Tbilisi Tango Therapy

I won’t write about Shevardnadze’s death.

I won’t write about Mayor’s elections.

This week I will write about something enticing.

Have you ever considered many films and books telling a story about a hero outsider? That archetype of a born-outside-of-the-realm saver, the one who comes to a foreign world and helps natives find strength in their own resources? Like Paul Muad’dib in Frank Herbet’s “Dune”, like that soldier guy from the “Avatar”? Fremen’s term for Paul is Lisan al-Gaib (sci fi haters, bear with me): the voice of the outer world.  Yes, on one hand, it has a colonial, white-men-will-save-the-world aftertaste – because why can’t natives just save themselves- but on the other hand, when you’re stuck in the same shit daily, the voice of the outer world is what gets you out!

 Got me out, in any case.

Tbilisi has a little tango society. All you have to do is look them up on FB. Simple, right? No. Because why would I suspect it in Tbilisi? Thus, just like in a classical sci-fi adventure, a voice of the outer world, my Latvian therapist, who visits Georgia once in a blue moon (O.K. every other month), looked for the tango-dancing folks and joined them. And of course, despite his multiple stories about them, I still refused to believe that they exist. Tbilisi tango. A little cognitive dissonance. Beautiful magical unicorn.

But my best friend got interested and practically forced me to accompany our therapist to his tango lesson.

Imagine:

You get out of a smelly taxi.

Walk by the oft-visited TBC bank.

Glimpse towards road that leads to the despised Ministry of Education.

Walk into Eldorado café.

Chandeliers light up.

Girls in pretty dresses and high heels are perched on the wooden Vienna stools.

Pair of strangers dance.

Chocolate flows in the right corner.

And as time passes by, slim, well-posed boys walk to the group of girls, silently exchange looks, smiles, gestures, stand oppose each other, hold hands, press faces together and start dancing…

Couples multiply. It gets harder to focus on a particular pair. They are part of a bigger entity, they all do the same thing, they all do the different thing. Some dance shy. Some dance strong. Some dance close. Some dance apart.

 A confection of white lace and silk floats by and all I can think of is Rafaello dessert (I know, consumerism has maimed me for life). The girl has such reserved, tender passion, she keeps her eyes closed, she keeps her body away, save the temple area on the face, the hands around the back and sometimes, only sometimes, a high-heeled leg shoots up in the air, and sometimes it brushes against partner’s calves. Sometimes she wants to step away, but her partner blocks her with his feet. Smiling, with eyes closed, she dances in the free space that he lets her have, because, he is the one that cannot close his eyes, he is the one that has to watch out for other couples, choose direction, guess her wishes.

I squirm uncomfortably upon this realization. “But what if a girl does not want to sit around and wait to be picked? What if girls wants to lead?”, I ask. I live in a world where girls are not allowed to choose and lead. “They often learn the other part and partner up with each other”, casually answers my therapist and I really, really want to see that. He is back at the table, with his sickeningly good camera zoom, taking pics of the dancers. Then he walks up to a covey of Georgian girls, looks lingeringly, until one of them accepts his invitation, presses her face  against his and they join the dancing current.

We leave after 3 hours.

We walk through old streets with old wooden balconies.

I still can’t connect what I’ve seen with my city.

As I go on living in it, as I keep on walking in its streets, as things get mundane and tiresome, as I come up with all-night dancing and 100 happy days projects (more on that later), trying to fight this desperation, trying to cover up the emptiness, as I keep sacrificing sleep, healthy eating, rest, self-esteem, I forget that good things, truly good things exist in Tbilisi. I forget that I don’t always need to forge my own happiness, that sometimes happiness just sits there, waiting to be discovered.

I am plotting the next tango meeting.

P.S. the pic: this pic is horrible. My camera phone sucks at capturing motion and I didn't want to post close-ups, since I haven't asked for permission to post these pics. But, this is the proof that the unicorn is real :-)

Vagina Monologues in Tbilisi. Again.

My vagina liked last year’s Vagina Monologues so much that it begged to come back. And come back it did, a director vagina. An important vagina.

