't say anything.  It did answer the question, though, as to why this brand new car was on the rental lot instead of the sales lot.

Once we finished with the inspection, Bato handed me the keys.

"You must run the lights whenever you are driving," he told me, "and return it with a full tank of gas."

"If you have an accident," he continued, "first call the police, and then call me... unless you get injured really badly and can't call."

We both laughed at this morbid caveat, and then we were done.

This whole process, five minutes from start to finish, stood in stark contrast to my experiences renting cars in the U.S. and in most other countries.  I am used to standing at a counter for 20 minutes, signing half a dozen documents, getting upsold on insurance and gas schemes, and walking away having paid twice as much as the quote I had received online.  I'm not sure what coverage I had from Bato's rental in case of an accident, but it was nice to pay exactly what I was quoted and to get on the road in only a few minutes.

It was only 9 AM when I picked up the car, but by then, there were already two groups of people shopping the sales lot.  As I exited the lot, I peeled out a bit.  I turned some heads, no doubt, but sometimes it takes a second to get used to a new clutch.  After that, though, it was smooth sailing.

Rather than taking the most direct route, Google Maps wanted me to take a slightly longer way, crossing Lake Skadar.  The lake crossing itself was spectacular, and the rest of the ride was pleasant as well.  As I got closer to the sea, I also noticed some billboards for a few resorts named after American locales.  There was one for Laguna Beach Resort and one for Key West Resort, both by the Dukley chain.  I always enjoy finding such U.S. references overseas.

The beautiful Lake Skadar crossing.

I briefly passed through one zone where the speed limit was 100 kph (about 62 mph), but generally the maximum speed in Montenegro is 80 kph (about 50 mph), and in populated areas it's slower.  I was following the speed limit to a T, not wanting to run afoul of the law on my first outing, but I started to get the feeling that I was the only one in the country driving so prudently.  Most of the roads in the country are two lanes, and many are one-laners masquerading as two, often in windy mountains.  As a result, opportunities to pass slower cars can be few and far between, and I frequently found myself leading a line of 10 or 15 cars, all eager to get around my slow butt.  It was not unlike the scene in Dumb and Dumber where the guys are driving up the mountain on their moped, almost to Aspen, with a line of agitated cars and trucks behind them.  It's worth noting, however, that while the Montenegrin motorists were happy to ride my bumper, not once did anyone honk at me.

In about an hour and a half, I reached Budva on the coast.  Although the restrictions on traveling weren't starting until the following day, I passed two police checkpoints in Budva.  The police officers waved me through, along with most other people, so I'm not sure what they were looking for.  And a few minutes after that, I reached my first destination: Jaz Beach.  This beach is much loved in Montenegro, but in the past it has also been dubbed the best beach in Europe.  Considering all the nice beaches on the continent, that's a pretty good feather in the cap.

Because it was the off-season and even more so because of COVID, the area around Jaz Beach was deserted.  The area looked grey and depressing, however, so I decided to keep driving.  I had seen signs along the road advertising another beach nearby, so I followed these to a spot west of Jaz.

I arrived to Ploče Beach in a few minutes, and I was surprised to see that there was even a guard on duty in a booth at the entrance to the parking lot.  Along with my car, there were two others in the lot.

I walked down to the beach - all pebbles with little coves carved into the shore - and I quickly spotted my companions.  Two guys were fishing to my left, and a man and a woman were fishing to my right.  About eight stray cats were hungrily lurking around, hoping to steal a bait fish or hoping one of the fisherpeople would gut his or her catch.

The two guys were wrapping up when I arrived, and they soon left.  With just the couple to my right remaining, I stripped down to my swimsuit and took the plunge - my baptism in the Adriatic.  The air temperature was about 18 C (64 F) and the water about 19 C (66 F), so for a mid-November day, it was decently warm.  The only problem was that it happened to be windy and rainy.  As such, there was very little appeal in getting out of the water once I had gotten in.

My Montenegrin christening.

The water itself was quite clear, just how I like it, and the seabed was a wonderful mosaic of shells and colorful peddles polished smooth by the waves.

As I was paddling around, the couple to my right finished fishing.  While the woman gathered their belongings, the man stripped off his wetsuit, revealing a swimsuit beneath, and he jumped in the sea.  He was in his own little cove, but we regarded each other with head nods.  He swam for but a moment.  Then he and his companion, probably his wife, dumped a bucket of fish entrails on the beach, much to the delight of the gulls and stray cats, and hiked up to the parking lot.

I had the whole place to myself at that point, but after about 20 minutes, I got out too and laid on a rock in the rain watching a fishing boat in the sea.  Somehow swimming and "sunning" in the rain feels wrong, but there's something fun about it too.  It's not unlike the Simpsons episode where Bart is flying a kite at night; it's kind of fun, but not quite right.

Once I dried off and changed, I was in Kotor in less than half an hour.

I parked my car in a commercial lot by the port, and as I was walking toward the historic Old City, a man caught my attention.  He was selling boat rides around the bay, and while these excursions looked fun, I had some hesitation.  For starters, I was already chilly just standing on the seawall.  Whipping through the rain and wind on a speed boat sounded miserable.  The second issue was the cost.  Normally, a seat on the boat was like €20, but since there were very few tourists (because of COVID and also because it was the off-season), I would have to hire the whole boat at a cost of €200, which even included a discount.  I declined the offer, but I didn't make it ten feet further down the seawall before another boat operator started into his sales pitch, which was pretty much identical to the first guy's.  At that point, I noticed that there was a line of boat captains the entire length of the wall.  Unwilling to run this gauntlet, I left the water's edge and proceed to the Old City using a sidewalk closer to the road.

Old City Kotor is surrounded by fortifications dating back to the 1400s, when Kotor was part of the Venetian Republic, although the city itself is much older.  As I left the new city, crossing through the grand city gate, I was immediately taken back in time, that classic old-city effect.  The gate opened into a cobble-stoned plaza flanked by old-looking buildings, just mismatched enough to be interesting.  There were a few souvenir shops, boutiques, cafes, a post office, and some banks.  A handful of Italian tourists were taking photos in the square, the men with their sweaters fashionably hanging over their shoulders, at the ready in case they should catch a chill.  Kotor is built on a mountain, and homes stretched up its slope, toward St. John's Fortress at the top.

It was around lunchtime, and I was peckish, so I decided to eat.  Of the numerous eateries around, most were deserted.  Not wanting to judge a book by its cover, I decided to try the least-interesting-looking place, Pizzeria Sara, with its beige tents in the shadow of Saint Tryphon's Cathedral.

As is the practice in Montenegro, I sat myself and waited for a waiter to appear, which didn't take long.  And not only was he prompt, he also spoke English.

"I want Montenegrin cuisine," I told him.  "What can you recommend?"

"It has to be meat," he replied, turning my menu to the grilled-meat page.

There were several options of sausages and cuts of meat in a variety of preparations, but here I was sitting by the bay.  It didn't seem right to order a kebab.

"Anything you can recommend from the sea?" I asked.

While there was a whole page of fish and seafood, he recommended I take either the fried fish or the grilled squid.  I went with the latter.

