ottservations

Aug - Oct some essential facts: all lithuanian boys are stupendously good-looking while latvian and lithuanian are mildly related, estonian is related to finnish. all languages are not slavic, so not related to russian in any shape or form tinned bear is a thing this region is classed as northern europe, anywhere east of germany is not necessarily 'eastern europe' estonia was the first country to consider internet access as a human right squirty cream is available in most petrol stations' coffee machines 'water', 'bear', 'beer' are problematic words with a british accent in europe there are 50 types of peat moss, 37 of which grow in estonia Apples I'm turning down what I now call the 'Apple District', an area where the air smells of apples and the ground is covered in their brown crushed mush. Plastic bags on fences, bowls on doorsteps, baskets on bikes, wooden crates on stools: all are full of apples. Women on bikes also stood here durin...

'Come and rest,' they called to me and into their hut I went, planning to stay for an hour or so. Light from the window lit up a cheese on an aluminum plate that dripped into a bucket. Cloud flowed in through the door like smoke. An edge was sliced off the cheese and put on the table. Out came another fresh cheese, salted, and piles of lavash wraps. I sat on one of the carpet-covered beds while flies buzzed in cow-y air. Two hours and then two nights passed, cocooned in this smokey hut in the Armenian mountains. Sergo, 64, green-blue-brown speckled eyes, and Aram, 11, big ears and beautiful skin, work together during the summer in the herby mountainscape. Both speak good Russian. Their herds of cows and horses are protected by terrifying dogs, whose ears have been clipped from birth to make them hear the wolves and bears better.  Herding cows We run with sticks to gather the cows while thunder claps us and ice pelts our cheeks. Wild strawberries, pink daisies and orange star fl...

Metro A solid wall of people trudges at snail's pace, tightly packed in, herded by old men in high viz and women in red hair and shocking lipstick. I try in vain to connect to the free city wifi, 'Tbilisi Loves You'. Beggars line the sides, some selling cacti in margarine pots, one has a spotty enamel mug, others display signs or grotesque stumps of limbs. Someone is singing. A man ahead has an Oxford university backpack. On we shuffle, so close our numerous legs merge into a conveyor belt of flesh.  On the metro, there is a family of three munching doritos. The children stare ahead, legs open wide, wedging these triangles based-end first into their mouths. There are a lot of tattooed necks today, one man has T H U G L I F E on his knuckles. VW keys are strapped to a belt. A woman's cross necklace looks alarmingly like the Nazi insignia (in fact it's the Georgian Orthodox cross...) and a long stringy teen in a completely green tracksuit resembles a human runner bean...

The language journey is a spiney one. It's colourful and challenging, but painful. And then there's this question 'how many languages do you speak?' From where this hangs is dependent on so many tiers of the sprawling vine of language knowledge, and a short interchange about tomato types in a market to chatting with a friend's family over tea to handling customer problems on the phone in Italian can bring about completely different outcomes. I've had 'you speak like a native' to 'there is a language barrier, is it better to speak in English?' With Russian it's the same. People are surprised when they hear I speak Russian, and often say 'and where did you learn such good Russian?' but I also got from a baker in a dusty bread booth 'you speak Russian badly, don't you', so matter-of-factly, I just laughed.  The job I have currently involves solving problems with printers. 'I'm so jealous you get to practice your Itali...

The Sulphur Baths The marinating process has begun. I am cocooned in layers of shlopping and pattering sounds that reach me at different intensities, the ceaseless and formless sounds of water. It is a dank and foggy cocoon. I am melting in an eggy fug. The walls are like mud. The ceiling is domed like a church with a cylindrical crown on top where one would expect to see frescos. Instead, a grimy glow comes from a window that hasn't been cleaned for decades. I'm in a blue-tiled pot. Simmering, stagnating, steeping in sulphur steam. Flesh is all around. We turn into dough. Russian and Georgian echoes from the naked masseuses. I have deeply seeped into oblivion. "Girl, come." I am laid on a concrete slab. I'm kneaded and crushed, slapped and stretched. I am scrubbed in coffee grounds. I feel like I'm in a burrow, condemned to damp gloom. No shame here. Legs wide open, women shaving pubes. Folds are lifted to access various crevices. The water splatters down. Th...

A few days prior to 26th May, my Georgian colleagues darkly joke that this might be one of the last independence days. On the same day, my friend tells me he wants to live in Europe because he is sick of living under the constant fear of a full-scale Russian invasion. This stress of insecurity has intruded on his whole young life. His childhood village was in South Ossetia which was stolen by the Russians in 2008, robbing him of memories that once were simply part of a happy childhood. Now it's painful for him to remember. I am squashed within the patriotic crowds. Children are on men's shoulders and wave Georgian flags clutched in sweaty hands. It's getting hot. Children clamber up pillars and wave flags on the ledges. I see a kalashnikov tattooed on someone's neck. Children are crowned with flowers and wave the flag of the European Union. I can smell puffs of garlicky breath. Sweat beads on faces. Children's backpacks, of the flowery or ladybird or superman variet...

Recently reflected on how I've spent most of my work life shovelling excrement. Horse, cow, rabbit, ferret, pig, human, dog (does snail count? Used to own two African snails, god bless, Peter & Judith), bird, and most recently, mouse. My brother kindly reminded me of this fact when we were catching up outside at home. We were sitting at the table looking out over the view of hills that roll far beyond. A slice of field, yellow with flowers, cut through the green. I wasn't really listening to what he was saying and interrupted, reminiscing about the time when during his GCSE 'revision' period (he was mostly taking selfies for his insta) he had come downstairs to this very same table when my mum, dad and I were having tea together. He had gazed into the distance at the aforementioned rolling hills. We all thought he was gathering himself to recount his hard day's findings on Heller's Catch 22. Instead, he breathed out deeply and said, 'I wish I was a cow...