Extremefrolfman's Xanga

“Do you speak English?”

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 20:14:49 GMT

As Chopin, Mozart, and Beethoven tickled the air, brilliant streams from synchronized spouts dazzled the enlarging evening crowd around Republic Square in the heart of Yerevan. The sticky day cooled to comfort, and red jeans, high heels, and meticulously applied make-up finally made sense. The first night, we were lucky foreign observers sipping beer on the portico of the History Museum of Armenia. The second, after stumbling around with no destination in mind, we realized the mundane nature of the nightly affair hadn’t unsettled its spectators and shouldn’t disturb our enjoyment.

Armenia has an absurd history of conquest, war and national pain, torn apart by conflicts among Persia, the Ottoman Empire, and Russia/USSR, and devastated by a WWI-era attempt at genocide by the hands of the Turks. Yet the perseverance, determination, and optimism of the people, along with the hyper-developed and financially-supportive network of diasporans, demonstrate the power of the Armenian national soul.

The Envoy Hostel in Yerevan is one of a handful of its kind in the Caucus region. Its staff speaks many languages, is quick to help, and offers free daily walking tours of the city. Arriving “on business” with American Councils, a seemingly household name around town (or as ACCELS, our predecessor in the region), I was treated exceptionally well. Several of the staff were alumni of our programs and the head of the marketing department was a good friend of our office director.

The most scintillating aspect of travel is the people met along the way. Meeting fellow staff who enacts some of the very programs I worked to secure funding for this past spring (FLEX, JFDP) was a highly-anticipated joy of the trip. Similarly, engaging in conversation with several alumni of our programs offered the chance to see tangible effects of the government’s (and therefore taxpayer’s) generosity. The success stories are moving and inspiring as these dynamic young leaders continue down their chosen paths with a positive frame of reference toward America, and drawing from vast knowledge and skills learned through their exchange and study experiences.

Concurrently, the itinerants, who happened to be parked for the week in the only city I visited, were enjoyable companions. From the hitching, couch-surfing duo, to the Aussie and Dane headed to Iran, and the North Carolina Armenian-descendant with relatives in the area seeking to recoup some of his heritage after a divorce, I reveled in exchanging stories of travel, love, good governance, and superior social policy. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the Danish model, where university starts later in life and summers are supplemented with governmental money for travel. Their language skills and cultural acumen were staggering.

Yerevan is full of Soviet-era structures and a lingering sense of oppression and dependence flutters within the hope and dynamism of the new era. High in the hills overlooking the main street which boasts his name, an enormous statue of Mashtots (the creator of the Armenian alphabet) appears to a novice as Lenin or Stalin may have before they were torn down – big brother watching over the workers. Many projects in the city were expansive and overly-optimistic works accomplished (or not quite finished) through Soviet funding (and now in many cases with money from the diaspora). One example is the “Cascade” that was created by promising the Soviets that they would include an ode to the importance of Moscow vis-à-vis the 15 republics, in the form of a series of springs with each linked to the one symbolizing Moscow in the middle. Another funny story is how the subway was built in Yerevan, according to my tour guide. During one of his visits to the city, Brezhnev was frustrated with how long it took for him to get anywhere in his car. When he returned to Moscow, his first order of business was to authorize funding for Yerevan to create a subway. What he didn’t know was that the leaders of Yerevan slyly slowed and stopped traffic in front of Brezhnev’s car whenever he tried to go anywhere in the city. It’s a testament to the way Armenians made the best of the situations within which they found themselves.

Yet, while there were many successes, it seems, as I viewed during my time in Morocco, that many projects are undertaken without a realistic plan in mind. They are gigantic undertakings that may or may not get finished, but include frequent stops during the building process and/or inept plans for upkeep due to lack of funding.

Finally, the Sergei Parajanov house-museum offered my first glimpse of the creativity and dynamism that ran counter to the cultural oppression of Soviet times. His haunting works of cinema, structure, and collage, were intensely unique and striking displays of self-expression. Producing such work under the conditions in which he lived illustrates the need for humanity to express and the fearlessness that wraps a soul when the reality of the alternative is contemplated. For his genius, he spent five years in one of the worst Soviet detainment centers and moved from country to country in the region before laying to rest in Yerevan.

