reports of my death are greatly exaggerated

Me in my skis, being hugged by Olia, who runs the ski-rental business at the bottom of the slope.

I’m sorry I didn’t written sooner. I know you’ve all been waiting for my update with baited breath. Have you been worried about me? It would make sense if you were. After all, you love me (shh, you don’t have to say it out loud, I know it’s true). Also, I’m very prone to accidents. But no worries! All is well. I survived.

Skiing: what an adventure. I found it to be a thrilling combination of joy and terror. There were lovely moments where I felt free as a bird, floating down the slope. And there were also spectacular hat-flying-off-skis-in-the-air-tumble-down-the-hill falls. But I did not break anything. I was a bit sore afterwards, but alive.

Since life is all about learning (is it not?), here are three new fun facts I know as a result of my skiing adventure:

1. Not all snow is created equal. I get that now. I’d always heard these skiing-types talk about the “powder” and such. I guess I understood it in a vague, intellectual sense. But now I get it. It really does matter what kind of flakes you plant your skis on. For both fun’s sake and safety’s sake. Gently falling, fluffy snow is divine. Icy crust…not so much.
2. Leaning back while skiing is always a bad idea. But it’s so easy to do! Who wouldn’t want to back away from the bottom of the hill as it races toward you at an alarming speed? But physics is a cruel science. Perhaps if I had paid more attention in Mr. Zitto’s class during senior year of high school, I would have known this. But I did not and thus had to learn it all the hard way last week. Let my ignorance be a warning to you.
3. While going down the hill was fun, I actually found the going up part to be just as nice. I suppose this makes me boring, but so be it. I found it pleasant to be carried up on the lift, with the wind blowing against my cheeks (which are now chapped and sunburned, but maybe also a bit rosy, too). It was nice to have that quiet time. Truth be told, I would be perfectly content going to a ski resort and just riding the lifts.

So overall, it was a success and I look forward to doing it again. The end.

Now I want to tell you a story. If you want to hear it. (No pressure!) It’s about danger and survival, life and death. Exciting, no? Actually, it’s not really about those things at all. But it’s interesting all the same. Or so I think.

At the end of my second day there, after a number of frustrating and highly embarrassing spills, I decided to take a break. I headed to the bar/cafe at the bottom of the slope and ordered a coffee. As I sat in a comfy chair and sipped my piping-hot coffee, my phone rang.

(All Peace Corps Volunteers in Georgia are given cell phones. We are responsible for keeping them with us and charged at all times. Being reachable by Peace Corps staff is important for safety. After all, one wrong look from one president to another and we all get starring roles in Red Dawn II: And This Time We Really Mean It.)

I looked at my phone and saw it was one of my Peace Corps program managers. “Hello, Tengo!” I said cheerfully. Tengo asked me, in a curious sort of way, where I was. I excitedly told him that I was at a cafe at the bottom of a hill enjoying a delicious cup of coffee and recovering from a day of skiing.

(Of course, Tengo and the staff already knew I was skiing that weekend. Another policy we are required to follow, again for safety purposes, is to always notify Peace Corps staff when we are going to be away from our site for more than 12 hours. Peace Corps is simultaneously both the most independent and supervised sort of existence I’ve ever lived.)

So then Tengo asked if I was ok. Of course I was ok! I mean, I felt a little sore and also a bit dopey for looking like a fool a couple of times on my skis, but over all I was doing just fine. Thanks for asking! It was then that Tengo informed me that he was concerned about more than bruises from skiing. Apparently there were interesting rumors swirling around and about me. People all over the region were discussing the fact that my host mother and I had been in a car accident on our way to skiing the day before. Word on the street was that we were possibly dead.

The view out of the front of our marshutka the day we left for our skiing adventure. It was a blustery day. It's not hard to see why people thought we might have been in an accident.

But clearly there had been no accident. I was most certainly alive!  How could a rumor like this have started and continued to travel until it reached the capital and the Peace Corps office and my program manager who was now calling to determine whether or not I was indeed mangled in a terrible car accident?

First, allow me to provide some context. Here in Georgia everyone has a cell phone, sometimes two. These cell phones are always on and are usually programmed to ring at the loudest possible setting. This is so they can be heard and answered at all times. Unlike the U.S., there is really no use of voice mail. When we first arrived in Georgia and were issued our Peace Corps cell phones, I remember feeling annoyed when I found out they didn’t have voice mail. I thought Peace Corps was being cheap with us. For chrissake, how could people tell me what they wanted from me if they couldn’t leave a voice mail message? But I quickly learned that nobody uses voice mail here. Never once have I called a Georgian number and been prompted to leave a message. People simply call and let the phone ring until the person answers. Or someone else answers the phone on his or her behalf, because the wanted person is in the bathroom or making a cup of coffee. Or the caller finally gives up and sends a text message instead. But usually that’s unnecessary because someone always picks up. Culturally it is not considered rude to interrupt a face-to-face conversation to answer your phone. It’s not rude to answer your phone in the middle of a staff meeting or training. This, for me, has been hard to adjust to.