As I waited for my food, I observed the only other diners in the place: a group of teenagers speaking with British accents.  They didn't have anything interesting to say, but it was kind of surreal just to watch them clowning around, a group of unrelated kids all over each other, without masks, like things used to be.

My food arrived in 15 minutes - a simple plate, but tasty - and I followed it with dessert.

Order up! Pizzeria Sara's grilled squid.

Then I walked next door to the cathedral.  Normally I bristle at the thought of paying admission at a place of worship, even if I'm entering as a tourist, but I bit the bullet and gave the attendant the token fee.  I was the only customer at the time, so I checked out the lower level first.

Saint Tryphon is the patron saint of Kotor, and the cathedral itself was consecrated in 1166, although it has been reconstructed a few times after being damaged in earthquakes.  It's a Roman Catholic cathedral, and not the more dominant Serbian Orthodox.

The lower level had a pretty standard church vibe - some seats, some paintings, some candles, some statues - so I walked around there for a few minutes and then climbed the large stone staircase to the upper floor.

The upper deck was set up as a museum, showcasing a variety of artifacts ranging from priestly garments to golden crosses to saintly relics.  Unfortunately, it was so poorly lit, it was hard to fully appreciate the objects.  There were numerous lights installed throughout the museum, but no matter what combination of switches I flipped, none of them illuminated.  I wasn't sure if there was a power issue, or if perhaps the lights had purposely been disabled to help preserve the collections.  Regardless of the reason, though, the poor lighting accelerated my visit; there is no need to linger when you can hardly see the displays, and I didn't feel like walking around with my cell phone light turned on.  To be fair, though, my aging eyes were part of the problem.  I'm sure those with better, younger eyes could probably function better in this low-light, low-contrast situation.

The museum was set up on both sides of the upper deck, and to get from one side to the other I got to walk outside by the bell towers.  Catching a break in the rain, I got a nice view of Old Town.

After Saint Tryphon's, my next stop was St. John's Fortress, the stone monster occupying most of the hillside.  It was drizzling again, but I decided to risk it.  I walked through the buildings of the Old City until I reached the entrance to the fortress path.  There were several signs along the way warning visitors that a ticket was required for admission, but when I reached the path, it was clear that this information was outdated.  The ticket booth didn't look like it had been open in quite a while, and the entry turnstile was broken.  I felt like I was entering an abandoned amusement park.

There was a group of three guys climbing up the stone path at the same time I was, and I passed one large group, possibly a school group, coming the opposite direction.  Other than that, the place was empty.

St. John's Fortress

The three guys and I stopped at all the same overlooks and took all the same selfies, and in our brief conversations, I learned that they were scouting locations for a documentary.  They eventually lagged behind, though, and I was completely alone.  I climbed the stone steps for quite a while, and every time I thought I must be near the end, they would loop back one more time.  Eventually, though, I did reach the top where the fortress itself was situated.  I took some pics and explored the rooms of the ruined castle, and as I was doing so, the heavens opened.  As my father likes to say, it was raining down like a cow pissing on a flat rock.

I waited for several minutes inside one of the castle's chambers, but as the deluge showed no signs of slowing, I decided I should just get moving.

I was wearing a rain jacket, but it stopped at my waist.  As such, my pants got soaked quickly.  I gingerly descended the mountain, clutching my two phones, my camera, and my wallet inside my jacket, tight to my chest.  It was an uncomfortable, cold, wet hike to be sure, and of course I was worried about ruining my electronics.  My biggest concern, though, was busting my butt.  The stone stairs were now slick with rain, and if I would have fallen, it might have been a while before anyone found me.  I doubted that anyone would be starting the hike in the heavy rain, and it was also nearing dusk by now.  Luckily, though, I made it down without wiping out, looking like a drowned rat.

With evening approaching, I made my way back to my car, stopping at a souvenir shop near the city gate.  It was disappointing.  The store was full of made-in-China trinkets - magnets, t-shirts, shot glasses, and postcards - and while I often buy such things while traveling, I wanted something more authentic and more unique.

"Do you have any local products?" I asked the clerk. "Ceramics... carvings... jewelry... textiles?"

"No, we don't," she replied with a hint of surliness, "and no one else does either.  We don't do that here in Montenegro."

Not needing a Kotor pot-holder or sun visor right that minute, I left empty-handed.

The drive back to the city was like my drive in the morning had been, except I took a more direct routing not across the lake and also it was now dark.  I took my sweet time as before, observing the speed limit, and as before I ended up with a train of a dozen cars behind me the whole way.  I was like the grand marshal of a parade.

I filled up the tank just before I returned the car to Bato, and then I resumed my standard lockdown routine of sitting at home alone.  It wasn't a bad way to end my moderately eventful day.

Montenegro: Arrival

"Where ya heading today?" the check-in clerk asked.

"I'm going to Montenegro," the man answered.  "It's about the only place accepting travelers now."

As he placed his passport on the counter, the airline representative did a double take.

"Wait... are you two traveling together?" she asked him.

I had been in line before this guy, also heading to Montenegro, but there was a small issue with my booking.  The desk agent had asked me to stand aside while she waited for clarification on my situation, and had called up the next passenger, this guy who was heading the same way.

This guy had little flag stickers on his suitcase, presumably to show which countries he had visited, and by my count, Montenegro would be number 46.

When he learned we were going to the same place, we had a bonding moment, not unlike in the Parent Trap when Hayley Mills discovers that she has a twin sister while at summer camp.

"What are the odds!" he gushed.  "Two people on the same flights from Nashville to Washington to Vienna to Montenegro!"

He seemed reluctant to say the name of the city, Podgorica, instead always saying Montenegro.

While I too appreciated the novelty of this coincidence, my interest sparked and vanished like the flame on a match.  We chatted briefly, and then the check-in agent took his bag and gave him his boarding pass.

He stopped as he headed for security and turned back to me.

"I'm flying business class," he told me.  "Look me up in Vienna if you want me to get you into the lounge."

"Thanks, I'll do that," I told him, knowing full well I wouldn't be doing that.

Not long after he left, the agent finished processing me, and I started my journey.

By the time I reached Dulles Airport, it was around 4:30 PM.  I found my connecting gate to Vienna, and then I looked around the terminal.  Due to the lull in travel caused by COVID-19, nearly everything in the terminal was closed.  Other than a newsstand here and there and a gift shop, I found only two places serving food: a Wendy's fast-food stand and a sit-down restaurant called The Bracket.  I decided to go for the later option, and when I rolled up, it was five 'til five.

"We close at five o'clock," the waitress told me, "so you'll have to order quick."

Not two minutes later, another guy walked up, and he was unceremoniously turned away.  I would be the last man served.

I ordered a drink and some chicken wings, and they came out in a jiffy.  The waitress had seated me on the fringe of the restaurant, practically in the main corridor of the terminal, and as I sat there eating my wings, I drew in passengers like a lighthouse guiding in ships.  Probably 20 people asked to be seated and got referred to Wendy's.  Had the waitress buried me at a table further inside and out of view, I doubt as many people would have assumed The Bracket was still open.

My flight from Nashville to Dulles had been nearly full, but the one from Dulles to Vienna was only half full.  Many people scrambled around after take-off to secure themselves a whole row, in which they could lie down, but not me.  I avoid sleeping on flights, to ward off jet lag, so I had no need for an empty row.

