Wherein, the Heroine Avoids a near full on pub brawl, Discovers a literary gem, Confronts a ghost and Recommends a book-not necessarily in that order.

Devoured since May, is a stack of books that includes Azerbaijan Diary by Thomas Goltz. A man who I had the fortune to meet at Tequila Junction late one Baku night when said author, after waiting until my male companion dipped inside to use the toilet, approached me and opened the conversation by forcefully demanding ‘Do you know who I am young lady?!’ Being witty and bit of a minx (or so I’ve been told by S. Jeeves Westminster), I looked him straight in his eyes and said with a bored shrug, ‘No, no, I don’t, am I supposed to?’ It must have been provoking, as Mr. G growled out ‘Well then you obviously haven’t read my book, Azerbaijan Diary.’

‘Obviously’ said I with mischief, ‘Let me run to the nearest Ketabhaxna (library) and pick it up.’

What followed can only be described a word brawl between an older man losing his pride and temper and dropping the F-bomb most inappropriately and a 20-something lady gleefully being shamefully rude. Thankfully, a handler was, well, on hand, to calm the waters before two Irish Tempers attacked without mercy.

(I make the assumption that Mr. G is Irish based on his unwavering self assurance of ‘I’m kinda a big deal’ that seems to be prone to those in possession of Irish roots-I could be wrong, but in any case, if Mr. G happens to read this, I hope he takes it as a complement.)

And then of course, curiosity getting the better of me, I did go the next day, not to the nearest Ketabhaxna but to a friends flat, picked up Azerbaijan Diary and burned through it in a mere 3 weeks.

So this can be seen as a solid endorsement of the book and recommendation for one to read it-it also is, in a round-about way, a very small way of sending up the white flag of truce and stating that if, Mr. G and I should happen in the future to meet in a pub, while I will never apologize, I will offer to buy a few pints and swap tales of Azerbaijan, and make a point to state that yes, I do know who he is, but, more importantly, does he know who I am?

 

I don’t almost get into pub brawls with the author of every book I read-evidence: Rereading William Goldman’s The Princess Bride has been delightful, and I have neither felt nor desired to yell at him for being pretentious. When reading, there is usually a paragraph or page that makes the book-for instance, in Les Miserable, in the section of 100 pages or so when Mr. Hugo goes into exacting detail about the Paris sewer system, I drooled, while most simply rolled their eyes and skipped to the ‘good parts’ involving romance and angst. In The Princess Bride, this gem of a paragraph was re-discovered:

 

(Buttercup and Westley are about to enter the Fire Swamp.)

‘As a child, she (Buttercup) has once spent an entire nightmared year convinced that she was going to die there. Now she could not move another step. The giant trees blackened the ground ahead of her. From every part came the sudden flames.

“You cannot ask it of me,” she said

“I must.” (Said Westley)

“I once dreamed I would die here.”

“So did I, so did we all. Were you eight that year? I was.”

“Eight. Six. I can’t remember.”

Westley took her hand.

She could not move. “Must we?”

Westley nodded.

“Why?”

“Now is not the time.” He pulled her gently.

She still could not move.

Westley took her in his arms. “Child; sweet child. I have a knife. I have my sword. I did not come across the world to lose you now.

Buttercup was searching somewhere for a sufficiency of courage. Evidently, she found it in his eyes.

At any rate, hand in hand, they moved into the shadows of the Fire Swamp.’

 

My landing is void of nosey neighbors; a fact who’s pros and cons have been thoroughly discussed by most everyone. Some contend living alone on a landing is safer since it negates the possibility of having bad men neighbors in close proximity. Some contest that no landing mates makes it dangerous (possibility of bad men neighbors be dammed) in case I need help when a flat crisis occurs-such as not knowing how to change a light bulb *shudder* or not being able to sweep. *horrors* I think living on a mostly empty landing, except for myself and a blue eyed cross-eyed white cat is a prime arrangement. (Yes, there will be snaps of qəşəng pişik. Oh. The possibilities of mad win if I could get the midget cobbler and kitty in a photo together…),The other 2 flats are empty for typical reasons: drunken husband, some scandal involving a woman, and a business deal gone bad/good in Baku.