My vagina sat with many other vaginas for 3 months and we talked about…guess…vaginas. We talked about our monologues. We talked about parts of our souls they touch. We wrote about the women we presented. We made their stories our stories.

My vagina tried to direct. Honestly, it was more like giving personal feedback. It’s not like my vagina ran around artistically, yelling at the actors: “action, action!”

As we changed, so did our stories. Some vaginas lost love, some gained confidence. Some vaginas grew stronger. Some vaginas fell into darkness. Our monologues changed colors. Though in the end, our vaginas felt accomplished. It was like vagina therapy.

And so it happened that my vagina went to a Vagina Workshop.  To discover own form and essence. After practicing and practicing, my vagina finally talked about it in front of 200 people and it was elating. It even tried to convey an orgasm on stage. My vagina was funny. People laughed.

My vagina also made a little speech in the beginning. My vagina said, hey, women are killed in Georgia. Wheelchair-adapted swings are taken down in Georgia. My vagina said, we need to hear these women in Georgia. My vagina said, we need to hear them.

Backstage, my vagina watched other vaginas talk, one by one, and it was proud, my vagina was proud, it was my team, it was our team, we dared and talked about vaginas when most do not dare and  do not talk about vaginas.

No one yelled and no one screamed.

Some felt uncomfortable. Sitting and listening to other women’s vaginas. Some laughed nervously. Some felt connection. Some felt like they knew these vaginas on stage – through work, through life, through their own vaginas. Even if they did not have one.

And now it is over. My vagina believes that after performing last year and performing and directing this year, it has talked its talk. My vagina wants others to get involved. My vagina encourages you to participate next year.

And then you can sit down and write your own vagina monologue.

Like the one I am writing today. Or this one.

In any case, come and listen.

Because we have to:

Let our vaginas talk. Let our women speak. Let our inner, hidden, repressed selves finally declare: Enough! No more violence!

P.S. My Vagina Workshop scene

P.S. life is so hectic, I hardly find time to sit and think. And if I don’t think, I don’t write. And if I don’t write…well, I loose you guys.

That’s it. I promise to write in July. And thank you for still checking my page out.

The Invisible Women : M

 It’s been a while and I am sorry. You probably got tired of waiting for me. I don’t blame you. I wonder if anyone is still left here...

May 17^th went by just like any regular day. Some activists placed empty shoes on the “pogrom” site to honor the unseen, unheard people. Fliers appeared all over the city and stairway by Tavisupleba subway was painted in rainbow colors.

That day I arrived at the Pushkin square with my spare footwear to discover a man collecting shoes in big, black bags.  He told me that it was all gay propaganda. “But I brought shoes”, I whimpered. “You can put them down and I will collect them”, he answered very politely. He then complained that he “was forced to” throw away shoes.

Women were killed this spring, lots of women killed by angry men. Anyone notice that? Oh yes, government was preoccupied fighting gay propaganda (they demolished the rainbow stairs! Not painted over, demolished! I mean, the level of paranoia!!) just as it is preoccupied with incarcerating pot smokers at the moment.

I guess these several posts are my shoes. My attempt at “Dirty Pretty Things” (Haven’t seen it? Download right now!)

There are women in my life, who are invisible.  They are strong and they are independent and many times I look at them in awe. I just want you to know about them.  This is the first story:

M is smart, friendly, service-oriented. First time I walked into a salon where she worked (little, ugly thing  close to my house), she talked to me, explained stuff about my nails, hair, eyebrows, took care of my poor hands, walked me to the door and gave me her business card. As someone stuck in a post-soviet-service

limbo, I was pleasantly surprised. She was not nice because she worked in a high-class, expensive salon (it was yet another neighborhood barber shop) , not because I was someone important, but because that's how she usually talks to her clients.

Her skills are excellent. She had worked in Israel for many years, learning tricks of the industry, procuring better instruments, receiving better training. She was happy and busy and independent until one day her son almost boarded a bus that got blown to pieces in several minutes after the departure. They came back to Geo and she started working close to her house (to check in on her son).