-Bart-

Sunny and nice

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 17:51:53 GMT

Patiently awaiting the completion of my Peace Corps service over the final months, one of my driving inspirations was a tour west during baseball season. I’d bus and rail toward manifest destiny stopping to spend time with friends and family and viewing as many teams play in as many parks as possible. Thanks to the invitation to the wedding of a good friend in California in early July, I was able to make good on aspects of my visualization.

Arriving several days early to San Francisco and graciously hosted by Ben, and Brian and Sarah, my first treat was watching the Cubs play the Giants in beautiful AT&T Park where Barry Bonds made famous the bay’s inlet over the right field bleachers. It was sunny and the beer sat well as local fans enjoyed beating the National League’s best team.

The next day I traveled to San Jose where the wedding was going to be held the following day. Finally enjoying my nation’s holiday in the states after several years abroad, we dined and watched fireworks out the windows of the International Suite high above the pedestrian viewers below. The wedding was gorgeous with Pearl playing the part of mysterious princess to Maroof’s benevolent dictator. They sat on the stage of the new rotunda building within city hall’s complex as an imam lead the proceedings in Arabic and English. Throughout the evening I enjoyed the company of Steve (a fellow Peace Corps volunteer) and several acquaintances I met the day before. The delectable buffet-style spread included Moroccan tagine, wrapped grape leaves, Caribbean chicken, and fried rice among other exotic dishes.

After the wedding I returned to San Francisco where I stayed with old friends again, attended an outdoor music festival, and saw an advanced screening of Thoroughly Modern Millie at Broadway at the Bay in San Mateo.

On Tuesday, a short plane ride took me to LAX where Moshay, yet another friend from Peace Corps picked me up and we enjoyed Guinness near the beach. Throughout my time in LA I stayed in Hermosa with my great friend from childhood, Eric. A relaxing day on the beach preceded a tour of the Walt Disney Concert Hall in downtown, a tour of Venice beach with Moshay and Michael from Peace Corps, and a night out on the town in Hollywood where the only celebrities I saw were on the sidewalk-lined stars. The steely undulations of the concert hall, another brain-child of Frank Gehry, form a striking image among the palm trees and skyscrapers.

Perhaps the best day of the trip began with coffee in Hollywood where we stayed with one of Eric’s friend after the night out. The first activity was disc golf at the nation’s (world’s) first course. Created in 1976, the course even retained one of the original baskets. Next, failing to book a ticket for the 3D version of the Journey to Center of the Earth, we saw Steve Carrell in Get Smart at a theater in Pasadena. Holding off on dinner until Dodger dogs came with a beer, we headed to Chavez Ravine to watch the Dodgers host the Marlins. Three runs in the first held for the Marlins until the Dodgers scored one in the ninth. With energy to spare, we headed over to West Hollywood and hung out with a cool group of friends from Bradley and Chicago among other places.

The final day included an attempt at surfing and a good deal of lounging and recuperation before the early morning flight back to the grind.

-Bart-

Reflection happens stateside, too.

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 02:12:17 GMT

After months off the beat, my gallant return… coming to you not from the back of a donkey cart traipsing through the rocky flats of middle Morocco, but on the Metro in humidly bustling Washington, DC. Already, in three months, I’ve seen more rain than two plus years in the desert. I’ve also played more softball, almost.

Life here is nice. Every weekday morning I take a bus from a small, tree-lined, and flower-filled traffic circle, five minutes from the row house where I live in LeDroit Park, to my place of work in the development department of an international education organization near Dupont Circle. I prefer the bus, with daylight and passing scenery, over the Metro’s dark tunnels and crowded rush hours.

One of my favorite parts of living in the U.S. is watching baseball. During my time abroad, I caught precious few live games, depending instead on glorified beat writing and dry box scores. In 2006, I saw parts of four playoff games at the American Club, gladly missing the finale as the Redbirds raised yet another championship banner among those littered throughout their devastatingly overcrowded girders. In 2007, when the Loveable Losers in Blue crashed and burned in three games, I watched not an inning. Thanks to a good baseball buddy, I heard Pat and Ron deliver the calls over the Internet, though with five innings left in what became their final game of the season, the operators of the neighborhood Internet café kicked me out at midnight.

