"Are You My Father? Then How Am I Your Grandmother?!" How Telemundo Made Me Feel Strangely Accomplished

For the length of 2011 and a month into 2012 I had the privilege of living and working as a volunteer English teacher in The Republic of Georgia. As to be expected with any international traveling there were challenges and cultural differences to overcome. How to properly refuse excessive marriage proposals or how to respectfully decline a fifth glass of wine were only a few of the How-To skills I picked up in a country abundant with oxymorons. One How-To skill I managed to borderline master was how to stay clear of engrossing myself into the drama of Spanish Telenovela's. 


I understand the soap opera's exaggerated worldwide appeal, but the steadfast determination Georgian women held to their 'stories' caught me off guard. It wasn't unlike the determination you may find with a housewife and her own daytime 'stories.' I was surprised to find that women in Georgia were looking for the same nonsensical drama in their TV sets as most women in America were also searching for. (Honestly, I was also surprised that most homes in Georgia had at least one television set.) In a way it made a lot of sense. In a country where a sexual revolution had yet to break free it made sense that Georgian women (and sometimes men) would cling onto their TV sets waiting to find out whether it was the muscle-clad businessman Carlos or the oily-haired farm boy Jorge that impregnated the innocent yet feisty Sonya. It was a cheap way to obtain all of the sexual drama so obviously lacking in a typical Georgian women's life. Telenovela's were exotic. 


It could be early or late. At home with my host-mother, fifteen minutes across town with my grandmother, or across the dirt road at my neighbors home. If I entered a room and a 'story' was on the television I would be instructed to join in and watch the fictional drama unfold. I usually did not mind since it always concluded with tea and chocolate. Not an awful set-up. 


I'd watch as five different Enrique Iglesias lookalikes would run laps around the scantily-clad Beauty chanting promises of fortune and happiness. She was almost always in tears. The tears would almost always cue the dramatic music. I could barely contain my laughter and eye-rolling. 


A huge family secret was just exposed, Beauty (or Sonya or...[insert generic name]) would break down hysterically, the weepy violins would begin playing...and commercial break. The first time I attempted to watch an episode with selected members of my host-family I thought it was a joke and I laughed. I was the only one in stitches. The others were stuck on deciphering the dialogue (the Spanish dialogue was still in-tact and at a medium volume while Georgian dialogue, dubbed over the Spanish, rang clear. It was common to hear both languages at the same time) and intentions of every character involved that they could not see through the hilarious nature of the ridiculous premise. I could only allow myself to sit for ten minutes of each episode before excusing myself to catch up on some reading, take a walk, or play with the stray dogs in the street. But it was at least an amusing ten minutes of watching both the Spanish and Georgians handle their dramatic love lives (or lack thereof). 


The only Georgian female I knew who wasn't sucked into the kaleidoscopic-like world of Telemundo broadcasting was my 15 year old host-sister Linda. She would comment on occasion how much she detested the Telenovela's and how frustrating it was to watch so much crying. 


"Everybody is always crying!" Linda would scoff. "Stupid girls!" 


Yes, Linda was a smart one. 


It was common for our television in the home to always be on. Every five minutes a commercial advertising a new serial of "Telemundo Presenta" would chime through the walls into the bedroom I shared with Linda. A deep-set voice would explain in Georgian the plot of next week's episode and end suddenly and dramatically with the words "TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually as Linda's English skills increased so did her level of humor, sarcasm, and wit. It was our tradition to sit in the kitchen late at night and eat sweets or drink a cup of hot chocolate. We were as silly as two girls could be at late hours consuming a bucket of sugar. 


"Linda, could you hand me a napkin?"
"No," she smiled at me.
"No?"
She shook her head.
I slammed my hand on the table. "Young lady! I am your father and you must do what I tell you to do!"
"Are you my father?!" She whipped her hair to the side and stared at me dead in the eyes. "THEN HOW AM I YOUR GRANDMOTHER?!"
"Wait, what?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA! (Dun Dun Dun)"


It was the first time she Telemundo Presenta-ed me. 


"Oh, that's some good stuff," I said. "I'd watch that episode. Is there a lot of crying?"
"Of course, Gogo.* [Georgian for 'girl.'] She is his grandmother. There has to be a lot of crying."