I was on the mobile talking to a friend who was having an AZ crisis that involved all the usual suspects: homelessness, nasty food, leering men, mysterious sickness-so absorbed was I in gum flapping that as I backed out the door fumbling with my key, hunched over the impossible lock, I didn’t notice the women in the opposite doorway of the empty flat. Some movement on her part attracted my attention and I straightened. We stood 2 feet apart, eyes locked in a dead on staredown. If this was a movie, the ass kicking music (Metallica-‘Enter Sandman’ comes to mind, feel free to substitute your favorite) would have cued, the sun disappeared, my tabbi boots, and bowstaff appeared and her fangs and cape materialized. But this isn’t a movie and 3 minutes into the staredown I was getting bored for precisely that reason, no fangs, no smoke, no ass kicking music and slow motion fight sequence-just your standard everyday strange/awkward encounter with a woman who wasn’t supposed to exist. *yawn* My friend kept talking and I kept staring, realizing that this could go on forever, since I’m never one to conceded a staredown from tiredness, I pulled a ‘New York’ escape, (The ‘Oh damm, oops, I’m on the phone, its important, *shrug* can’t talk now, gotta go, I’ll call you later. Sorry *contrite look*’ dance that females have perfected to avoid annoying suitors and evidentially possible ghosts.), turned and made all sorts of haste down the stairs, not forgetting to throw a cute little wave over my shoulder.

Short and mostly Sweet: The Life of Ninja

 Bringing the phraze ‘cuddle slut’ to a new level, Ninja lived the last 4 months of his life in lux comfort, surrounded by ‘cute animal to pet’ starved volunteers and generous quantities of 2.00AZN tins of tuna (which means his food cost more than mine).

Unfortunately, Ninja  met his end at the hands of an astoundingly stupid 10 year old boy, whose, only somewhat remarkable quality could be considered that he has, and will continue to live the cliche of  ‘mommas boy’-and the momma is worth mentioning, sporting the name ‘Latifa’  and not in any way a Queen, possessed of rhyming skillz or a sassy mouth-this ‘Latifa’ is missing most of her teeth, smells wretched and spent 40 min yelling at me in garbled Azeri, only pausing long enough at the 20 min mark to order her boy to take Ninja to the rubbish heap.

RIP Ninja!

 

Ninja spent the first few weeks hiding- under the petch was pathetic optimism, as I was without heat for the first 6 weeks I had him

However, counter tops were made for Posin Mad Stylez! 

 

 

 

The 2008 !!!

 

Jan-June ‘08
Volunteer Youth Group from School #1 with the special needs children; at the HA Park.Peace Corps Insider did a story about the children. This was one of the first big projects I did with youth, and for a fresh n00bie it was a lot to tackle; the kids from school#1 were amazing and really committed a lot of time to help the children at the hospital. Story associated with this project: February 2008: Blue and Failure

The last night in Tbilisi, GA.
March ‘08(there are no pictures left from this trip since my computer crashed…check out FB)
Spent the afternoon on the private rooftop patio of the presidential suite of a prominent hotel watching the sun set and dangling my feet 90+ feet above traffic. Set out on a wander to find the underground brothel turned restaurant and somehow (due to me) ended up discovering an abandoned metro/tube stop that was connected to a mostly abandoned underground shopping center with a few barely alive strip joints. Unfortunately the rest of the group lacked a sense of adventure/taste for the underground, but was overwhelmingly apt at stating the obvious as evidenced by this little gem uttered at the top of a stairwell: ‘Its dark down here and it smells like pee.’
*slaps forehead with palm of hand*
Resigning myself to a small tantalizing glimpse of GA possibilities, (vowing to return sometime) we carried on and eventually found brothel turned restaurant due to shortcut taken through newly found abandoned metro/tube stop. I spent the remaining evening gawking at the stunning array of fascinating characters collected in the Kinkali House. This place makes it on the list of top places to eat, 7 levels, (6 of which are underground) faux maroon velvet everywhere, floor to ceiling mirrors, the Alco/smokes menu the same length as the food and the waitresses getting high in the restroom!

Feb. BurnOut

Silliness
Feb. ‘08
In Baku at the now demolished Absheron, a seminal moment becasue it represents that Donny was out danced by someone (!!!) and was too tired to make it into bed. Found him at 7 am while out the door for a run. Its worthwhile to know that the both of us have been talking about/planning  a biking/hiking adventure (since waaaaay back in ’07) to foreign lands with possible hostile conditions. This is also noteworthy since I rarely talk about my friends, clearly showing that I am, in spite of my protest otherwise, a typical self-centered twenty-something.

