Beginnings and The Name of Things

When I was four or five my father moved to Russia for work and my mother and I stayed behind in our little brick bungalow on Holly street in Denver, Colorado. Sometimes, even after he was already gone, mom and I would listen to the Russian language tapes he had left in the car on our way to my preschool. I tried to imagine my father walking in foreign streets, eating in restaurants I had never seen which served food unlike any in our refrigerator. I knew that it was cold in Russia and so whenever I pictured my father there I saw him bundled in an enormous brown fur coat (not that he owned any such garment). I think that this was an idea I got from the old PBS film production of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. The wardrobe that Lucy stumbled through to get to Narnia was filled with similar large and harry frocks.

When my father returned to us, he brought some of the most beautiful gifts I have received to this day: a chess set carved of wood and delicately painted in bright colors and intricate detail, a large wooden box to hold the chess set, and a little blonde doll wearing a dark floral patterned dress with lace cuffs. I named her Maria. The wooden box, like the chess set, was painted with intricate detail, but instead of repetitive patterns, the artist had used this larger space to paint a landscape of Red Square in the snow. The Scene was like something out of a fairy tale, the balls and spires of St. Basils arranged the way I imagined any decent princess's castle should be.

This was the beginning for me, this pretty wooden box and the look on my father’s face as he told me about the place depicted on its lid. I knew then I would go out and find wonders like this for myself: palaces, and treasures, and pretty churches in the snow. At five-years-old this grand romantic notion took no particular shape. There was no plan, just naked wanderlust.

Not long after my father returned from Russia, he began working on a project in the Southeast Asian country of Malaysia, where all of us eventually moved. I took to international travel like a moth to flame. Only in this case, I acted more as flame than moth. I wanted to taste everything, smell everything, consume everything, to take it inside me and burn it up. Our first flight to Malaysia my mother and I were seated in the very front row of the aircraft. From heated hand towels to complimentary toiletry kit, from smiling customs agent to the sticky Malaysian air, I fell in love.

And so it was that with my college graduation rapidly approaching and a chorus of “what will you do after school?” playing repeatedly in my ear, I began exploring options to uproot myself once again. Having moved back to the states at about age ten, I had been in one place for too long.

It didn’t take me long to come across the Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG) program. It was advertised on many sites catering to those looking be employed teaching abroad. The best part of this program, other than it being paid volunteer work, was that the Georgian Government covered the flight to and from The Republic of Georgia, and after a somewhat drawn out application process, I was accepted.

What follows here are my exploits in this small but quickly developing country. I will be teaching English in the public schools, working with local teachers, and living with a host family during my time here. It will be, with any luck, a great and instructive adventure.

A Note on Names

The name of this blog is simply a clever reference to the slight obscurity of The Republic of Georgia and it’s similarity to the name of a US state. I want to make it clear that Georgia is a completely independent country from Russia with it’s own language and rich culture. I’m not comparing the two countries in any way. I’m simply using their geography as a reference point.