The crew gave the usual safety presentation, and then they made a big to-do about masks.  Masks were required at all times, including while eating and drinking.  We were expected to take a bite or a sip, and mask up while we chewed and swallowed.  The flight attendants also warned us not to fall asleep unmasked because they would not hesitate to wake up anyone caught sleeping with his or her disgusting mouth and nose exposed.

I had my dinner with my glass always hoovering around my lips to ward off the mask police, watched a few films, and mid-flight, I went to the bathroom.  Remembering all the mask warnings, I was surprised to see so many people sleeping with masks cupping their chins or hanging loose from one ear.  I guess the crew was not prepared to wake people after all.

The flight was fine, though, and we reached Vienna no worse for the wear.

Deplaning was exceptionally slow, as we had to go row by row in an attempt to keep us socially distanced, but as soon as we got into the terminal, everyone got bunched up again at passport control.  Luckily, as a transit passenger, I got to peel off from this mob and made my way upstairs for my connection.

Upstairs, I spotted my travel twin from Nashville.  He was a hundred yards ahead of me, heading to the lounge, I suppose, but he stopped walking and looked back in my direction.

I also stopped and pretended to take a phone call.  Going into a lounge as a stranger's plus-one does not appeal to me.

I whiled away a few hours with sudoku, and soon enough, it was time for my last flight.

There were about twelve people on the flight, and I was halfway back on an aisle.

As I sat and waited, a young man stopped at my row.

"I'm over there," he said, pointing to the window seat.

He got situated, but I couldn't figure out any logic to this seating configuration.  Masks were mandatory again, of course, and I was seated adjacent to another passenger while the plane was basically empty.

The flight was only an hour and change, though, and I didn't bother moving.

When we landed in Podgorica, the mountains were there to greet us as we walked from the plane to the terminal, and once inside, my bags were the first off the belt.

Hi, Mountains!

My sponsor, one of my colleagues from the Embassy, had told me he would meet me outside the terminal, so I scanned the area when I exited the building.  There were two people standing with names written on signs, and neither name was mine.  There was a handful of other people milling around, plus some taxi drivers, security folks, and cleaners, but I didn't recognize any of them and no one approached me.

This wasn't my first rodeo, though, so I continued to the parking lot and found a van with diplomatic plates.

"Are you from the U.S. Embassy?" I asked the driver.

"Yes," he answered, "but where is PJ?  He was waiting for you."

The driver and I walked back to the terminal, and PJ and I made our awkward COVID introductions, socially distanced and masked.

"Sorry I missed you," PJ said as we walked back to the van.  "You don't look like your passport photo."

He didn't mention in what way I had diverged from my passport photo - Was it weight?  Age?  Hair? - and I didn't ask.  Still, I felt like I was being accused of catfishing.

In reality, I'm sure the mask was the biggest issue.  Identifying someone you've never met with most of his face covered is not so easy.

I've also heard it said, though, that when you do start looking like the photo on your ID, that's the time to be concerned.  So, in that sense, maybe PJ was paying me a compliment.  Yes, let's go with that.

My new "permanent" apartment wasn't quite ready when I arrived, so PJ took me to a temporary apartment where I would spend my 14 days of self-isolation.

As always, the temp apartment was stocked with enough basic supplies to live a normal(ish) life, and I occupy my time exercising, eating, cooking, teleworking, playing music, and sitting on my balcony in the sun, sometimes listening to a distant train or looking at the mountains.  Even with the mandatory quarantine, from preparing meals with a much-abused loaner cutting board to listening to my neighbors speaking Montenegrin in the hallway, it's all exciting somehow.  Now I just need to step out the front door.

Uzbekistan: Massage at Eco Wellness Spa

I had noticed the new Eco Wellness Hotel and Spa several times since it popped up a few blocks from my house, and after a few colleagues recommended it (all women), I decided to give it a try.

I had been told that walk-ins were easily accommodated, so I turned up and requested a one-hour “classic” massage, as presented on the spa menu.  In ten minutes, my massage therapist Nurata appeared.

“Follow me,” she said, and she led me up a wooden staircase to the second floor.

At the top of the staircase, I ran into one of my colleagues, emerging from a changing room sporting a fluffy white robe and slippers; perfectly normal for a spa.

Nurata ushered me into Massage Room 3, dimmed the lights, and stood there.

“Put the clothes here,” she instructed.

I was waiting for her to leave the room or at least turn her back, but she continued standing there, staring at me.  Realizing the system in place, I took off my shirt and pants under her watchful eye and hung them in the wardrobe.

Obviously, she would see everything in the course of the treatment, but this felt odd.  No robe, no slippers, not even a towel was provided.

I laid on the bed, face-down in my underwear, and I remained thusly exposed for the next hour.  Besides providing a thin veil of modesty, a towel would have been nice to stave off the cold.

Nurata started the session by bending my body, particularly my legs, in different directions, similar to Thai massage.  This was not what I wanted nor what I expected.

“Oh, lord,” I thought to myself, “I hope I don’t have a full hour of this.”

This was full-contact massage, and Nurata was up on the table with me much of the time.

As she was ramming her knees into my back and compressing my rib cage various ways, I could feel her long hair cascading over my body.  It seemed a bit too sensual, and I thought maybe a bun would have been more professional.

After 15 or 20 minutes of the bending and stretching, she pulled out the massage oil and lowered my underwear so far that there was little point in wearing it anymore.  Again, she hopped back up on the table, rubbing me down not just with her hands, but also with her arms and legs.   She alternated between wispy, barely-there pressure, which elicited goose-bumps more often than not, and piercing elbow gouging that made me wince.

She learned my name very well, and every few minutes, she would whisper, “What do you think of this, Chris?”

I’m easy.  “It’s fine,” I’d tell her.

As usual, she spent the bulk of the time on my back and legs, and then it was time to flip over.

She did a lot more chest and stomach work than I usually get in massages, and it was all with the goose-bump-inducing summer-breeze pressure.  Naturally, she worked the arms and legs as well, nudging into underwear territory more than once.  As before, the long hair was caressing my skin as she moved about.

I get plenty of massages, and this one felt fairly provocative.  I wondered how many of Nurata’s clients requested “special services” during their treatments.  Whether or not that was her intention, she was certainly setting the mood.

When at last she was finished, Nurata tapped me on the shoulder.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” she told me.  “Please come back again.”

 Then she supervised as I got dressed, lest I should miss a button or have trouble with my zipper.

Uzbekistan: Frank the Rooster

If you’ve ever felt like you weren’t actually alone while in an empty house, well I have too.  And on one such night, I wasn’t.  I was typing on my laptop in my living room when I heard a commotion coming from the windows behind me.

Not expecting to hear anything, my pulse quickened, and I wheeled around in my chair.  Perched on the window sill and staring me down, there was a rooster.

This was both concerning and fantastic, and I regarded the creature for a moment through the glass.  With his particular countenance and bearing, this guy looked like a Frank to me, and I dubbed him as such.  With introductions finished, I considered his situation.

Take a picture, Frank; it'll last longer.