 

 

New Flat

Old houses, New Houses :Most of Spring, Summer and Fall of ‘08
Was chased out of first house by crazy yelling xanim who wanted more money.
Ran for it and deposited myself in new yard house where life seemed better until the Landlady climbed up on the roof at 7am (To dry berries. Seriously.) and peaking in my window caught me doing yoga…in a sports bra and boy shorts. (At least her spying was rewarded)
Was kicked out of yard house by yelling Landlady and son, much to the amusement and general shock of 7 small children, 5 xanims, 4 old men, 3 housewives, and 2 taxi drivers who had gathered to watch the show once Landlady and Co. started yelling and my possessions appeared in a messy heap in the middle of Side Street 4.
Finding these types of things hysterical, I couldn’t help waving and blowing kisses to the audience as I drove away in a taxi.      Was officially kicked out the night before leaving on holiday, unsure if I’d have a place to live when returning, I was a bit keen on keeping my clothing… This was not only a stupid choice but also an embarrassing choice as the result was dragging around a Awful Bloody Hell Huge pack for 2 weeks in eastern countries and then 6 weeks of meetings after…then I gave up and threw away most of my clothes. Sometimes I’m a Low Slerner. (However, due to a great climbing buddy from MN, my clothing supply will soon be replenished to a PC level of excess.) With extra space/midget beds/pillows/blankets this means the flat has become the central hotel of ISM with a revolving door of scruffy PCV’s randomly showing up. This also means I expect a few of my more adventurous friends from outside the ‘Baijan to visit in the ‘09 before I leave. Make your reservations now.

The summer photography class. L-R Back to Front: Salguk, Torgul, Farqu, Gunel, Titi, Lili, Narmine
What an introduction to inside lives of youth in ISM. It started as a photography class, but turned into something akin to The OC: ‘Summer in the ‘Baijan Edition. The essays were sharp (the youngest in the class was 15) and at times difficult to read due to subject matter. I’m not sure what’s more surprising, that the youth really threw themselves into the project (I had doubts if they would actually be interested in participating) or that they started to really talk to me about their lives. (And the lives of everyone else in ISM.) The teens in ISM have the same issues as the teens in America, they just manifest/deal in a different way. Shocking, huh? The summer ended in a bit of sadness, with half the class leaving for university in Baku and the other half reluctantly returning to secondary school classes.

 

Istanbul, Turkey
June ‘08
Sitting on the edge of the Bospherus drinking Effs Dark with Rob, talking, laughing and just being; then hookah and an in-depth discussion of old boyfriends/old girlfriends…Talking shit to the confused hostel owner at 3 am, pissing him off and then not apologizing, of course (somehow I see a trend here…)  Rob and I share a talent for finding bad fashion, being inappropriate at the worst/best times, being mistaken for movie stars, being really really good looking and having a love/hate relationship with members of the opposite sex. I had not expected to miss my family; was surprised when I cried myself to sleep after saying goodbye at 3 am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GLOW!

July ‘08

A hyper mix of Azeri/American girls for one week at camp.  It could have been a recipe for disaster, but instead was a wonderful time of teaching teen girls how to be strong/independent/adventurous/caring/passionate leaders.  This project took up an enormous chunk of time and the efforts of around 20 PCV’s (just to acquire funding) which is entirely worth while when the girls, ages 14-17, learn new life skills.  For most Azeri girls, this is the first time they have been away from home with out their families and introduced to new concepts of ‘self worth’ and ‘individual abilities.’

 

 

Aug. ’08 

L-R: Aching, Jody, Unkonown,Rikki, Sara,Kat, Jason, Colleen

In Laich, the day I rescued London Mark from the Clutches of  Wretched Sleeping Arrangements, Overpaying, and Language Innocence (by inviting him back to ISM and then spending 2 hours on the bus trying to teach him all the Azeri insults I knew.)  Unfortunately, we both left for adventures elsewhere in distant countries soon after his one night in ISM with 10 inebriated PCV’s, several sour bubbly 33’s and one smelly squat.