Salon owner didn't treat M very well. He did not abuse her, nothing like that; he just did not value her. He had an exceptionally-trained nail technician in his shabby salon and he did not care.  He did not care about any of his female staff really. He was the boss who collected money.

M started saving funds, took a bank loan and eventually opened a tiny nail salon next to him. All of her clients moved away with her.  There she sworks now, in a neat little room that used to be a vegetable stand.

She decorated it and remodeled it and even extended walls a bit. Her salon has a tree in the middle. It was in the way and she did not want to cut it.

M is very strong. M sits all day, cutting people’s nails, shaping their eyebrows, she pays for the room, she pays for her life and she pays for her son’s life.  Sometimes she is sick, sometimes she is hungry - no time for lunch, though she never complains (We just chat about it. How are you? Oh well, hungry); she has never missed an appointment. Never. 

She is always fun. Sometimes she tells me her Israel stories. Some are funny, some are sad. How she got divorced.  How she loved. How she traveled. Other things.

Time after time she gives me mini lectures on skin care. She never judges me, no matter how horrible my nails look; doesn't reprimand me when sometimes I bite the skin on my fingers (gross).  She’s there, she’s always there and she probably does not even know how much security and stability her professional presence has given me over these, let’s see 3 years? 4 years? More? She has watched me change 4 jobs now.

I measure my month by how much time has passed since I last saw M.

I will always have M. Even when I move out of this place. I will make special trips to her little room with a tree.

M is invisible. M is not on TV. M does not attend rallies. M just does her job, professionally, cheerfully, with dignity. M is proud of her job. And I grow, I learn, I get inspired.

M is the first invisible woman I will tell you about. The first shoe that I put down.

The Day That God Died

MAY 17 2014, I WOULD LIKE TO RE-POST AND REVISIT THE HORROR WE ALL HAVE EXPERIENCED LAST YEAR.

First, I heard the roar. It sounded like thunder. It was increasing so rapidly, I wondered, what could it be. And then I saw one of my friends running frantically.   I gestured “what?” and he yelled: “run, run, quickly, run!”

I ran. I took my aunt’s hand and ran towards the museum of arts (even before the rally, I decided that in case danger, I would take a shelter in some building; museum had security). All the other activists ran left.

And then… the mob, the river of people, running and yelling, literally flooding the freedom square, in minutes, in seconds, with sticks, with chairs, with hate and that sound, that horrible roar. It reminded me of a crazy antelope stampede scene from the Lion King. And they were ready to kill Mufasa, oh yes they were.

The museum security locked the door.

It took all my courage not to break into sobs. I called my friend who was late and screamed for her to stay where she was. I couldn’t see what happened to other activists. I imagined that they climbed the St. George’s pedestal and was about to join them when I saw pedestal people waving Georgia’s old flag. I stopped. I shuddered. My friends would never wave that burgundy-colored symbol.

Out of the window, I watched embassy people leaving in the buses. The late girl finally called and met me. We talked in English, cause had to walk through that mob to get to hubby’s brother’s car.

Fear left me then. Anger came. They did it, they ruined our peaceful rally! 10 000 of them were ready to squish the 50 of us under their feet, full of hate, full of anger. They would not allow us to stand in colorful t-shirts for 10 minutes in a silent rally commemorating all the victims of homophobia. They turned us into the victims of homophobia! They turned us into the victims of homophobia! Damn them! Damn them!

After anger, fear returned. On my TV screen, I watched buses full of my friends attacked by uncontrollable mob. I watched them forcefully opening the door. I watched them climb on top of it. I remembered everyone who ran towards the buses, everyone who ran left. Can you imagine how they felt, squatting down to avoid bus windows, shaking, with no control, surrounded by mob, surrounded by angry clergy that tried to flip the bus?!

Thankfully, no one received serious injuries.

Now, I don’t feel anything. I am very tired. I am exhausted.

 Now, there is nothing left to loose.

God died in Georgia today. His “servants” killed him.

And now, they’re singing of his death in their gold-encrusted Sameba church.

