Hoping to mix up my workout routine, I hired this little old man to kick my butt. Let me explain....before the holidays, I had seen Farhad at my gym giving boxing lessons to a couple of rather large men. Looked like fun to me, so I signed up for private lessons twice a week for an hour each. "He's the best boxing coach in all of Azerbaijan," is what the front desk told me. Well, I didn't need that, but heck, let's do this.
The first lesson was a little surreal as Farhad speaks no English, and well, we all know about my Russian language skills. Farhad is almost a foot shorter than me, skin like leather, gold teeth, no hair and quick as a fox. He could pretty much pick any fight he wanted and win.
I was eager to impress, and I was hoping that I had earned brownie points by showing up with my own boxing gloves and wraps. I am positive that my cardio kickbox certification came in handy too. But this was a whole different animal. No wimping out and acting like a girl. No caring about what my hair looked like or if I was sweating all over the place. No excuses, because Farhad couldn't understand what I was saying and he didn't look like a guy who wanted to hear them anyway.
Farhad started me on a light warm-up: 2 laps around the gym, 1 minute of jump rope and then basic punches with 5 pound weights. From there, we quickly escalated into jab, cross, hook, upper on the focus mitts and worked on my technique. Farhad would yell at me in Russian and mimic what he wanted me to do. I think I got the gist of it: my stance was too wide (that's for kickboxing), keep my guard up, rotate all of the way through my hips, punch harder, etc. I'm certain my everlasting smile annoyed him. I was having so much fun and I did feel a little like Rocky, but it's hard to look tough when your gums are showing. In between thoughts of, "how many calories am I burning?" I tried to stay focused as to not get popped by his mitts when I was supposed to be ducking. I considered it a success that it only happened once.
It was even a bigger success when Farhad told me "harisho" at the end of the hour. "You did good." I was proud and already looking forward to the next lesson....as soon as the soreness wore off.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
PB
My drug of choice is peanut butter. I swear, I get a little rush from the good stuff - all natural cinnamon raisin swirl from the Peanut Butter & Co. in NYC. You've heard me rant before about how rare and expensive peanut butter is in Baku. It's just not something the locals eat. Maybe it's hard to grow peanuts here or maybe the Azeri moms have not yet learned how easy it is to slap together a pb & j sandwich. On a good day at the biggest, most Western grocery store in town, I might be lucky to spot a generic brand for about $7 or a high roller might opt for $10 Skippy. No thank you! I've learned to use my stash sparingly. You know, for a rainy day, when I get the shakes and have to have it.
I was able to smuggle 2 jars from the USA in my suitcase from this last trip home, which should tide me over for exactly 3 weeks. My back-up plan is this homemade pb from the Baku girls' home. All proceeds from the sale of each jar go back to the girls. It comes in two options: sugar-free and with sugar. I like both equally well. It's still relatively expensive, but I don't mind being taken advantage of this time. They know they have a captive market - Americans with a soft heart needing their fix.
When I'm ready to make a deal, I just call up this lady who meets me under a shade tree at the north end of town. She produces the goods and I stealthily pay her. I head home, eager to pop the top and spoon out my hit.
I was able to smuggle 2 jars from the USA in my suitcase from this last trip home, which should tide me over for exactly 3 weeks. My back-up plan is this homemade pb from the Baku girls' home. All proceeds from the sale of each jar go back to the girls. It comes in two options: sugar-free and with sugar. I like both equally well. It's still relatively expensive, but I don't mind being taken advantage of this time. They know they have a captive market - Americans with a soft heart needing their fix.
When I'm ready to make a deal, I just call up this lady who meets me under a shade tree at the north end of town. She produces the goods and I stealthily pay her. I head home, eager to pop the top and spoon out my hit.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Hello!
In Kazakhstan, people greeted each other with a hand shake and the Russian "zdrasvuyte" or simply "hello." Azerbaijan is a little more complex in it's hospitality. Most people will use the Arabic, "Salam Alaykum" or for short, just "Salam," which translates as "peace be with you." I have a very real fear of accidentally saying "Shalom," which is the Hebrew equivalent, but obviously not appreciated here.