Every now and then Linda would catch me off guard and run into our room screaming various one-liners:


"Quick, Gogo! A goat has escaped!"
"Wait, what?" 
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


                                                                 or


"My father has killed someone! But he was never my father! He was my sister!"
"Wait, huh?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually you could end any conversation with a "Telemundo Presenta!" 


One night Linda approached me with a proposition. 


"We should film Telemundo Presenta. I want to remember this when you are gone."
"That sounds like a great idea. What should it be about?"
"I have a story. Can you write down my words?"
"Of course."


And this is what she had me write down:

(I saw you in the garden! Don't you deny it!)

 (I just could not tell you what I wanted to tell you...)

(And our father is our brother!)

"Wait, so I was kissing my brother in the garden then?"
"It does not matter," Linda waved her hands in the air. "That was so long ago. Nobody will remember."
"All right, if you say so. This is your Telemundo."


After a couple of takes and one interruption from Meri, Linda's mother (it was after Midnight...), wondering what all of the screaming was about we finally got our 'picture.' It was also Linda's idea to set the alarm on her telephone so it would appear that the two-timing Alejandro was calling her. She's one for details. 

(Telemundo Presenta: Secret of Relationship)

It has been about three months since I've been back home in America. Looking at my papers and videos from Georgia and especially from this one night with Linda I am struck with a thought. Perhaps enough time has passed that I can now look at certain people, events, and moments objectively, but I was impressed with the level of creativity Linda had put into this tiny production. Eleven months prior to when this was filmed Linda knew very basic English. Words like "far" and "close" escaped her. After watching this I had this realization that I had a hand in helping this young girl build up enough English vocabulary, structure, and wit. All within a year. It left me feeling rather accomplished. 


It was quite easy to feel as if I wasn't accomplishing a whole lot in the classroom due to weather, school, and/or common structure restrictions, but when I look back on this little gem I am reminded that I did serve a purpose. And Telemundo had a strange way of helping me along to this realization. It's like that Albert Einstein quote (because no entry would be complete without a sappy quote!):


    "It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge."


Yes, I suppose that's true.

As Dreams Are: The Man

I fell asleep. 

An unnamed city. It did not look familiar. But I knew the way home. It must have been Spring because I was wearing my light trench coat and I wasn't cold. It was night time but it wasn't dark. I was on the phone with a man. He was in the theater business. We decided phoning would be easier than skyping. The streets had the criss-crossed cobblestone patterns you find in old cities. 

There were bright colors on the low rise buildings. I noticed that there weren't many cars. A few people stood around on the sidewalk; outside of their shops. A few buildings were having work done and I stayed on the road because I recalled a friend once expressing fear from walking underneath the scaffolding. 


The blur of colors: blue, orange, black. 


I talked to Daniel on the phone and he gave me advice about the steps needed to take to enter into the theater business. He made me laugh. We talked as if we had been friends for a long time and for a moment I worried that I had confused him for my other good friend Daniel. 


I was aware I was speaking loudly. I could not hear him. There may have been music or construction work happening in the distance. It was hard to hear. 


"Can you repeat that," I repeated but he only spoke in low, soft tones. My wandering led me from the close-quartered city streets to an open space. I could see to the horizon: to the left, to the right and ahead.

The streets were wide and it had that feeling as if it was a street that should be off-limits to women wandering around at late hours, but that could just be hindsight. There were a few lit buildings at the end of the road. To the right was a field. A very large field and it was obvious that grass had just started to grow. On the field was a large abandoned brick building with broken windows. 

It was very similar to the buildings in the town I had lived in in Georgia. I was still on the phone. I was speaking louder to compensate for Daniel's quietness. He asked me if I wanted to meet him in person. To talk. I hesitated. I was confused, as I often am, about what would develop between us. 'Must keep things at bay,' I felt. Before I could answer a very tall Man, traces of Asian roots, khaki's, a white undershirt approached me. He had a dark car parked by the field at the end of the street. Things felt open. I did not feel threatened. He did not say anything but motioned with his hands, wavering his palms above the road. 


"I'm sorry, would you like me to be a little more quiet?" I asked him. 