The area behind my house, where Frank was hanging out, is a useless piece of land.  The space extends about four feet from the back of the house, and it is completely surrounded, on three sides by a twenty-foot-high wall and on one side by the two-story house itself.  It’s a narrow, deep, enclosed area, and I knew Frank wouldn’t be able to fly out.  The roof of my back neighbors’ house comes pretty close to the top of the wall, so I think Frank must have been climbing on that roof and then jumped into my backyard.  No matter how he got inside, though, he was trapped now.

I had seen people walking with chickens tucked under their arms before, and they seemed perfectly peaceful and manageable.  I thought I would give it a go.  My plan was to go outside, catch Frank, and walk him around the neighborhood under my arm until I found his family.  What could go wrong?

As it turns out, plenty could go wrong, especially for a city slicker like myself.  Frank, who had moments before been standing so proudly and almost defiantly in the window, went in full panic mode the moment I opened the back door and joined him outside.  He jumped out of the window and started running around the small yard, shouting and generally making a fuss, as I tried to corner him.  I got a hand on him a few times, but eventually he wedged himself under the back stairs.  In his hiding place, there was a small mud puddle, and his white plumage was now well and truly soiled.  Even if I could have reached him, it would have been embarrassing to walk a filthy rooster around the neighborhood.

It was time to regroup.  Frank was trapped and I didn’t want him to starve, so I poured him a bowl of Cheerios and left him for the night.

Then I moved on to Plan B:  I would walk around the neighborhood, without Frank, and try to find his home.

Unable to speak Russian or Uzbek, I’m unable to communicate with most of my neighbors.  I typed “Did you lose a rooster?” into my translating app, and with the Russian equivalent on my phone screen, I set out.

I knew Frank lived behind me, having heard him crowing pretty much all the time, but I wasn’t sure exactly which house was his.

As I walked to the end of my street, I counted my steps.  Then as I turned down the street where I thought Frank lived, I walked back an equal amount of steps.  This should have put me in the right vicinity.

I knocked on the door of the house to which my step-count led me, and a man answered.

I showed him my phone, and he shook his head.  Then he reached for the phone, and I gave it to him.  Failing to find a Cyrillic keypad on my phone, he opened a translation app on his own phone and showed me his screen.

“I have no cock,” was his reply.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” I thought to myself, and I continued on my search.

After knocking on six houses, I was no closer to finding Frank’s home.  I walked back to my house, and on the way, I ran into one of the people who lives a few doors down from me, who also happens to speak a bit of English.  I knew it wasn’t his rooster, but I told him the story anyway, just for kicks.

“Eat him,” he told me with a wink.

He was half joking, or maybe three-quarters, but I didn’t want to eat someone else’s animal.  And even if I had wanted to, I would still have to catch him, which wasn’t likely.

I checked on his bowl of Cheerios and went to bed.

The next morning, Frank was up bright and early, and since he now lived downstairs, his crowing was more obnoxious than ever.

Running out of ideas, I moved on to Plan C:  I submitted a work order through the Embassy’s Facilities Maintenance Unit for rooster removal.  As my request worked its way through the system, I told some of my Uzbek colleagues about the situation.  They all got a laugh about it, and every single one of them told me it was my right to eat Frank.

My friend Shabada especially enjoyed the part about feeding him Cheerios.

“Such luxury!” she mocked.  “He’s eating better than at his own home, and he definitely won’t want to leave!”

I guess she had a point, but I wasn’t exactly running a rooster Club Med.

When I got home that evening, Frank was gone, and the standard form from Facilities was on my kitchen table showing that someone from the unit had entered my house.  In the comments section of the form it read, “Done finded the owner.”

We don’t have an animal-control specialist on staff, so one of our other specialists – an electrician, a plumber, or perhaps a gardener – had remedied the situation.

My other colleagues were sure that whoever accepted this job from Facilities would just eat Frank, as I had been encouraged to do by so many people.  The next morning, however, I got proof of life.  My former roommate was merrily crowing from his usual location, muffled somewhat by the street or two buffer that was once again between us.

Uzbekistan: Circus Shenanigans

The first rule about the circus: You don’t talk about the circus.

Wait, that’s not it.

My actual first rule of the circus is to never sit on the front row.  To do so exposes oneself to all sorts of audience-participation traps.  Even the second row can be risky.

As my friend Jack and I were purchasing tickets for the show a day in advance, Rule 1 was on my mind while Jack zeroed in on the “VIP seats” on the front row.

“Wait,” I interrupted before the sale was final, “if we sit on the front row, won’t the clowns harass us?”

Jack put the question to the ticket agent, who laughed it off.

“You just have to say no,” she coyly answered.

I had my doubts, but we bought the front-row, VIP tickets – two for us, and two for our friends, Chloe and Rod.

When we arrived the next day, the big top was a hub of activity.  We found our seats and purchased popcorn (full of sugar which Uzbeks seem to prefer), and Chloe and I took a photo with a monkey.  The monkey’s diaper smelled slightly fragrant, but at least she was well behaved.

After the photo, Chloe rounded up some hand wipes so we could demonkify, and then the lights dimmed.  Show time!

The full cast of characters welcomed us to the show, and then everyone scattered, leaving the clown behind.

Clowns are creepy, as everyone knows, so it was unfortunate that this particular clown took a shining to Chloe.

Chloe was flanked by Jack and Rod, and the clown kept pushing them aside as he pretended to woo her.  He gave her a balloon, which she batted into the crowd behind her.  Frankly, clown, she was just not into you.

Chloe’s disinterest morphed into repulsion when at one point the clown wiped her face with a handkerchief, and... it happened to be wet.

He offered her a plush heart.  He begged for a kiss on the check.  And she rebuffed him time and time again.

The whole bit was entirely overplayed, although whenever the clown would reappear over the next two hours, he would continue in his pursuit.

After the clown, a trainer with four monkeys put on a show, and he was followed by a fit man without a shirt.

The fit man started by doing a handstand on two small blocks of wood he had placed on the floor.  Then from the handstand, he shifted his body into a variety of poses to highlight his strength and control.

He continued with some contortionism, forcing his entire body through a reinforced tennis racket frame, and then he pulled out an old-school circus staple: sword swallowing.

His final trick was to insert the six-inch spinning bit of an electric drill into his nostril.  There was some debate in our group as to whether the sword-swallowing and nose-drilling were the result of physiological manipulation or trickery (I thought the former), but the results were cringe-worthy in either case.

when a finger won't do, you have to bring out the big guns

“This is a great example for the children!” Rod remarked, and his point was valid.  Probably two-thirds of the audience members looked to be twelve years old or younger.

After the fit man wrapped up, some of the circus workers started rounding up people for an audience-participation moment.

One guy beckoned to me from the ring, and I politely waved him off.  He persisted and came over to my seat.  I was still reluctant, but after a moment I relented.  I realize the circus is interactive, and since I was sitting on the front row, I felt a certain sense of obligation to participate.  Trying to be a good sport, I stood up and joined the five other people who had been similarly recruited.

I assumed that I had been selected to participate in some clown skit, but I wasn’t exactly sure.

The ring was empty except for the six of us and a carnie or two.  Then the ringmaster lady (the ringmistress?) came out and set a bottle of champagne in the center of the ring and said a few things in Russian.  I recognized the bottle as a three-dollar specimen of local rubbish bubbly, but still I had no idea what was happening.  People in the audience were clapping, hooting, and having a good laugh about something.