Back to the future. The Washington Nationals are not as good of a baseball team as their new stadium is fantastic. As in many other Major League cities, most people utilize public transport to get to the game. The Metro outfits game-day with increased personal and informative PSAs. As one walks, takes the escalator, or rides the elevator up from the bowels, and ambles through the exit stalls, the image of the striking ballpark façade, literally only meters away, and sea of seats beyond, and the murmur of a mobilizing fanbase beckon. Arriving for a night game, the air thick and dusk falling, fans buy overpriced light beer, grab snacks and find their seats. Vantage points throughout the ballpark include combinations of the Washington Monument, the Anacostia River, and the U.S. Capitol Building. Towering over centerfield is an HDTV screen large enough to provide all 40,000 plus spectators with a fine alternative to IMAX programming.

My first game was on April 25^th. Fittingly, the Cubs were the visiting team. The Nationals pulled out a thrilling victory in their last at-bat with a minor league call-up hitting his first Major League home run as the game winner. Earlier in the game, Reed Johnson, the Cubs centerfielder, made perhaps the best catch I ever saw in person. As the ball was hit, he took off from right centerfield and caught the ball horizontally in the air, on his way down, curled slightly and crashed his upper back into the padding on the wall. As he got up and ran into the dugout to gasps and cheers, he did not even realize the bill of his hat was flipped up.

-Bart-

Transitioning

Sun, 10 Feb 2008 23:38:12 GMT

While living in Morocco, exotic travel opportunities were steps away – watching the pinkish-purple sunset off the breezy Essaouiran ramparts, trudging upwards through the pebble-laden landscape of the second highest mountain in Africa, lounging with modern-day nomads over mint tea in a small pocket of the great Sahara Desert… and now, after stops in St. Louis, Washington D.C. and New Orleans, I’m happy to remember how much excitement is available within our own country.

Returning to the states in late December, I was comforted by love and support from family and friends who were excited to have me back stateside. Out-of-town friends were home for the holidays and the season’s traditions carried me through the periods of “who am I now” questioning that come from, among other things, going through puberty and leaving a country (city, neighborhood, work) where you have invested two years of your life.

Through it all, I’ve been convinced of continuing the adventure. There is definite merit in setting up a sustainable life somewhere, developing routines, and settling into mortgage payments and marriage. Most times these are adventures in their own right. Yet, at this point in the game, my vision and images of happiness simply differ from these conventions. After living outside of my own country for a significant period I feel compelled to continue working cross-culturally. Rather than stumping for the protection of “my values”, I desire to find commonalities among divergent groups of people and nurture understanding of differences. Rather than decrying the addition of Spanish on signage as an erosion of English, our national language, I empathize with the Iraqis at O’Hare searching hopelessly for their flight, and wonder why we stopped at Spanish.

The transitioning process is always difficult and eternally a reality of the human experience. As January slid to February I found myself in a new situation – no school, no work – but I’m hopeful (and certain) that this time of soul-searching and exploration will serve me well.

-Bart-

For My Moroccan Friends...

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 17:11:04 GMT

Tagine Marocainne chez Brahim wa chrubna الشاي المغربي مع النعناع

Makla mrikania klanaha fi ras sna

أسرتي

Ana wa wld xalti Mason wa rajl ttlj

shjra al3id wa الهدايا

kora mrikania fi الثلج

Twhechkom bzzef!