P.S. The pic source:http://liberali.ge/ge/liberali/articles/114836/

Under the Chestnut Tree

    Hubby and I wanted to open a bar and call it The Chestnut Tree Café, inspired by George Orwell’s 1984. It had to have this feeling of mock freedom in a totalitarian world – cameras by the entrance, Victory gin, recording devices. Scary bathrooms. 1984 quotes on the walls. We thought it would be funny.

    I came back from a remote village in mountains today. I visited a kindergarten there, a freshly renovated, clean and cute kindergarten. With young and motivated teachers. But despite the new toys, new trainings, kindergarten can't provide all the services it is supposed to.  A kid goes  to that kindergarten, just for 1 hour a day, and no one knows what to do with this kid. He does not play like other kids, he does not talk like other kids, he can't be managed like other kids.

    My colleague went to another village to discover family with several kids that have multiple disabilities. Epilepsy and blindness, intellectual problems and immobility, you name it, these kids have it. She saw one girl who has never left the bed in 11 years. Another one had puss coming out of her eye. The third one spent most of her days locked out on the balcony. These kids had conditions that could have been prevented but due to myriad reasons, they were denied regular healthcare.

    We spent some time talking about these cases. We felt responsibility crush us. We had to undo years of damage. 2 of us.

    Last night I watched the most ridiculous discussion on TV. Foaming, people were yelling that passing anti-discrimination bill will ensure homosexual teachers raping pupils.

    May 17^th is coming and this time around, nothing is happening. After 2 years of rallying, just silence.

    My friend and her family had to sit through a 2-hour rant that declared their daughter and sister abnormal.

    After moving forward, we came back the full circle and are seriously discussing (again!) whether gay relations should be allowed.

   Clergy walks in and out Parliament sessions as it pleases.

   A young female lawyer talking about elementary, school-book level democracy principles is hissed at by audience in the Georgian fucking Parliament.

   Georgian government gives away one of the oldest hospitals in the city to the church that systematically destroys and deforms anything of historical significance that falls into its greedy hands.

   Anti-discrimination law is chopped down, mutilated, raped and killed. Debates are still raging over the corpse.  Necrophils from all over the county try to kick the cadaver just one last time.

   We won’t open a mock-totalitarism bar in a totalitarian country. I don’t need a bar for that – I can just open the window.

Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree

    P.S. the pic: clergy before walking out of the parliament. pic stolen from fb shares.

Wicked Games

While everyone is celebrating Easter, I am sitting by my comp at 3 in the morning, feeling a bit heavy.

The team just left. We were watching our game on TV and we watched ourselves loose once more and I felt incompetent once more.

I started playing intellectual quiz game show thingy “What When Where” accidentally. My hubby was an active player from school years and since he was so involved I tagged along, supporting him and his team. The team soon became part of our family. I was jokingly calling myself their groupie, following them around, wagging my tail and just waiting for them to like me. One after one, I befriended them all, and I think for 6 years now, some of hubby’s original team members have become my closest friends. We shared food, room, hey, 6 of us even shared couches and beds J They silently stepped into my life and I –into theirs and we lived happily ever after, until one genius (no joke here) received sky high score on GMAT and left us for much better life at Stanford. And then… a vacant spot on the team. თhey took me in.

For a long, long time I felt redundant, like I was occupying somebody else’s seat and I think I owe it to my captain who kept emphasizing every game I played well, until sometime, I don’t even remember when, last year maybe, I felt like I really am a member of this team that I have some role in it, that sometimes I am useful. We played throughout the year, off TV, we played well, we played badly, we played together.

Time after time I was asked for TV show casting, when I was put with a group of other castees and we had to answer questions as a team, while people observed us. Twice I went to casting last year and twice I acted unnatural – too loud, too quiet, too pushy, too obnoxious, too shy. I never really wanted it though. I just went along.

This year, I was called again. I had training that evening and I debated long and hard, to go or not to go. The truth is, I did not really want to play on TV. I did not value this game so much to miss my training for it. But I went anyway. I like adventures.