 

 

 

Aug. ‘08  (pictures on the way…)

Kiev/Moscow/Drains/WanderingAtNight/Hookah/Vodka-IronBru/HawtMen/Partical Colliders/VastIindustrialWastLand/Dirt/Gime/RedSquare/Happiness/JumpingFreightTrains/

DodegyUndergroundStructures/Best2Weeks/Metro/Indipendence Square/Nassssty/Dsankt/Siologen/Quantum-X    

 

 

 

Sept. ’08

 Jason and I give Toy posing our best effort on his last night in the ‘Bajian before returning to Americastan.  Jody and I keep it hard core reprezenting the 4’s and 5’s!!  ‘I kess’es you, miss for you’ 

I hate saying goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fall/Winter Photography Class

 (a few of the kid’s photos) 

These kids are from the Russian sector of School #1.  Most of the first 2 weeks of ‘class’ wasall of us figuring out how to communicate, eventually, we recruited Lili to translate, the boys stopped being scared, the girls stopped giggling and the group started snapping amazing pictures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Current Location

The view out my kitchen window makes waking up worthwhile…if I actually fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summie WasteLand

Oct. ‘08(this is for you Steve, though apologizes; the picture is pathetic, yelling fat man wouldn’t let us get closer. I’m sure you remember this chyxana?)

Met up with a guy who had the paper, stamp of approval, signature, get out of jail free, VIP, Leet Ninja, hard hitting pass, approved by no less than an Azeri Government Branch allowing him free reign to go above/under/around/through Baku taking pictures.  Fortunately we were able to swap stories/tales/tips and spend 2 days photographing before he left for somewhere outside the ‘Baijan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toy

Oct. ‘08

The nails

The n00bs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ninja the Kitten as a centerfold

Nov.’08

I like small helpless animals. I do not however like feral crazy animals.  While Ninja made a good show, he is, at the time of this post….Gone.  While he did boost my popularity with certain male volunteers (!!), he was kicked out recently (last Feb.’09) due to complications with HouseTraining. (There is a follow up story to this involving my mostly toothless landlady)

 

 

 

 

FreshMeat   Dec. ‘08    (pictures on the way…)The addition of 2 hot new site mates has boosted my ISM social calander by at least 90%.  The AZ6’s hold promise, Marina has perfected her ‘I’m Disinterested, Hot and Board as Hell’ Toy Photo Smile and I have already trained Tim in the “Maxium Obatinium of Free Food from Individuals Helpless to Rresist your Good Looks” skill. 

 

Christmas Joy

Dec.’08

In the SouthRegion of Lankeron with the lovely Katie, Nate, Jane, Tor, Whitney, G-Strap and Rache.   Mimosa and the gift from Jane of a sock animal to give me someone to talk to when she is not around .

 

New Years! (none of the pictures are blog safe. trust me.)

Madness, of course.  It started with a French Man, stumbling over train tracks, a package, hair dye, and climbing over a fence, it ended with a Belgian Pilot, counting down to New Years 7 times, a Blizzard, a coffee shop, 2 nights on the PCLounge Floor and dressing like Xanims from the clothing stash on the bathroom floor.

 

SnowBall Fight

 

When I moved/invaded the manzill (flat) it was an event that captured the attention of not only the entire ugly gray block but also the neighbors on several surrounding streets, which given the size of Ismailli and the certainty that most everyone is related, simply means that damm near the entire town knew the particulars and juicy details (i.e. gross exaggerations) of my 3^rd move in the past 7 months.  Needless to say, I ran up and down 3 flights of stairs (with J’s dads help) with an audience of no less that 10 people gawking, but refusing to help.  As mentioned before, I set about attempting to win my neighbors over with tasty food in a top form that would have made any Midwest mom beg me to marry her son.  Alas there are no Midwest moms in AZ, in spite of my best efforts, as far as the neighbors of both sexes over the age of 16 are concerned, I’m still a bad/dirty/strange/filthy rich/lazy/fat/loud/sluty/ugly/ inappropriate/ girl.  Oh.  Darn.  However, the young kids are a different matter, from the start they labeled me stupid/silly/strange (not bad really, I can work with stupid) but endlessly amusing.  Everything I’ve done from running at 6am to how I take my trash out (FYI I bundle it in plastic bags instead of flinging it in a pile near the stone wall) has provoked gasps of amazement.