He nodded and his eyes appeared to radiate a 'thank you.' I could feel Daniel waiting for an answer from me. I began to speak, to begin explaining my delay. "There is a Man here but it is okay. I am too loud," I wanted to say. But before I could...

The Man slapped me. My phone was in my right hand, I kept it on. I stared at it hoping Daniel would hear this and save me. The Man's eyes were fixated on me. He said things I could not remember. He mentioned rape and I recalled in my dream the previous dreams I have had recently where the men announced upfront that they were going to rape me. I usually keep silent in my dreams but recently I have been loud. I have kicked. I have screamed. 

I yell "Help."

My perspective changes as I imagine Daniel on the phone listening to the words of the Man, to my cries and screams, and I hope he contacts somebody. I know though that he won't. I feel as if he may think it is a joke. He may assume that he does not know my location so really how could he help? My voice is hoarse and I see a short man with dark round sunglasses, slightly balding, a green tattered shirt approach us. I ask him for help as the Man is on top of me and the green-shirt man looks at me and shakes his head 'no.' He looks disgusted. I get the impression that these two men know one another. The Man appears to be embarrassed. 


The streets feel very empty and very dark. It is quiet. The Man disappears. I don't remember how I got away. I run down the wide street and enter one of the abandoned buildings. There is an elevator inside and I run in. I think to myself "I must be in Georgia and there are only a handful of Asian men in Georgia." In the elevator is my friend Christopher who lived in a village near me in Georgia. He is getting ready for his flight back to America and he has a baby in his hands. 


"Let's take a photo together," he asks me and I receive a weird feeling that if I do we will get married and I don't want to play these games anymore. 


I ask him what one should do if she was attacked. He says 'no such things could happen here.' I ask him 'if I were attacked by a foreigner would it be easier to track him down?' and he does not answer. 


The Man, the attacker, enters the elevator and I jump. I make noise. I tell Christopher that it is the Man but he does not listen. The Man leaves. 


The elevator stops on the floor that is designated for flights but it looks very similar to Grand Central Station or a similar train yard from the 1940's but with a slight modern twist. There is grey. There are metal walls and very sharp angles. I follow Christopher into a room where his host family is and I ask again where I can find police officers to report an event. He does not listen. I leave to walk and I find guide books to the city. I keep entering different floors with receptionist desks and a faceless blond lady. Nobody can point me in the direction where the cops are. Nobody can help me. I look through windows and I see movie theaters. A lot of empty seats with a few people facing away from me. They are wearing blue vests with white writing but I can not make out what it says. There are people on a stage and they are preparing for a presentation. 


I re-enter the room where Christopher is and he has the baby still. I tell him that my attack was real but when he and his host sister ask if I was raped I do not know what to say. I can not remember. I am unsure. I tell them I think he was Asian and they insist it will be easy to find him since there are no Asian men in Georgia. Christopher takes me into a different room where there will be a movie playing. It is an old movie house and he still has the baby in his hands. He introduces me to a very large man and I fear that he is actually one of the dark fog monsters that always seem to track me down in my dreams. Christopher gives me the baby to hold and he says that we will have a family one day and the child cries. 

I am in a room of a big house. There are many levels and I think to myself that this may actually be a ship and it is going to sink soon. There are men everywhere. I can not see them but I can feel them. Every time I enter a room trying to find a way out I hear laughter. I am reminded of Christopher and I feel guilty for leaving him. I am reminded of the Man and I feel guilty that I may have lied. I think about how I probably will never get a job with Daniel in the theater business because he heard me on the phone and he will never be able to look at me the same way again.


I am broken. 


The house is bright. It is open with a lot of white space. I can hear a teacher. He sounds like a teacher and I think maybe it is a drama teacher of mine and he is testing me. I do not feel the surge of fear or worry and in a strange way I miss it because it is what I know. 


I am quiet here and I am confused. I think about the eyes of the Man and his power. People are running in and out, but nobody listens to my story.

The Adventure of a Lifetime or How We Almost Blew Ourselves Up in Philadelphia, Part One

It is true. I had a blog prior to this one. I had high hopes of writing every day about my hiking adventures, getting discovered by some travel company and then writing some more about my hiking adventures all the while by getting paid for my words and life experience. I believe I made it three entries in- all without any stories about stormy alpine summits on so-and-so mountain. Thank you very much procrastination!