-Bart-

On Becoming Re-Westernized

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 19:32:41 GMT

Traveling mostly by bus, sleeping in hostel dorms, and drinking lots of Guinness and a wee bit of Jameson, my friend Rich and I completed an expensive circle through Ireland and Northern Ireland. Dublin was the first stop with Moshay and Brian along for the ride. We spent the days walking through clouds and drizzle enjoying 13^th century Viking architecture, Norman medieval strongholds, and Georgian and Victorian ecclesiastical aesthetics. We also visited the distillery and storehouse of Ireland’s top whiskey and stout producers. Though both lauded their patron saints, John Jameson and Arthur Guinness, respectively, and ended with free drinks, I found the Jameson tour more enjoyable. Most evenings then involved pub crawls, run-ins with doormen that “think you’ve had enough”, and dancing in one of the clubs that would let four scruffy RPCVs in.

The day before leaving Dublin Rich and I decided our first stop would be Cashel in County Tiperary, the heart of his ancestry. For me it was incredibly relaxing and a beautiful change from the bustling city and overcrowded and over-ruled Isaac’s Hostel (don’t go). Cashel was charming and due to the low season, strikingly void of other travelers. My second night I was the only one in my hostel (Cashel Holiday Hostel – great place, stay there) as Rich had embarked to Clonmel to sing and strum the night away at Lonergan’s. During my day alone I visited the historic Rock of Cashel, spent too much money for a cup of coffee to enjoy while writing post cards and notes, and finished a book. My body thanked me as I sipped an Irish whiskey that evening with the locals decrying the recent reports on increased cocaine use among pub goers.

Rich and I met the next day in Limerick instead of Doolin (on the West coast in the Burren) because we had to wait until 5:30pm to get a bus out. So we took the opportunity to explore as steady drizzle and whipping wind ushered us through town – lots of churches and grey and great revamped touristy information posted about the medieval architecture.

Arriving in Doolin by night and let off door-side by our seasoned driver who carved ominously through the narrow meandering country road we warmed by the fire and soaked in another great evening in the country. Doolin supposedly has great traditional music, but that must be during the high season. The next day walking through the barren landscape of the Burren we hardly met a soul outside several dogs that accompanied us at different times throughout our hunger-inducing morning jaunt. Breath-taking moonscapes and gorgeous low-lying clouds graced our promenade.

That evening we arrived in Galway where all of Doolin’s musicians go in the winter. Woody, well-lit pubs hosted beautiful sets of music that went well with our Bulmers and Guinness. Despite the crawl we settled on our favorite and soaked it in. Galway has a great “super-pub” stretch with superb window shopping and Christmas light viewing. Yet again the mix with ancient architecture was incredible including one old 14^th century church that abuts the strip with its spire and forested back-lot just visible over the tops of the buildings. And for spiritual solace we attended weekday mass at the Galway cathedral, consecrated in 1965 by a cardinal from Boston. I received the body, but missed out on the blood through some sort of mix-up. Barnacles Hostel comes highly recommended; free breakfast was delicious. Below are pictured examples of the Claddagh ring, of which Dillon's of Galway claims it is the last of the authentic crafters.

The next day we took a six hour bus ride to Derry and stayed at my favorite of the hostels, Derry Independent Hostel near another old church. The charm came by the name of Kylie and stayed in the form of a warm fire, hearty breakfast, and good fellowship with an older lady from California who left America nine months ago to study architecture and two Aussie’s. We watched the X-Factor (a highly popular Simon Crowel show – think American Idol) and, I’m not ashamed to admit, Pretty Woman. I just love Julia Roberts. Unfortunately since Derry is in Northern Ireland we had to draw out British pounds. With the exchange rate at $1000 to 1 pound these days it was an expensive journey through the North. Equally as unfortunate, we did not have time to enjoy Derry as we were headed to Giant’s Causeway, the awe-inspiring and raw coastline a few hours north. Derry, like Belfast, which we did have the chance to explore, has a recent history wrought with sectarian and political violence. Our American friend, the artsy older lady said the calm that she enjoyed during her stay in Derry was obviously masking deep contention.