I didn’t have long to ponder the situation, though, before the curtains opened and a monster horse came bounding out.  That stallion was ten feet tall if it was an inch.

As he raced around the circle, I stood in the center with the others, and I was still clueless.  I noticed the ringmistress had a long whip, and I naively thought this was the name of the game:  We would each take a turn whipping the horse.  Oh, if only that had been the case.

The first contestant started, and I finally realized what was actually happening.  We were competing for the bottle of rotgut champagne in a game whereby we had to stand up on the back of the monster horse as it raced around the ring.

This was so wrong for so many reasons, not the least of which included the facts that:

• I’m afraid of horses.
• I’m afraid of being in front of a crowd.
• This was way too physical, and, dare I say, dangerous.

Chloe would later tell me she was able to pinpoint the exact moment when I realized the nature of the “game” that was afoot.  I wasn’t a happy camper, and I’m sure it showed.

The first guy climbed onto the horse, and he only got to his knees before falling.

He was followed by a lady who wasn’t quite able to hoist herself up on the horse.  A carnie gave her a boost, though, and she rode around the ring a few times before crashing out.

Contestant 3 was another woman, but she was carrying a bit more weight than Contestant 2.  She needed two carnies to hoist her up.  She didn’t last long, and her demise made quite an impression on me.  As she fell off the horse, barely one lap around the ring, her shirt lifted up.  The safety belt slowed her descent to the ground, but gravity caught her stomach with a vengeance.  As she was prone in midair, her stomach stretched downward probably a good twelve inches and then, reaching the limits of its elasticity, rebounded and rejoined her abdomen with a shudder.  It all happened in slow motion and reminded me very much of the blobs of wax inside a lava lamp.

As Contestant 3 was exiting, one of the carnies came over to me.

“Are you OK?” he asked me.

I guess he also noticed that I looked miserable.  I was surprised that he spoke English and also by the fact that he realized I didn’t speak Russian.  He could surely sympathize with the fact that I had been in a fog for most of the game.

“Not really,” I responded.

“OK,” he answered, “you’re up!”

Since this incident, several people have asked me why I did it.  Well, once you have committed, even unwittingly, it’s kinda hard to walk away.  To slink off stage left, in front of the jeering crowd, and then go back to my seat on the front row like nothing had happened would have been equally uncomfortable in my opinion as playing the game.  I just wanted to disappear, but as that wasn’t an option, I stepped up to the horse.

A carnie cinched the leather safety belt around my waist and said something in Russian.  Then it was go time.

I grabbed the handholds on the horse’s harness and pulled myself onto the beast.  I had crossed the first hurdle: I had mounted the horse under my own power without any carnies boosting me up.  Once I was on top, the ringmistress started whipping, and the horse started careening around the circle.

I worked my way onto my knees, and after a lap or two, I managed to stand up.  It was a squatty stand-up, like you might expect from someone learning to surf, but it was a stand-up nonetheless.  Just like a middle-aged Toby Tyler!

this is the kneel, not the stand-up :)

“That shouldn’t have worked,” I told myself, and a few meters after I stood up, I tumbled off.  Thanks a lot, inner voice of self-doubt.

Luckily my shirt didn’t open up to reveal a lava-lamp stomach, but that doesn’t mean I came down gracefully.  I was discombobulated as I descended toward the mat, the safety belt uncomfortably squeezing my guts, and when my feet touched the ground, I felt like I should kiss it like a shipwrecked sailor rescued after long weeks at sea.  Instead, I stumbled back to my seat.  Jack, Chloe, and Rod were highly complimentary of my attempt, but I was just glad it was over.

The next guy who went was a ringer.  He climbed on the horse unassisted, but after a few laps, he fell off.  Conveniently, he was the only person given a second try.  On his second attempt, he managed to stand up, but then his pants split open, apparently without his knowledge.  This gag was another indication that he was a circus employee.  When he finally fell off for a second time, the ringmistress declared him the winner and presented him with the champagne, after which he exited through the employees-only curtain.  I didn’t need the champagne, of course, but it was a pretty low move for the circus to cheat in order to avoid paying out a $3 terrible bottle of booze.

Coincidentally, Contestant 6 never got a turn.  I guess we ran out of time.

As I told others of my experience over the coming days, a few people replied nonchalantly, “That’s the Russian circus for you.”

That hasn’t been my experience at all, though.  I’m a big fan of the circus, and I’ve gone to dozens of shows in several countries.  I’ve been to the Russian circus in Russia, and I’ve seen Russian circuses in other countries, including Uzbekistan.  In none of these shows have I ever seen them involve an audience member in such a physical stunt.

In any case, the horse game was followed by a strongman.  His act consisted predominantly of carrying around several kettlebells at once (topping out at 5, I think), and his grand finale was getting run over by an SUV.  After he was mowed over, he laid on the ground moaning and writhing for a minute before triumphantly jumping up.

merry-go-round compliments of the strongman

“I think he was genuinely hurt,” Chloe remarked.

It seemed like showmanship to me.

The strongman was the last act before intermission.  As we left the tent for some fresh air, the workers set up the photo ops in the ring once more.  Eager circus-goers could take a pic with performing monkeys, bears, horses, and dogs, or with the strongman himself.

After twenty minutes or so, everyone shuffled back to their seats, excited for the second half of the show.  The excitement faded, though, due to a technical delay.  In preparation for dangerous animals, the workers started erecting fencing around the ring, and it was not a speedy process.  Curiously (and alarmingly) a strong smell of gas also filled the tent around this time.  I eyed the exits in case something should happen to explode, but an escape wasn’t necessary.  The smell passed after a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, the cage was ready and three lions were released into the ring.  The lions, two females and one male, were quite young, and based on my extensive knowledge of lions garnered from a visit to Lion Park in Johannesburg, I’d guess they were 2 or 3 months old.  While all wild animals can be dangerous and unpredictable, these cubs didn’t really inspire fear.  Quite the opposite, I had the urge to scruff their furry heads.

For their part, the ringmistress and her male counterpart cracked their whips, compelling the cubs to lazily get up and walk across planks.  All the while, the tamers slipped meat snacks to the cubs to keep them happy.  Then for the big finish, one of the cubs jumped through a flaming hoop.

Then the workers materialized and took down the protective fencing.  Luckily, disassembling the structure went much faster than assembling it had.

After the lions left, the damn clown returned, and he was on the hunt for audience members.  He started with Chloe, and when she refused, he went down the line asking Rod, Jack, and then me.  He spent a little time playfully trying to bribe Rod to participate offering Uzbek soum, Russian rubles, and U.S. dollars, and he hardly talked to Jack at all.  By the time he got to me, however, it was no more Mr. Nice Guy.  He grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward the ring, quite aggressively.  I held tight to my chair.

“Just stand up!” he muttered angrily under his breath.

“Wow!” I thought, “more English.”  I hear it so rarely in Uzbekistan.

Despite the English, I wasn’t going with him.  No, sir!  I had already played along once, and that turned out to be a doozey.  Anyway, once was enough.  There were hundreds of people in the arena, and I should do two skits?  Was I on staff now?

I guess he was drawn to the weird foreigners on the front row, but all around the tent, Uzbeks were jumping up and down, hoping he’d select them to participate.  Eventually, he released my hand and did just that.