I was in the midst of writing about (at the time) the most recent mountain adventure I undertook when something distracted me. I had hit "save now" and attended to said distraction (a pretty leaf outside, the prospect of making a new cup of tea or hot chocolate perhaps?) and that lasted for three years. I was very excited about retelling this story...mostly because when returning from said trip friends, family, strangers all said "you should write or blog about this! This is a ridiculous story!" when I told them about what had happened during those four days in April of 2009. And so without further ado I shall begin now to tell you about a trip I took once...


         The Adventure of a Lifetime or The Adventure Your Mother Always Warned You About
                                                              or put more simply
                  How We Almost Blew Ourselves Up in Philadelphia

                                                                  PART ONE: 

In Which Google Has Proved to Be Inaccurate and The Discovery of The Real Dobb's Road

Danny, my long-term hiking companion and overall mutual mischief maker, had decided that it had been long overdue on adventure-making. It had been many months in between our last hiking voyage...just long enough for us to forget the torture we had last put ourselves through. It was right after Tax Day and right before Earth Day. We also had just purchased tickets to go backpacking in New Zealand for two months for the following Fall. We wanted to celebrate and add a different region of places-traveled to our list. We needed to celebrate. We were getting tired of the Catskills and the Adirondacks. 

"What about Delaware?" I suggested. 

"Um, I don't think there are any mountains in Delaware..."

"Well, no but there could be something interesting to do there. I mean, who goes to Delaware? It could be fun. There's always fun somewhere. I'll google it."

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing that proved to be eventful in Delaware.

"Are you kidding me? How can there be nothing interesting?!" I was shocked.

"NEXT!"

We looked at a map. 

"Ooh," I said. "How about camping on the beach in North Carolina?"

"Too far."

"What if I drive and never stop? I can do it. I swear."

"Is there time?"

"If I drive and never stop...maybe? We took a few days off. It could work."

"Hmm, maybe."

We googled options for beach camping on the coast. There were too many legal fiascoes and permits to undertake.

"Why is camping on the beach so difficult?!" I exclaimed.

"How about Virginia?"

"Virginia?"

"Let's go to Shenandoah National Park!" Danny zoomed in on the map to Virginia.

"Blue Ridge Mountains?"

"Blue People?"

"No, I think those are in Tennessee?"

"Ozarks?"

"Maybe?"

We researched some of the popular extended hiking trails in the area. We landed on Old Rag Mountain. Danny and I had a terrible way of gauging our hiking capabilities against the quick facts of a trail of a mountain. 

"Oh!" Danny said. "The summit is only 3,291 feet."

"Really? Mount Marcy was 5,344. So how easy is it? How long does it take?"

"It says there is a rock scramble to the top."

"We've done that before. I mean, Mount Marcy was terrible but we've done other hikes since then. We're more prepared now. I think I'm more in shape than last year." 

I wasn't.

"Well, we can climb to the summit and instead of connecting to the fire road back to the car we can just continue. It'll take longer and a few more days," said Danny.

"Oh! That sounds like fun! Let's do that! It'll be good practice for New Zealand."

"Yeah! What time do you want to leave?"

"Google Maps says it should take about 6 1/2 hours. I have work in the morning but we could leave early in the afternoon and still get there before sundown."

"It'll be good to get there when there is still light to set up camp."

"We'll have plenty of time," I said nonchalantly.

****

                                            It was April 16, 2009. Wednesday. Noon.

Danny and I wanted to pack together so we could easily disperse the load, although in hindsight I’m not sure why we just didn’t throw everything in the car immediately and take care of the dispersing at the campsite…but I’m sure we had our “sound” reasons. 

We put off the packing and instead went shopping for food supplies. We purchased the typical normal camping foods: nuts, chocolate, energy bars, hot chocolate mix, tea, macaroni, and oatmeal. 

We packed our bags and collected our gear. 

                                                  It was already after 2 p.m. 

“Great!” Danny said excitedly. “Let’s go!”