So, getting back to that day on the slope. What had happened? Well, the first day we went skiing my host mom, Dali, had brought her two cell phones. One is her personal phone and the other is her professional phone. She’s a doctor and receives calls all day long, and sometimes well into the night, from patients wanting to see her. It was out of the ordinary, though well-deserved, that she had taken this Friday, and the whole weekend in general, to have a vacation for herself. Being away on a mountain meant that she could absolutely not be summoned to see patients, no matter if they called or not.

So there she was: skiing and enjoying herself. And alas, there were no calls that day. How lovely and relaxing and refreshing. But, later that night when we were about to enjoy dinner she noticed a funny thing. She had not received any calls because her phone was frozen. It had turned into a dead, useless block of ice in the cold temperatures. We all laughed about this. She placed the phone on a gas heater and waited for it to thaw.

But during all this time, while the phone had been frozen and non-functioning, people had been trying to call. Patients and other doctors wondered where she was. Why was she not answering her phone? She always (always) answers her phone. They knew she had planned to go skiing with her American Peace Corps Volunteer. Perhaps there had been an accident? Perhaps she was physically unable to answer the phone because something tragic had happened to her? And what about the American?! What if they were both in trouble?! If someone, especially a doctor, is not answering her phone, it is not far-fetched to think that something terrible has happened. After all, only death would keep most people from answering their phones.

So the rumor started there. Soon colleagues were calling other doctors and word began to spread through the region. Where was Dali? What had happened to her? And what about the American?! They are probably dead! And then that word continued to travel until it got to the ears of one particular surgeon, who has a son named Tengo who just happens to work for Peace Corps. And this surgeon, knowing my host mom and knowing that the American who lives with her is a Peace Corps Volunteer, called his son to tell him about this terrible news. And that, my friends, is how Tengo ended up calling me that day, all while I was pleasantly enjoying my coffee at the bottom of the slope, to ask if I was dead. What relief he must have felt when he heard my voice on the other end of the line.

Georgia’s a cozy country. It’s small geographically, of course. But what makes it feel small in a close, personal way are the human connections that crisscross those miles. It’s a country of 5 million that often feels like a village of 500. People are born here, grow up here, and spend their whole lives here. Meet one person and it’s likely she or he is a friend or family member of 3 or 4 others you already know. Figuring out those familial connections and long histories is an ongoing challenge as an outsider. The cousins, second cousins, great aunts, brothers-in-law…it’s hard to keep it all straight. As someone who is used to the anonymity of a large, transient city like Washington, this is both foreign and comforting. And being an American here, I am simultaneously not on the inside, yet not completely on the outside either.

I’m known all over my mid-sized city. I walk down the street and people say hello to me. Most often I know these individuals, but sometimes they are simply people who know of me. I will run into Georgian friends who will report to me that I was seen at the bus station or a cafe. I will be asked how I enjoyed skiing because they know I went, even though I didn’t tell them personally. They will remark to me how one night they saw the light on in my room and wondered why I was up so late. I could not hide if I wanted to. They would surely find me.

I wish I could say I never wanted to do that. To hide. But sometimes I do. Sometimes I miss the anonymity. I miss walking down the street and being forgettable. That I can be among people, yet ignored. As an introvert I crave these things. Sometimes.

But really, when I think deeply and thoughtfully about it, I’m glad that I can’t get away with that here. If I were truly anonymous, what good would I be? Could I be an effective Peace Corps Volunteer if no one knew who I was? How could I help my counterparts, colleagues, friends, students, and neighbors if I was invisible? What could I offer to people who didn’t care about me or what I did? Nothing really. Everything I do here hinges on being visible, noticed, integrated, and accepted.

So while I’m slightly overwhelmed by the idea that a small rumor about me could grow and spread and ultimately ricochet across a country, I’m comforted by the fact that I matter. That I’m placed in a host family and community and country where if I went missing someone would notice. That in some way, even if it’s very small, I do matter.

And that’s what I want, I suppose. To matter. Don’t you? Don’t we all? To know if the earth swallowed us, someone might notice our absence? I’m going to try to remember this the next time I feel suffocated and overwhelmed. I’m going to think about the alternative, which would be a lonely thing, and be grateful to be surrounded by so many vigilant, caring people. To be happy that I couldn’t disappear even if I wanted to.

Though just to be safe, I’m also going to keep my cell phone charged and by my side at all times. Just in case. Those rumors move fast, but cell phones still move faster.