I think I was closer to myself this time. I guessed some questions. I answered some wrong ones. I was mostly silent but enthusiastic about stuff I knew. And…I did not make it. But, since my hubby’s TV team (which is different from our constant team) was temporarily missing one person, they let me play just this once.

And this is when it happened. During rehearsals with my hubby’s team. When I actually started participating. When this shit started getting valuable. When I wanted to really play and not just sit and look pretty.

We lost. We lost though we played well. Actually, they played well. I sat and looked pretty. I looked pretty on purpose: I wanted to be pretty and sexy and smart and to prove to the whole world that girls with nice eyes and big boobs can be smart too. And I failed. Not that I was nervous – I just went dumb.  I went blank. I remember enjoying the game and I wished it would never end, and I did not want us to win quickly.

But we lost and I keep wondering if the team would win with their regular team member. If they would have been better had they been 6 instead of 5 and an appendix.

I also feel big regret. Had we won, I could have played one more time in May.  Maybe I could be more daring the next time. Or not. I don’t know. I wanted to make my hubby proud.

Fuck, after 6 years of resisting, I finally let this game get to me. And I feel pissed. Because now that my chance has escaped me, I want it so bad.

P.S. my bow tie: symbol of the game J

Bolnisian Cowboy

I was struggling with major disappointment (more details in later posts). And on the top of that, I had to go to Kutaisi for my new job, training some kids in disability issues. After leaving late, we finally arrived at our hotel which looked like a baroque explosion. Seriously, even extension cords had ornaments.

My friend and I decided to take a half an hour walk in the neighborhood. It was getting late and we aimed for a short stroll. As we walked by a jazz café, we forced ourselves to check it out.

And here, in the middle of Kutaisi, we found American country.

It was surreal and it was weird. Some guy in the cowboy outfit was playing guitar and harmonica and singing motherfucking country!

Now, I don’t like country. I also don’t like Kutaisi. But seeing combination of these two made me very happy. As I was contemplating whether I should dance (old stereotypes die slow. I was afraid some Kutaisian boy would interpret my dance as flirting), damn cowboy started singing Bowie’s Space Oddity. I had to stand up in awe.

I love this song. I spent a wild, stoned weekend in Prague listening to this song over and over again. I listened to it crazed by the fumes of cannabis, alone with hubby in a foreign city, wondering from one medieval street to another, trapped in a tin can, floating through the air. I listened to it as we took off to the sky,  I listened despite all “turn off your electronic devices” warnings, I listened to it as we left the ground and my fogged up mind came up with myriad of stars, and man, here I was listening to it again, in Kutaisi, out of all the places.

I talked to the cowboy after the show. Turns out he is a star of Georgian “Voice”. What do I know, I don’t watch TV. I think he was a bit disappointed that I didn’t know who he was. He shamed me as a journalist. I embarrassingly started explaining that I was no journalist that I wrote for my fun and readers’ torture but how do you explain this whole stupid thing?

Anyway, he is a country singer. From Bolnisi. He likes country because it is a matter of taste (when I asked him “why country” he looked at me like really, are you really going to ask that?).  He plays here and there; touring a whole country isn’t option – no demand. He was on Georgian singing reality show. That’s when he played “Space Oddity” (“I just did that for TV, as you can see, that’s not my style at all”). Despite his American accent, he's never been to the states. Nowhere further than Poland. He came to Kutaisi with this cute girl with nice voice that sang with him. He is a Bolsnisian cowboy. He hasn’t shaved forever. He’s on YouTube. We should be FB friends. I can get more info that way.

I felt like a pesky reporter. I was like, thank you, this is fine, I really just have a personal blog. I am just writing impressions. I am sorry for bothering you…could I name my post “Bolnisian cowboy?” sorry for being a weirdo. Sorry for not knowing who you are. Thank you for playing. Umm, yes, OK, bye.

So here I am back into my Luis XIV room, thinking of Shota Adamashvili and cursing myself for not obtaining a wifi password to look him up. I have no idea who I met and what he does, but I was so down this morning and he restored my faith in humanity.

He played country in Kutaisi.