“I just have to do one more thing…” 

At the last minute I had remembered carpet cleaners were coming over the weekend and I was given a task to remove anything and everything off from my bedroom floor and onto my bed. Now, this wouldn’t have been a big deal for a normal and organized human being but I had recently (three years+) fallen into the terrible trap of hoarding. I had an embarrassingly large amount of art, animal, travel, political and backpacking magazines that I swore I’d read one day. I had a maze of thousands upon thousands of photographs from the last three years of my own life and the whole photographic journey of my family that I promised to organize and archive. I had at least three guitars, a couple of keyboards and a children’s xylophone as well as some other treasures like a whole aisle’s worth of throw-away books from the local library and board games even the original owner didn’t want any more and handed off to me at a garage sale. In other words…I had a lot of stuff. And my room was not very large. 

I couldn’t just throw all of my ‘precious’ belongings haphazardly onto my bed. There had to be a process. This had to be thought out as an architect would. I had to make this fit correctly. I grabbed some industrial sized garbage bags and organized the magazines by current relevance, the photographs by year so as to not confuse the order I had originally set them aside as before I took my epic organizational hiatus. It took a couple of tries but eventually we managed to fit all non-fragile and delicate material from the last three years on top of my bed. The amount of rubbish almost reached the ceiling.

“Okay! All done! Let’s go!” I chirped.

                                                         It was approaching 5 p.m. 

Danny was not smiling. “Crystal, it’s 5 o’clock!”

“Which means we’ll bypass the traffic by going West!”

“It’s going to get dark soon.”

“We can set up camp in the dark. We have flashlights.”

He groaned. “Okay, okay. Let’s go. I’ll drive first. You're a mess driving through the city.”

"Not going to argue that."

We hopped in the car. We were welcomed with traffic. I attempted to play up the charm-factor as a way to apologize to Danny for taking so long with getting onto the road. I had made a new batch of specialized mix CD’s for our journey.   

"I HAVE NEW MIX CD'S!" I screamed. "I THINK YOU WILL REALLY ENJOY THEM!" I cautiously stole a glance at Danny to see if he expressed any interest in listening to the CD's I spent hours crafting. 

 "They're themed!" I said proudly. As if it took a genius to figure out how to pick specialized songs related to highways or road trips and burn them to a disk. I recited the CD titles hoping they would put a smile on his face.

"Okay! We have the "Life is a Highway/Riding in My Car: TO VIRGINIA FROM NEW YORK mix CD," the "Take Me Home Country Road! The Highway Mix" and the "The Greatest American Idol Mix! Virginia Mix-Down! (Adam Lambert Forever) (YOU ARE THE AMERICAN IDOL)"

"Ooh. Let's listen to the American Idol one."

"I thought you'd pick that one first."

After an hour of screaming along to ridiculous renditions of various Michael Jackson tunes we popped in the "Riding in my Car" mix which consisted of random mp3's (thanks internet!) that involved the words "highway," "road" or "car." Needless to say there were quite a few gems. The first track however was not "underground" by any means but as hokey as it could ever be on a road trip. Tom Cochrane's "Life is a Highway." An obvious choice.

"You know I hate this song, right?"

"You do?!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It reminds me of when I was abroad with Contiki. They played it on the bus every morning and every evening."

"...oh. I'm sorry..."

"I CAN'T STAND THIS SONG! NEXT TRACK. NEXT. TRACK!"

Some of the songs on my mix CD weren't even songs I particularly enjoyed but I really enjoyed the time I spent in finding these songs. 

• Ride in my Car by The Woodsmen
• Crossroads by Texas Lewis Slim
• Riding in Your Car by Elephant Parade
• Get in the Car & Drive by Blu Sanders
• In the Car by Dealership
• Hit the Road Jack by Texas Lewis Slim
• In My Car by The Pack (quite possibly the greatest find of 2009: see above video)
• Lost in My Car by The Farmers
• Standing in the Death Car by Standing
• Jump in My Car by Slow Motion
• Always Crashing in the Same Car by David Bowie
• Jump in My Car by IEACIA
• In Your Car by Ian Mykel
• You and Me in a Rented Car, Two Small Bags and a Plastic Guitar by Utah Rangers
• Sleeping in My Car by Roxette
• Captain Abu Raed, in the Fog by Austin Wintory
• In the Death Car by Iggy Pop (All 17.23 minutes...did not go over well...) 