 Which leads me to a few months back, last December ‘08, and the first decent snow.  Gasp of amazement aside, the kids, have mostly kept their distance; but the first snow, like it does in any country, releases many (mostly, kids, but the occasional serious adult) from behavior restraints.  Which is just a long way of saying that by 10am snowball fights had broken out everywhere, from the school grounds to the street corners; 3 feet of heavy, wet, perfect snow facilitated armies of snot nosed kids to attack, retaliate, and stage counter attacks, using trees, broken benches and water fountains as bases.  Returning from an early meeting, I managed to avoid random missiles of snow; the youth here, have the courtesy to ask ‘Teachers’ (Me) ‘May we throw snow balls at you?’ while launching, giving a teacher in possession of mad ninja skills (ahem) the chance to dodge incoming bullets.  The kids of the block were in the midst of an epic battle, boys against girls, and the future looked grim.  The girls in desperation begged me to help them out; the boys laughed and said I didn’t know how to play.  (Foolish little boys.)  Feeling challenged and put on the spot, as if I had to uphold the honor of PCV’s and women everywhere, I agreed to the challenge.  After all, we kind of invented the Snow Ball Fight in MN; with two brothers I’d grown up whitewashing siblings as a hobby.   Giving the 12 year old girls a quick lesson in the ‘Fake Out Throw’ and ‘Hail Mary’ we attacked the boys, snow balls zinging, noses dripping, scarves flying.  The fight moved into the street, the lawn of the Yeagana Meble Salon (a.k.a  furniture store) and the driveway;  cars slowed down to watch, the Xanims of the Manzill opened their windows to cluck disapprovingly, the store workers cheered the boys, the taxis honked. After face planting 2 boys into snow and shoving a huge snow balls down their jackets, I let the kids knock my hat off and push me down, just to keep it fair (they were after all only around 12 years old).  Having to return to work, I wished the girls happy fighting and waved to the audience of gawking housewives and stunned furniture store workers, glad that we’d given them (and likely half the ISM citizens) something to cackle about for at least the next few hours and knowing that I had irrevocably established myself as silly/stupid/strange/COOL with the under 16 population of my block.

Of Plastic Pickle Jars and Lack of Sarcasm

(Written first week of January ‘09)

                  Baku and Ismailli froze over last week, resulting in a 2 night stay on the Peace Corps Lounge floor, sink bathing and sharing the awfulness of my bad ipod mix with Tim so we could sleep.  When I returned a few days ago, of course my water pump had frozen, it’s hoped sometime in April it will unthaw itself and function marginally.  For the past 4 days I have been hauling water from the yard up to my 3^rd floor flat.  Apparently there is some technique to filling a plastic pickle jar with water and carrying it that I have yet to master, since, my obvious hilarious actions have provided endless amusement to the entire manzill block; evidenced in no less than 6 ladies watching me each morning.  2 days ago, after about 40 min of carrying water, (with an audience) I reached the last landing a bit tired and out of breath, a 20lb jug of water in each hand, to be greeted by my neighbor (for the record: I occasionally like her), who looked at me with a smile and asked ‘So, are you carrying water?’  I only paused long enough to tell her of course I WASN’T carrying water and then kicked my door open with my foot.  But it wasn’t over yet.  Next, the little girls were sent down to inquire as to the price of my pickle jars and exactly where I’d purchased them. (90% of the Manzill hauls water in the exact same jars)  Why price/location matters at all is beyond me, but it completely exasperated my patience, when, as a last little dig the girls asked ‘WHY’ I’d brought the jars and ‘WHY’ I was hauling water.  Too bad Azeri language doesn’t allow for ANY sort of sarcasm, so I had to settle for running off a stream of beastly sarcastic answers in English, (‘Because I get my kicks from hauling water and really have no use for it, since I’m obviously NOT human and survive completely water-less, its how we do it in Americastan, and why don’t your mothers get their asses down her as ask me themselves[I was bit perturbed} since its CLEARLY such a big deal’), and dropping of a few strong Azeri words, loud enough for the girls mothers, (who were trying to slyly listen at open windows) to know I was thoroughly not pleased with the current line of questioning.  Flashing my nicest smile, I told the girls and their mothers ‘THANK YOU’ and huffed my way back up the stairs with 2 more water jugs.

 

Once in a Lifetime.

         In a gallant effort to win over my neighbors, I threw a Halloween party at my new flat, complete with spider/skull/ghost/bat decorations, apple crisp, candy and mask making.  About an hour into the festivities there was a knock at the door; there stood Unknown Xanim, who along with announcing she had arrived for the express purpose of checking out me and the apartment, also blew a cloud of vodka heavy breath into my face.  Not wasting time on ceremony she pushed past me into the flat and plunked herself down in the middle of my living room, grabbing a tea cup and mumbling garbled greetings to the group of 16yr old girls.  For the next 30 odd min or so Random Xanim talked to no one in particular about various things that none of us could really understand but may have involved something about a daughter and a near by village (??) Eventually Unknown Xanim decided it was time to leave and promptly headed in the wrong direction towards my bedroom, we corralled her the best we could, pointed her in the direction of the door; and to many vodka laced kisses and yelled pleasantries, she swerved several times around the various piles of rubbish strewn about my stairwell (showcasing an incredible grasp of elite ninja moves) and made it down the steps without harm and in one piece.