He picked a young woman, a man, and then for his last pick, he chose – wait for it – lava-lamp woman.  She was more than happy to participate, but what was with this clown and double-tapping the same people?  This would be the last audience-participation moment, and another thing that struck me was that not a single child had been called to participate during the entire show.  This was unusual.

In the final skit, the clown conducted his three participants in a pretend band.  The young woman was assigned to play air violin; the guy, air guitar; and lava-lamp lady pretended to do vocals and shook her bosom.  I was quite happy with my decision not to join them.

The show wrapped up with dancing bears and a couple of acrobats, and then we spilled out of the tent into the refreshing night air.

Later that evening I reflected on the day.  I had survived an interesting experience; I had a photo with a monkey, and one more souvenir was coming into focus – some throbbing broken ribs.  It must have happened when the safety belt squished my abdomen.  I had to laugh about it, though.  My track record with ribs here in Uzbekistan hasn’t been good.

If you want to run off and join the circus, I recommend doing it before you turn 40.  As for me, I’ll be keeping my day job.

Uzbekistan: Dining Out: Key Town

A moment after our waiter had placed a dish of sliced, raw steak on our table, I leaned in with the tongs to select a piece of meat.

“Stop!” the waiter instructed.  “I will give you a demonstration.”

Then he placed a slice of beef on the domed cooking surface over the burner in the center of the table and walked away.

Eitan and I, along with our friend Chloe, were trying a new Korean barbeque place, and our evening started off on a puzzling note.

“Should I do something with this?” I wondered aloud.

“No,” Chloe responded, “he’s giving us a demonstration.  I’m sure he’ll come back soon.”

The meat was only a few millimeters thick, and it turned into a crispy, black curl in a few minutes.  The demonstration was a bust, but I ate the meat scrap anyway.

I leaned in with the tongs once more to add fresh meat to the grill, and our waiter magically appeared.  This time he was accompanied by the owner.

“Let me do that for you,” the owner said as he reached for the tongs.

He loaded up the grill, coated the meat with marinade, and unlike the waiter, he didn’t disappear.

As the owner was tending the meat, a different waiter delivered some banchan (small complimentary side dishes including kimchi and other salads), a grilled mackerel Eitan had ordered, and some vodka.  Unfortunately, soju wasn’t on the menu.

This second waiter who had delivered our food and drink spoke English.  He was self-taught from watching movies, and despite his apologies for his skill level, I thought he spoke very well.

It was difficult to see much of the dining room from our booth, but at the few tables I could see, people were merrily cooking their own meat.  I wondered if we were getting the services of a personal chef because we were clearly foreigners or if we were deemed to be incompetent.  Perhaps it was a combination of the two.

Whatever the reason for the royal treatment, we were soon enjoying bites of tender meat wrapped in lettuce with all the trimmings.

Eventually the owner hung up his tongs and switched off the grill, and the three of us renewed our memberships in the clean plate club.  When we finally pushed away from the table, the only thing left was a three-pack of ferocious garlic breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bottom line on Key Town:

Food:

    Tasty ü
    Average
    Bad

Service:

    Attentive ü
    Average
    Lacking

Overall Experience:

    Memorable ü
    Enjoyable
    Passable
    Forgettable
    Regrettable

Uzbekistan: Sometimes It's the Little Things... (part 2)

While there are formal taxis and local taxi-hailing apps in Uzbekistan, every car is a potential taxi.  Some drivers use their cars as taxis full-time, and others only occasionally.  Basically, though, Uzbeks have been ubering long before Uber existed.

To hail an unofficial taxi, one needs only to stand on the side of the road, arm outstretched, and wait for a friendly motorist to stop, usually in a Matiz, Lacetti, Nexia, or Spark.  After a moment to discuss the destination and agree on a price, you’re on your way.

People of all stripes use unofficial taxis, from frail grannies to desk jockeys to little kids.  In the case of the kids, they get taxi money from their parents and make their ways independently across the city.

As I was riding in an Embassy car one day, I was talking to my driver about this.

“How old are kids when they start catching street taxis alone?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied, “I think eight or nine is normal, but some even start as early as seven.”

“As for me,” he continued, “I won’t let my kids ride alone until they are 20!”

No matter the country, no matter the norm, never count out an overprotective father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s an Uzbek wedding tradition to gather on the morning of the big day to eat plov, the national dish.  No one is supposed to be turned away, so the numbers often swell as friends of friends start showing up.  In the case of a VIP wedding, you might end up with literally thousands of people eating the oily mixture of rice and meat.

Back in the days when everyone woke up at the crack of dawn to work in the fields, wedding plov was served at 4:30 or 5 AM to correspond with the work day.  Now that people (at least those living in cities) tend to start working later in the morning, the timing for wedding plov has also fallen back to around 7 AM.  This often means that a wedding hall will have cars spilling out into the street right during morning rush hour.

One day when I was on the way to work, my driver and I encountered an intersection that was thrown into complete chaos by a wedding-plov gathering.  On a three-lane road, cars were parked on two of the three driving lanes, leaving only one lane through which traffic could actually flow.  Actually, flow isn’t the right word; it was more of a trickle.

I was the one on track to be late for work, but it was my driver who was fuming as we crept up the street.

“Me eat plov!” he shouted as we passed the wedding hall.  “Me park in road!  Me big man!”

I don’t like a traffic jam any more than the next guy, but this cave-man rant somehow made it worth it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to the language barrier here, I often miss the nuances of daily life, including at the supermarket.

The procedure at the check-out counter is pretty familiar and routine, and thankfully it doesn’t require much communication.  I put my items on the belt, and the cashier scans them.  Then I flash my bonus card and pay.  At the end of the transaction, however, there is often one final step before the old “spasiba/dasvidaniya” exchange: The cashier hands me a few pieces of candy.

For weeks, I thought this was a freebie treat like getting a lollipop from a bank teller.  Then one day, my cashier was less smooth than most.  I noticed she was counting out a specific number of candies, and then it dawned on me:  Part of my change was being paid in candy.

The candy component was equivalent to only a few cents, but still I found myself singing a modified version of P!nk’s “U + Ur Hand” in my head.

“Keep your candy; just give me the money!” I sang, and when I realized what I was doing, I had to laugh.

Sometimes, you just have to say it.  "Good one, brain!"

Uzbekistan: Massage at the Hyatt

Long overdue for a good massage, Eitan and I booked appointments at the Hyatt’s Arya Spa.

We showed up a few minutes early and were seated in the spa’s reception area on the seventh floor to wait for our massage therapists.  I half-browsed a tourist brochure I had picked up in the hotel lobby while I looked out the window, but I didn’t have much time to kill.  After only a few minutes, our therapists arrived and escorted us to our treatment rooms.

My therapist, Gloria, showed me to my room and gave me a minute to change.  Then we got started.

“Sit here and put your feet here,” she instructed.

I took a seat and put my feet in a basin full of hot water on the floor.  Gloria sat on the floor and began rubbing what felt like coarse salt on my feet.

“Wow!” she exclaimed.  “They are so big!”

My shoe size is a U.S. 10 ½ (42/44 European), which isn’t exactly one for the record books.