When it comes to pleasing an on-the-fence driver I found that effort or symbolism does not mean as much as it does to the creator. Drivers just want and need interesting songs in order to better pass the time. More importantly they require songs they know so they can sing along.

The next mix CD consisted of seven different versions of "Take me Home, Country Roads" originally by John Denver. Everything from robotic, dance, reggae, punk, electronic and so on...I tracked it down and I had it. All. If Danny didn't know the song before he was sure as heck going to know it now. Mountain Mama all right.

                                                  It was approaching 10 p.m. 

We stopped at a rest-stop in Maryland to find some food. Inside there was a closed Welcome Center, a Quiznos, a Starbucks, Burger King, and a 'High-End' food-mart. 

"I think the only food you're going to find is at Quiznos," I said to Danny. "They have a Veggie Sandwich." 

We approached the balding middle-aged man behind the Quiznos counter. He pointed to the left side of the counter where there were three options. 

"Your options for this evening are those three,"  he said to us.

Option One: The Meat Sandwich

Option Two: The Italian Meat Sandwich

Option Three: The 'low-carb' Meat Sandwich

"Are you saying we can only order from those three options?" Danny asked.

Quiznos man just pointed to the left of the counter and yawned. 

"So, does that mean we can't order the Veggie Sandwich on the right?"

"No Veggie! ONLY from the left."

"But could you just make a sandwich of vegetables? I can't eat meat."

"It's too late," he pointed again to the left. "Your options..."

"Can I order the meat sandwich without the meat and substitute vegetables instead?"

"No."

"Really?!"

"Yes."

We backed away slowly from the counter and wandered into the 'High-End' food mart and opted for packaged fruit and cheese cubes for dinner instead. Above the double-door exit of the rest-stop two signs hung. On the right side a sign read "South-Virginia" and on the left "North to DC." I pushed Danny quickly from the left side over to the right, shoving him into the wall. 

"What is wrong with you!"

"You almost walked through the wrong side!"

"What?!"

I pointed to the signs above the door. He laughed. 

"You're fucking crazy."

"THERE'S A REASON THAT SIGN IS THERE," I yelled out after him. 

Danny had left the car lights running. I relieved him of his diligent driving duties and we carried on our way. When we approached Virginia and sidelined off from the main highway to the 'country/county' roads we noticed subtle differences in how Virginia and Long Island handle their informative road signs. Put simply: Long Island seems to have a street sign everywhere you look whereas Virginia had none. 

"Are you sure this is 231?" I asked Danny.

"It should be."

"What's the next step?"

"Right on 707. Sharp Rock Road."

"SHARP ROCK ROAD?"

"That's the name."

"Oh, jeez. When?"

"Less than a mile."

The small four lane road was deserted except for the occasional gas station. The only other source of light on the road came from the red stop light every mile and a half or so. Occasionally a street sign would pop up but it only would list the cross street never indicating what street we were actually driving on.

"How can they not have a sign saying what street this is?" I grumbled. "I guess they figured if you got yourself here you should know the area and the street names."

"I think it's been over a mile..."

"But I didn't see the turn. Should I turn around?"

"Let's go a little further and then we can turn around."

We drove a bit further and there was never any turn off for 707. We turned around and luckily spotted the hidden street sign for our turn off.

                                                            It was past Midnight.

"We found it!" we cheered.

"Now what?" I asked Danny.

"Okay! Now we need State Road 600 and then Weakly Hollow Road."

"Easy enough."

We drove onwards onto the paved road. It winded deep into the dark woods and around quiet little farm houses. The road quickly turned into a restricted one way dirt path.

"Where are we?!" Danny laughed.

"Should I keep going?"

"Where else are we going to go?!"

We turned off the music and followed the road into the dark. It was quiet.

"This is Dobb's Road." That was always Danny's way of saying 'This is a road where serial killers live and attack their victims.'

"Oh hush," I laughed. "This ain't no Dobb's Road. Look I see a turn up ahead."

We drove and I turned. The road carried on in either direction but a large wooden sign was posted off to the right. 

"What the..." 

I pulled over and read the sign.