*Sorry no picture*

Giant’s Causeway will be summed up in the accompanying photos, though neither they nor I can really provide the natural phenomenon it’s due service. Perhaps the best part was overhearing a Scottish grandpa recount the legend of Finn MacCool to his grandson. Evidently, many years ago a giant named Finn wanted to fight a Scottish giant so he built the Causeway to get over to Scotland. However, when he saw how big the Scottish giant was he ran and hid in his house. Finn’s wife then dressed him up like a baby and when the Scottish giant came calling and saw the baby next to the wife he was frightened by how big the baby’s dad must be! So he ran back to Scotland and ripped up the Causeway as he went. In Bushmills we bought some treats at a grocery store and went to a coffee shop to enjoy them with fresh brew. Evidently it’s not customary to bring in food from the outside and the owner incredulously asked me if we “do that where I come from”; to which I replied that my friend and I had been in Morocco for two years where in fact you do do that. He didn’t much change his pained facial expression and told me to finish it outside when I left.

Next was Belfast where we had trouble finding a hostel because Bruce Springsteen was also in town. We happened upon another of the over-crowed variety and then happened upon the oldest pub in Belfast where they were playing beautiful traditional music. Over the course of two nights at that place Rich and I got plenty of free drinks from new friends helping out two good American brethren and Rich played four songs with the band. The following day we strolled through West Belfast where murals and memorials for those fallen in the recent urban warfare and hunger strikes were hard to fathom. Such violence and atrocities continuing in Western Europe into the nineties! The wall called the Peace Line that separates the Catholic part from the Protestant part of the neighborhood has been around longer than the Berlin wall lasted. I learned a lot by walking around and chatting with a few older men who gave of their time.

"Our revenge will be the laughter of our children"

Now back in Dublin we are tired, ready for Christmas and excited to get home.

-Bart-

Paris, France

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 08:16:07 GMT

In the fall of 2004 Mathias Gloppe came to live with us in Columbia, Missouri thanks to a connection between his school in Paris and Mizzou, and the ingenious work of Dave Smith. In the ensuing years I've had the esteemed good fortune of visiting Matt in a variety of locales really throughout the world. I stayed at his friend's uncle's apartment in New York, his parents' old and new summer homes in Marrakech, and now in his downtown apartment in Paris. Along the way I've also spent good time with his unbelievably hospitable family, especially Frederic and Lynn, his parents, who lead me through the tapestries of modern French society and consistently ensure of my comfort and relaxation, respectively. Then there is his best friend Sacha, who, thanks to a lengthened stay in Boston has become a die-hard Red Sox fan. Add that to his extra-excitable personality and you have a fitting melange. Just yesterday I discussed the future of Johan Santana with two very informed Frenchmen. Not a customary topic of conversation in Paris I imagine. On my way home it has been a superb pleasure stopping off to yet again say hello to another amazing host family.

Shaking my country director's hand at the stamp-out ceremony in Rabat

From across the Seine

My attempt, at the Louvre, to take a picture like Dave Smith

In Montmartre at Sacre Coeur

Vroom Vroom

-Bart-

Leaving so soon?

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 12:05:42 GMT

The sign I may miss, the realities behind its symbolism...uh...nope.

Here's to Thanksgiving! One, two, three, Hashuma!...er...I mean cheers.

Karim and I with director Boudina and gatekeeper Massoudi in the background. The Youth and English Club gave me my outfit and then took endless pictures with the funny American. I made up for it by giving the gatekeeper a screwdriver, which everyone thought was HILARIOUS!

Brahim and Kiki. My how you've grown. Khaoula is next to me and sick, probably from washing my clothes in the rain. Miskina.

Zacharia, the baby formerly known as Ferris (but the local authorities said the name wasn't Moroccan, even though it is in the Qur'an). He lives in Tanger with my host sister, Hind, and her eternally cool husband Rachid. Hind and Zach made the overnight trip down to Ben Guerir to spend the holidays with her family (Eid Kabir is coming up around Christmas time this year).

Karim, Kiki, Hind, Zacharias, Papa Hasan, and Khaoula. Ghadi ntwHeshkum bzzef!

On my way back to the states now through Rabat, Marrakech, Paris, Dublin, Galway, Aran Islands, Derry, Bushmills, Belfast, and Slane. See some of you very soon!

-Bart-

Another Tuesday, another Great American visit.