“Perhaps,” I thought, “your basin is on the small side.”

I didn’t make any actual comment, though, and she continued washing.  Once my feet were scrubbed, rinsed, and dried, Gloria laid out my slippers.  I put them on and walked three feet to the massage table.

“Lay down on your stomach,” she told me, “and loosen up your towel.”

I did as instructed, and Gloria unceremoniously pulled the towel away.  Laying on the table naked, save for the see-through paper underwear she had given me, I felt a bit exposed.

Gloria took a moment to look me over.

“Nice!” she remarked.  “Do you play football?”

“Three or four times a week,” I lied.

“And your friend?” she asked, referring to Eitan.

“He doesn’t play football,” I told her.  “Bad knees.”

Then she covered me up with a fresh towel and began the massage, exposing each area of my body as she worked on it.

With two unexpected comments from Gloria in the first five minutes of the treatment, I wondered what else might be on her mind.  She didn’t offer any more observations, though.

I had booked a 75-minute Swedish, and she kneaded and oiled me up, front and back, head to toe.

She ended by massaging my neck, and then she excused herself while I changed back into my clothes.

As I took my clothes out of the locker, I noticed something I had initially overlooked.  Toward the back of one of the locker’s shelves sat a pair of grey boxer-briefs – Calvin Klein, to be exact.

I was unsure of what to do about these mystery briefs.  Initially, I was inclined to ignore them, but then it struck me that Gloria would probably check the room after I left and finding the underwear, she would likely think they were mine.  This didn’t appeal to me.

I got dressed and met Gloria in the hall.

“Sorry to be a bother,” I told her, “but there are some underwear in the locker that aren’t mine.”

She followed me into the room, and I pointed them out.

“And what should I do with them?” she asked.

She clearly had not understood what I was telling her as I’m quite sure she had not intentionally given me a room that wasn’t fully cleaned.

“These are not mine,” I repeated.

I pulled my jeans down a bit, exposing the waistband on my own underwear, and then she got it.

“Oh, my goodness!” she replied, clearly flustered.  “I don’t know who these belong to!  I’m so sorry!”

I told her it was no big deal, and she placed the briefs in a plastic bag.

As we walked back to the desk, Gloria articulated the very thing I had pondered myself.

“Who would leave the panty behind?” she mused.

The way I see it, there are three possible scenarios.  This man either left wearing the paper underwear or he decided to go commando or he had brought extra underwear to the session.  The motivation for any of these options, however, escapes me.

Gloria was equally flummoxed, and we had a bit of a laugh over the whole situation.

For Anne Lise

When I moved to Oslo in 2009 on diplomatic assignment, the Embassy's housing office placed me in an apartment on the regal Gyldenløves gate (golden lion street).  My upstairs neighbor was a petite older woman named Anne Lise, and she was nice to me from the start, often stopping to chat in the stairwell or waving to me in the neighborhood.  As time passed, I got to know Anne Lise better as well as the rest of my neighbors.  We did dugnad (periodic cleaning and maintenance of the apartment grounds) together a few times a year.  We had an annual party around the lighting of the Christmas tree behind our building.  We all knew each other and got along.

Enjoying the sense of community I felt with my neighbors, I decided one day to host a dinner party for everyone in the building.  I printed out invitations and slipped one in each mailbox.  There were less than ten families in the building, so a dinner would be a significant undertaking but not impossible.  On the invitations I had distributed, I had requested an RSVP.  Receiving no responses, however, I woke up on the day of the party and cooked as if everyone was coming.  I knew that wouldn't be the case, of course, but I assumed at least some people would show up.

With all the cooking and tidying up finished, and the hour of the party drawing near, I nervously waited for my guests to arrive.  Right on time, there was a knock at the door.  It was Anne Lise, standing with a bowl of berries.  As we enjoyed some appetizers and waited for the other guests to arrive, it soon became apparent that no one else was coming.  Talk about embarrassment!  I had one guest and enough food for a small army, and I felt so foolish.

Anne Lise, realizing what had happened, was gracious as always.  I told her we could reschedule if she preferred, but she insisted that we continue with dinner.  I phoned a few friends who didn't live in our building, and once they arrived, the four of us had a lovely evening.  I learned a lesson that night, as an outsider American, that Norwegians sometimes retreat when someone comes on too strongly as I had done.  I also developed a great respect and fondness for Anne Lise.  It was that night she went from being the nice lady upstairs to being my friend.

Over the course of my three years in Oslo, we met for dinner or tea often.  We shared many stories of both of our travels around the world, and Anne Lise was always keen to hear my impressions of Norway.  I remember one of her crazy stories in which a lion attacked her fur coat in Kenya, thinking it was more of an animal than just the hide.

Anne Lise also included me in her syttende mai celebrations (Norway's National Day on May 17) which were always elegant and lively affairs.

I remember the day she told me she had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.  She knew the outlook was grim, and she was sad to be uprooted from her home on Gyldenløves gate in favor of a building with an elevator.  At the same time, she remained positive, presenting herself with the grace and dignity I had always known.  Not knowing what to say that day, I gave her a hug.  It would be one of our last.

I moved on to new adventures in different countries, but we kept in touch over the years.  Then, after a six-year struggle, Anne Lise passed away.

Rest in peace, friend.

Uzbekistan: Sometimes It's the Little Things... (part 1)

In our first few days at Post, a colleague shared an observation: "Eitan could pass as Uzbek," he told us.

Then he turned to me.

"You stick out like a sore thumb," he remarked. "Your look is too exotic."

I didn't feel overly "exotic," but I would hear echos of this analysis from a few different people over the coming days.  One person went on to add that while I didn't look Uzbek, I could definitely pass as Russian.  I'm not sure that amounts to any great advantage, though.  People will just be all the more shocked that I don't speak Russian worth a darn.

In any case, my exotic look isn't the only thing blowing my cover as a foreigner.  Of course, speaking English is a give-away, as is my tendency to look around too much.  And it seems I'm also the only adult in town who wears t-shirts in public.

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As I was walking down the street one day, I heard something rustling in the ditch.  I stopped to have a look, and the source of the noise was a little grey mouse.  He was soon joined by a friend, and the two of them poked around in the litter with no concern for me.

It was nice to come across these guys, reminiscent of my brother's pet mouse, Bullet, rather than the monster sewer rats you often find in urban areas.

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After a full day of sightseeing, Eitan and I caught the Metro toward home.  In the train car we boarded there were enough people to fill nearly every seat, but no one was standing.

Eitan and I were the first people without room to sit, so we stood near the door, holding onto the metal handrail.

A few minutes into our journey, a young man motioned for us to take his seat.  Between his body and his backpack, he had been occupying two spaces.

The young man, who was maybe 14 or 15 years old, stood up, and Eitan and I took his place.  I assumed this teenager must be getting off soon, but he rode the train four more stops and departed at the same station as we did.

"Do you think that kid offered up his seat because we look old?" I asked Eitan.

"No," he answered, "we don't look that old."

Perhaps Eitan was right.  Maybe the kid gave up his seat on account of my exotic look.