"You've got to be kidding me," Danny said.

I grabbed my flashlight, opened my car door and stepped outside. It was approaching at most 35 degrees Fahrenheit. I could see my laughter as water vapor in the air.

"I am not leaving this car," Danny poked his head out of the window.

"Seriously?"

"Yes. DOBB'S. ROAD, CRYSTAL" Danny screamed. "I told you this was Dobb's Road."

                                                             "This is a trap set by the man who owns Dobb's Road!"

My, What a Pretty Haystack and Other Exaggerated Claims of Beauty

I do not know why I find haystacks to be beautiful. Or dirt roads. Or airplane hangers. But I do. It has become increasingly clear that what I may find to be ridiculously charming may not be considered the norm for what is usually ridiculously charming, ie: baby turtles, tiny spoons, a Bed and Breakfast on a winter evening. Although I will admit those things are utterly adorable. I mean, c'mon, TINY SPOONS?!

And what is the cause for finding such things as charming? Is it my exaggerated manner in thinking or speaking? Is it my affinity towards romanticizing events or conversations? Who knows.

Like most things we'll just blame it all on my childhood and call it a day.

****

It was September of 2011 and eight months into my year-long stint of teaching English in the Republic of Georgia. I was placed on a bus next to a young man who was recently placed in my town. We were headed to Batumi, a sea-side town, to attend the premiere of "Keto and Kote" (a Georgian version of Romeo and Juliet).

"So, how did you spend your summer?" the young man asked me.
"I backpacked through the Balkans and worked on a farm in Romania."
"Oh! That's interesting. I don't know many people who have been to that part of the world. Did you go alone?"
"Yeah, but I met a lot of people along the way so I was never really alone."
"How was it?"
"Beautiful."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I was trying to get to this graveyard in Romania on the Ukrainian border-"
"A graveyard?"
"Yeah, I really enjoy graveyards. It's called THE MERRY CEMETERY. Tell me that you wouldn't want to go there with a name like that?"
"No, no. I understand...I think."
"You like graveyards too?"
"...I don't mind them."
"Oh! Good! I need a friend in town to explore graveyards with. It has taken me forever to find some in town. ANYWAYS, I wanted to find this graveyard, which I did and it was awesome and worth the whole trip, but I detoured through the Balkans and I found something interesting."
"Yeah? What?"
"Haystacks."
"Haystacks?"
"Yeah, I also have a thing for haystacks."
"How so?"
"Well, I think they're so beautiful."
"Beautiful?"
"Yeah. It's just so quaint. And in America we have a certain way of making haystacks. I did a road-trip around America with my father last summer and I drove him crazy with requests to pull over to look at haystacks and windmills. There's just so much of it out West!"
"Windmills also?"
 "Yes! But let's stay on track. Haystacks...I never really thought about the process of making hay. I just spent my time skipping around haystacks exclaiming 'My, what a pretty haystack!' totally uneducated about the hay-making process.  And then I realized that in Bosnia or in Romania or even here in Georgia it is a totally different process. They look like little igloos. There is a completely different technique when it comes to making hay."
"Yeah, I noticed the haystacks here do look different."
"Right. And then I worked on a horse ranch in the middle of Transylvania in Romania, yeah I know that sounds fake but it's true, and my only task was to make hay. Hay is very important on a horse ranch."
"How was it?"
"AWFUL! I had blisters on my hands from all the raking. DO YOU KNOW HOW HEAVY GRASS CAN BE WHEN IT IS PILED UP?"
"...heavy?"
"SO. HEAVY."
"Right."
"It was a long process. I felt so ignorant about this way of life. The hay-making never ends. The horses never stop needing hay...unless they die. Hay can make or break an entire farm. It can go on for infinity if done right. Zoli, the farmer, would say to me every morning 'we must turn the grass!' 'we must make more hay.' And so I would go to the field and turn the grass. I never stopped making hay."
"Sounds tiring."
"I never wanted to look at hay after that."
"So are haystacks still pretty to you?"
"Of course they are. I just don't want to make any haystacks for a very long time."
"I don't think I've ever heard anybody talk about hay the way that you have. Or have met anybody who thought they were pretty."
"I could go on about the things I find enchanting."
"I bet you could."