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 14:31:03 GMT

Yesterday around 11:30 AM nine students from an international studies charter high school in New York City arrived in Ben Guerir with three teachers and a Moroccan driver. The nine that slowly filed in our classroom were the best of 33 applicants for an exchange experience that was the brainchild of a friend of another currently serving Peace Corps Volunteer. With the help of the other PCV and patience all around we gradually learned each other names through various get-to-know you games. Abdelghani is not easy for the American tongue, as Talia or Kasia is not for the Moroccan. For a few minutes, as the two groups of students sat segregated and antsy, I thought I had signed up more than we could manage. The students were tired and both groups were having a hard time understanding each other or getting into the activities. Yet, by the end of the morning activities (when the gatekeeper finally came in to kick us out half an hour after he normally closes, god bless his parents) there were smiles all around and people were opening up.

After another magnificent lunch at the Faddouls, Ben Geurir’s number one family, the youth played a mixed game of soccer at our dusty park with Mother Nature threatening the first rain of November and whipping sand across the field. Other groups of youth played Frisbee, baseball and talked amongst themselves. Team A (or B, I don’t know) finally won the closely fought game on a goal by my Peace Corps colleague and off they went to Marrakech.

I took a few things away from the day besides a tired body. Something I already knew was obviously displayed today. Those youth with positive attitudes who were flexible, curious and ready-for-anything gained the most from the experience. In this regard, I was impressed by most of the youth and teachers and happy that they appreciated our hard work in setting up a genuine cross-cultural opportunity.

Secondly, within the group of visitors there were two Moroccan-Americans (one teacher, one student) who had Arabic names and could pretty much speak the local language fluently. One was born near Rabat, moved away around age 11, and hasn’t been back in 10 years, and the other was born in America and visits every summer. I was struck by both of them. They were 100% American, as expected, and seeing them in their native (or ancestral) was illustrative. At one point one of them actually looked to me for help translating the words of a woman who considered she was speaking to a Moroccan. I wonder if she ever thought a man from Peoria, Illinois would help her understand Moroccan Arabic. It led me to think about the aspects of identity that are lost or compromised by extended immersion in a foreign culture. Conversely then, think of all that is gained.

Lastly, I hope that there is an increase in the amount of youth exchange programs from America to Morocco. What better country is there for our young people to gain a first-hand view of the realities of Arab and Islamic culture (news flash: Islam is a religion of peace / the word terrorism, when looked up in the dictionary, has no direct relationship with the word Arab and/or Islam)? It is tourist friendly – Morocco is set to accommodate 10 million foreign tourists annually by 2010. It is steeped in culture and history. Its citizens are learning English at a rate that should make any mono-lingual American ashamed. And best of all, it’s a moderate friend of the United States. Did you know it was the first country to officially recognize our newly formed country in 1776? If you came here you would because someone would tell you (and then try to take you to his cousin’s shop for tea and carpets).

*Digressing and stepping down from soapbox*

-Bart-

A Nice Visit

Sat, 17 Nov 2007 14:36:03 GMT

Earlier this week the Peace Corps Morocco Country Director and Safety and Security Coordinator, and the Deputy Director of Congressional Relations at the Peace Corps (Washington) graced my work place, home, and host family’s house. Including the gregarious driver, the visitors were an even pair of two Moroccans and two Americans. Pictured is our country director shaking the hand of my good friend Rachid, who happens to know very little English this side of “how are you?” Luckily, hand shakes transcend such limits. Our distinguished guest from Washington, meanwhile, is visible over Bruce’s left shoulder as she admirably practices the Arabic she’s currently studying back in Washington.

After some songs, poetry, tea and cookies at Youth and English Club, and a brief discussion about facts on the ground and current trends in Washington chez moi, the group headed to the Faddoul household where Kaboura was preparing a delicious meal of “reddened chicken.” We ate heartily over jokes, cat discipline, and mutual inquiries. In the end it was great to have the chance to show off my site and work to both the country director and an influential force for Peace Corps in Washington. All four guests proved to be genuinely curious and incredibly affable, and thanks to the help of my superior counterparts I have no doubt they left with a good impression of Ben Guerir.

-Bart-

P.S. Thirteen more days and I’m in Paris.