Uzbekistan: First Plov

Two weeks after arriving to Tashkent, I still hadn’t eaten plov, Uzbekistan’s national dish.  Plov – also known as palov, osh, and pilaf – is a dish of rice and meat with vegetables, seasonings, and sometimes extras like raisins, chickpeas, or fruit.  Here in Uzbekistan, it is usually made with lamb or mutton, and there are subtle regional differences.  In some areas, it is made with orange carrots; in others, yellow.  Some people use white rice; others use dark rice.  Many people include onions and garlic, but not everyone.  In some regions, it’s fried longer.  Some plovs are more oily than others.  Salt, pepper, paprika, coriander, cumin, and bay leaf are common plov seasonings, but, of course, there are variations on this front too.  It’s a dish where everyone seems to have a special recipe, but to an untrained eye like mine, the end results are all pretty similar.

In any case, I was overdue to give it a try, and our Uzbek friends Arpa and Tasma were keen to remedy this situation.  They invited Eitan and me for some Sunday afternoon plov, and we happily accepted.

The ladies picked us up in the early afternoon, and in a quarter of an hour, we pulled into the parking lot of a humble restaurant on the edge of town.

Passing by a meat case stocked with horse and other red meats, we were received by a waiter at the entrance to the dining room and seated near a window.  Rays of light slanted down on our table, illuminating the dust in the air.

In addition to our foursome, there was another table with a handful of people near us and a group of probably 20 people at the far end of the room.  This larger group seemed to be several generations of a family, from the elders to the toddlers.

Arpa and Tasma handled the ordering, focusing on the classics, and a minute after the order was placed, the waiter returned with a pot of tea and a round of naan.

It is tradition in Uzbekistan to return the first three cups of tea back to the pot, a duty which Arpa undertook.

“Is there any meaning behind this?” I asked as she was pouring the tea into the cup and back into the teapot.

“Well,” she replied, “it mixes the tea.”

The answer was more pragmatic than I had expected, but it did make sense.

Tasma tore the bread into several pieces, and we snacked on that until the plov arrived a few minutes later.

Eitan got a special vegetarian(-ish) plov, which was basically a normal plov with the chunks of lamb removed.  The rest of us had a normal, meaty plov, topped with horse sausage and quail eggs.  A small plate of chopped tomatoes and onions was served on the side.

Plov is served!

I started my plov experience by eating a few of the horse sausages off the top.  These sausages are made by stuffing the horse’s rib meat into its intestines, and they were pretty rich.

“Take care,” Tasma warned.  “Kazi [horse meat] is rich in iron and can cause high blood pressure.”

This news was most welcome as it gave me a lifetime excuse if I ever wanted to get out of eating horse.  It was just like in Pakistan when I had been warned not to eat too much brain masala as it was very high in cholesterol.  After that, I had only to mention that I was watching my cholesterol and whoever was trying to coax me to eat brain would relent without prejudice.  Now, in the case of kazi, I would simply have to say I was watching my blood pressure, and I would similarly be off the hook.  Brilliant!

After the horse sausage, I put a few scoops of plov on my plate along with a quail egg.

It certainly smelled good, and I was looking forward to my first bite.  I plunged my spoon into the edge of my mound of plov, and as I pulled it out, I recoiled.  Nestled in the oily rice, there was a black hair – wavy, but not curly, and a few inches long.

“Be this hair of man or beast?” I wondered.

I was repulsed to be sure, but since I was out with other people, I was forced to act like an adult.  I discreetly plucked out the hair and concealed it under my plate.

Then I slowly scooped the rice again, wary of finding another surprise.

Luckily no other hairs surfaced, and I was able to clean my plate.

“How do you like the plov?” Arpa asked me as I sipped my tea.

“It’s nice,” I answered.

When I was a child, my parents often prepared rice with meat.  Sometimes they used chicken, turkey, or pork, but most frequently, they used beef.  Add in some onions, maybe some bell pepper and garlic, and it was basically plov we were eating.  Thus, the Uzbek plov, while not exactly exotic, was satisfying and inspired a bit of nostalgia.  Indeed, it was nice.

Uzbekistan: Battle of the Bands

With an Embassy concert taking place later in the day, there was a certain buzz around campus.  Most people were looking forward to attending, but not my colleague, Apollo.

“That place is gonna be mobbed up with Uzbeks,” he told me, “and they are only going because they think there will be free alcohol.  You can count me out!”

This was my first such event at the Embassy, so despite Apollo’s warning, I went to the concert anyway.  After all, I was under no obligation to stay if I didn’t like it.

The concert, which was held at the Old Embassy compound in the Chilanzar district, was part of Daniel Pearl World Music Days, a network of concerts held annually around the world to promote tolerance.  Daniel Pearl was a journalist killed by terrorists in Pakistan in 2002.

When I arrived to the venue, a number of Uzbeks were waiting in line to pass the security checkpoint.  I bypassed the queue and entered through the employees-only line.

The chairs facing the stage were about a third filled when I entered, and Embassy staff were making final arrangements for the show which would start in a few minutes.  RC Cola was sponsoring the event, and consistent with its tendency toward over-the-top American imagery (at least here in Uzbekistan), a woman in a red, white, and blue cheerleading outfit was behind a table distributing sodas.  Eitan was coming to the concert separately, so while I waited for him, I chatted with some colleagues and sipped my RC.  Around this time, someone randomly handed me a bag of popcorn.

The show kicked off with some speeches, and then the music commenced.  Up front were chart-topping artists Shahzoda, DJ Piligrim, and the big enchilada Yalla featuring Farrukh Zakirov.  Yalla has been a hit band for years, and its most famous track, "Uchkuduk," was the song of the decade in 1980s USSR.  Yalla performed a few songs, including "Uchkuduk," and the crowd went wild.  Then the program shifted to the amateur talent who had competed for slots in the show by sending in demo tapes.

The amateur acts were diverse.  There was a pint-sized girl belting out the Frozen anthem, “Let It Go,” a garage band from Tashkent’s Westminster University, a young woman billed as Uzbekistan’s first banjo player, and finally “Uzbek Bob Dylan.”

While some were better than others, the performers generally put on good shows.  Still, I was restless.  I didn’t feel like dancing at the foot of the stage, and I didn’t feel like sitting in a folding chair.  I ended up going with a third option: standing in the back and talking.

I was chatting with a colleague, and when he left in search of a bathroom, an Uzbek guy walked up.

“Do you work at the Embassy?” he asked me.

I confirmed his suspicion, which led to his ask.  The banjo lady was performing at the time, and this guy was cringing.

“This is pretty bad,” he told me, “but some whiskey would help.”

I felt bad for the lady actually.  Her corn-pone performance was fine for what it was, but I felt the Embassy organizers had done her a disservice by putting her in the show.  She fit in the lineup about as well as a didgeridoo player might.

“She’s not so bad,” I told the man, and then I pointed out the RC Cola station for all his refreshment needs.

“Come on, man,” he pleaded, “I need more than cola.”

“There’s a shop across the street,” he continued.  “Let’s go get a bottle.”

He needed my help because anything he might purchase would be confiscated at the security checkpoint.  My Embassy badge was his golden ticket for smuggling booze inside, or so he hoped. 

The booze store: so close, yet so far away.

I spent the next few minutes deflecting his requests and ultimately ditching him.

I can't speak for the other 500 Uzbeks at the concert, but Apollo certainly had this guy's number.