Cultural Exchange…

…As called by Mariko:

        When the lightbulb died in my hamam, I was too cold/tired/sick to deal with a visit into the bazaar to purchase a replacement.  Had to wash my clothes one afternoon (in a stubborn attempt to pretend I wasn’t sick) with the headlamp on…then hung the clothes on the line outside my window, scandalous unmentionables (aka anything less than a granny panty) included.  Thoughtlessly I waved to my neighbor, who was observing me with what I thought was a friendly smile, until I realized that in a combination of sheer un-surpassed stupidity and a bit of sickness, I had waved with an undergarment, while the headlamp, on “Blinding Light From God Mode’ was perched front and center on my forehead.  Yea, that’s how we wash our underoos in Americastan

2 for 2 in scandalous Bazaar Visits.

                   J (my Azeri sister) and I decided to take on the bazaar in search of stockings for the impending toy I had to attend and her school rules (legs must be covered at all times regardless of weather-itchy and scratchy are words that apply).  Having not braved the bazaar since my quest for thigh rubber last Aug., I was hopeful that a non-descript entrance/exit could be made.  No such luck.  After receiving half a dozen propositions, we stopped in desperation at a stall run by the most ancient Xanim we could find, hoping that purchasing from her would redeem our reputations.  She proudly pulled out a pile of nylons packaged in wretched photo-shopped images of Reese Witherspoon’s head on an Asian woman’s body (confusing, but endlessly funny) along with non descript tin cylinders of older, apparently less titillating leg coverings.  Unfortunately, the sizes she had ranged from overweight to bloated elephant and a crowd of sleazy men and obviously curious women had gathered to watch us shop.  Without hope we opened the last tin of nylons…and there in my hands, all sorts of black stretchy goodness with a bit of lace, was the first pair of crotch-less nylons I have seen since working at Vickie’s over holiday while in college.  J and I stopped, shock stunning us into silence and open mouths. Deciding this was too good to pass up, surrounded by gasps of disapproval, evil looks and kissing noises, I quickly brought the stockings in hopes that at least the Xanim hadn’t looked close enough to notice the lack of material and once and for all seal my doom as a woman on the prowl.  We ran out of the bazaar laughing hysterically at our fortune of having the most rad region bazaar purchase thus far, if ever in the ‘Baijan.  The chances of finding naughty crotch-less black stockings in ISM, in the bazaar, being sold by a Xanim old enough to be my great-great-grandmother are astronomically slim, if even existing. 

      London Mark says that crotch-less nylons are all the rage in London and finally I can call myself fashionable. 

smiling

..its official, I’m no longer homeless, after almost 2 months of living out of my backpack,splitting time between Baku, Ucar and various houses,I have a flat,for now, with furniture, a few dishes, 2 beds, a fridge, a roach family in the kitchen, a spider family in the shower (they think its funny to drop on me while I’m showering )running water (for a few hours a day)  and a cat who lives in the shoe holder outside my door and doesn’t eat cheese (tried to feed him with the only non fruit item in my fridge) loads better than the completely empty flat I almost moved into (which was about as nice as a moldy abandoned shower stall in a low budget motel), and in a very funny Dickens type moment, a neighbor girl showed up at my door offering to cook/clean/keep me company since my neighbors (both in the apt block and in the houses near by) are not convinced I:

a: know how to cook

b: or how to clean and

c: are languishing miserabely in a state of loneliness after less then 6 hours in the flat.

After 10 min and catching sight of a RollingStones cover (with kidd rock and bikini clad women) and gasmask on my couch, the kind girl made her exit, (thinking lord knows what) to report back to the rest, of the strange “Ingllish Qiz” who not only likes being alone but also likes to clean, cook, run in the morning and yes the rumor is true, she DOES have a fiancee.

in the works is the ‘win over neighbors with chocolate goodness in the form of cake’ plan which will be executed with such stunning perfection that soon the entire apt block will generally be convinced ‘English Girl’ is OK…Inshallah.

100% pure…

…Comedy Gold:

When I run in the morning the taxi drivers still stop and ask me where i’m going and if i want a ride.

My response: I’m running to America, the plane ticket was too expensive, now leave me the hell alone.