“I brought myself with me”
“We carry ourselves wherever we go.”
Letters from Khankendi
Week 3
The rainy season is here.
The fog is spectacular. Mesmerizing. Seductive. That hypnotic wet, humid particles lingering suspended in the air, blurring the mountains, eerily muting the quiet dark accented by the single fluorescent lamp on my street.
When it storms it hails. When it rains it’s barely a drizzle. Just a blanket of mist.
I still like walking in this damp cold. It could almost be the smell of autumn, delicious decay, but without orange. Red orange yellow fire crunch crunch crispy leaves.
I still see “why Montreal is the most spectacular place to visit in the fall” reels on my IG. Truly, a good sell. Romance in warm hues and cold air. Who doesn’t want to fall in love. (I don’t, but hold that thought.)
“Homesick, eh?”
Air fryer chicken instead of oven-baked Tong’s iconic juicy orange beer turkey. Sweet potato soup with a semi-functioning immersion blender instead of pumpkin extravaganza. A squash is not a pumpkin. Pumpkin is a squash, though. I guess it’s okay.
I can still make a Thanksgiving feast. Even rock hard bread is bread. The apartment should smell like this. Baking. Bread rising. Caramelized butter brown sugar chocolate.
But of course, it’s a different life.
I made a painting. Art night. Moon and red lady. I sewed a leaf from the old Skye Castle bedsheet that doesn’t fit this bed with springs that dig into my spine, but I don’t have scrap stuffing yet. The lightbulb is too white, I returned it. Now there’s a lamp that doesn’t lamp. Many projects unfinished. But going, going. A friend found me yoga mat, it travelled 5 hours to get here. (But isn’t that with all Amazon deliveries?). Except I still don’t have a mailing address. I’m lucky. Many people are so kind when allowed to be.
I found a new vegetable/fruit store with no price markings and didn’t walk out empty handed. I stayed, looked. Allowed myself to be looked at. Took my time. Made a round. Wow, grapefruit. Green onion! (Except it was in the corner fridge that I wasn’t sure was up for grabs or not so I didn’t end up asking for it). I ended up with two full bags of vegetables and fruits that were to my surprise, all weighed together by the at first skeptical and stern looking store owner. Then he put a hand up, ‘5 manat’, watched me struggle a little with my tiny cat coin bag from the cruise days, then shook his head and shoved the bags at me. “Take, take.” He gestured. Huh? For free? And then I laughed, surprised, and profusely insisted on handing him a 10. He also laughed, and gave me the change. Then I took the time, pulled out Google Translate, and explained that I’m a teacher from Canada. His demeanor softened. I said I’d be back. Another day. Another bravery. Another portal opened. Small town charm. “This is what the living do.” Get real vegetables from real peoples.
That rainy evening warmed my heart. I said hi to Dashgin again. We always exchange a few words whenever I pass by. “If you ever need anything, I’m at your service.” He showed me on his phone, then furrowed his eyebrows and asked if that translation made sense. I nodded and grinned.
Tural’s still driving me around to look at pianos. He plays folk-electronic music in his car and we laugh and dance in the car a little, head bopping. He drove like a F1 car when I told him I was worried my soup would burn on the stove. Sweet potato emergency. Rescue at all costs. I said I’ll invite his family for dinner soon.
I went to the wrong location for volleyball and gave up. I went home and baked muffins.
I shattered my pot lid. A million tiny shards that made screeched and clinked as I swept it up and dumped it in the double bagged trash. The dakdoritang simmered under tin-foil was delicious. I poured myself some white wine.
I miss rehearsing and performing chamber music.
Ah, another rose (actually, it’s a Chinese Hibiscus) bloomed and I painted it with the window open.
I made ‘margaritas’ with no Cointreau or lime.
Students greet me at the grocery store. Kids say ‘konnichiwa’ to me on the streets.
I played chess!
And charades!
I worked most curiously and patiently with my students during each 80-minute session, finding surprising ways to communicate abstract concepts and demonstrating simple techniques. Each lesson has infinite puzzles. Some metaphors still land through translation.
I took my purple clay pot tea time and ate the second to last laughing cow cheese cookies: a time travel to sitting on the grass on the Lachine canal and dancing salsa.
It’s a week. I need rainboots and a warm coat. I’m still learning but I’m ready to start sharing the magic outwards. “Battery”. “Personality”. “Note.”
“Are you a witch?”
Yes. Time to deliver some pumpkin herring pie.
xoxo,
Skye
Journal scribbles
“You don’t to be useful.”
You can just be.
Company.
It’s the rainy season.
You want to write stories.
You went to play Bartok.
The fog is stunning. It’s like a ‘film noir’ scene.
You made the best chicken bone broth. Ginger, jujube, miso, and everything. Rice vermicelli. Green beans. Beer.
I still wish I owed you something.
So I could give something back.
You want to draw
Blood.
//
“It’s so beautiful.
Again. Another Day.
Opening the window to this mountain view.
Feeling the light. Rushing from window to window to awe, marvel, delight, bath in the Golden. Morning symphony. Birds, distant dogs, not yet construction or cars.
The circumstances we create, that we put ourselves in.
“Persevering is sometimes leaving.”
Life hacks:
Write it down.
Bring an apple.
//
Miracle:
Time to turn on the heater.
“She preferred spending Time, rather than saving it.”
The incredible storm. The awe-striking, terrific thunder. Like earth splitting, mountains shattering. The lightening. The sweet crisp smell of rain. This is Fall. This smell. This air. Temperature. Atmosphere.