When greeting the same sex, men and women will kiss on the cheek at least 2 times. And it gets interesting when men greet each other. There are usually enthusiastic handshakes, hugs and back pats, and 3 kisses are expected. Men are very touchy-feeling with each other and these displays of affection make most Westerners uncomfortable.
It is probably a good time to point out that Azeri men NEVER wear shorts, even in 90 degree heat. It is unseemly and is considered homosexual. Most Western males have decided to ignore this social taboo and sport shorts freely in warm weather. Of course, the ongoing debate is why it's okay for men to kiss but not to wear shorts. Alas, the reasoning is lost on me.
When greeting the same sex, men and women will kiss on the cheek at least 2 times. And it gets interesting when men greet each other. There are usually enthusiastic handshakes, hugs and back pats, and 3 kisses are expected. Men are very touchy-feeling with each other and these displays of affection make most Westerners uncomfortable.
It is probably a good time to point out that Azeri men NEVER wear shorts, even in 90 degree heat. It is unseemly and is considered homosexual. Most Western males have decided to ignore this social taboo and sport shorts freely in warm weather. Of course, the ongoing debate is why it's okay for men to kiss but not to wear shorts. Alas, the reasoning is lost on me.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
International Airport
Flights to Azerbaijan's capital city are serviced by Heydar Aliyev International Airport. As with many things in Baku, there are several frustrating aspects to flying with Azeris.
Upon landing, our fellow passengers often break into applause, which is always unsettling, because I don't clap for the taxi driver who gets me home safely. Should we clap for the pilot who did his job and landed without crashing? Then, as soon as all of the wheels are on the runway, people start unbuckling their seatbelts and standing up to get their plethora of duty-free bags from the overhead compartment, which only forces the "keep your seatbelt fastened until the airplane has completed taxing" announcement. It's to no avail, as they then rush to the front of the plane to be the first ones off. The joke is usually on them however, since we must all exit down a steep and unsteady stairway to pack onto a waiting bus to transport us the 200 yards to the terminal. At which time, everyone beelines to the ONE door into the terminal. Like cows narrowing into the shoot, people are pushing and elbowing the whole way.
Once inside the terminal, you must wait in line for passport/visa check, prompting people to cut and re-cut each other in the lines. This is the point when my blood pressure is at its highest. Type A people should be advised that waiting in line and being cut in said line is a health hazard.
Baggage claim is at the only carousel in the airport and takes an absurd amount of time. And once you have all of your belongings, a random airport employee will invariably ask to see your baggage receipts, which of course, are always shoved down into some obscure pocket. Once the tags are found, the employee will add the tags to his large stack and never even give a courtesy glance to make sure that the tags match up.
And finally, all luggage passes through an x-ray machine to clear customs, even though no one is actually monitoring the screen. We have been pleasantly surprised our past 2 times entering Baku, as the official has asked us which country we are coming from and when we have replied the USA, we have been allowed to walk right through. I think it's the only time being an American has paid off here.
Upon landing, our fellow passengers often break into applause, which is always unsettling, because I don't clap for the taxi driver who gets me home safely. Should we clap for the pilot who did his job and landed without crashing? Then, as soon as all of the wheels are on the runway, people start unbuckling their seatbelts and standing up to get their plethora of duty-free bags from the overhead compartment, which only forces the "keep your seatbelt fastened until the airplane has completed taxing" announcement. It's to no avail, as they then rush to the front of the plane to be the first ones off. The joke is usually on them however, since we must all exit down a steep and unsteady stairway to pack onto a waiting bus to transport us the 200 yards to the terminal. At which time, everyone beelines to the ONE door into the terminal. Like cows narrowing into the shoot, people are pushing and elbowing the whole way.
Once inside the terminal, you must wait in line for passport/visa check, prompting people to cut and re-cut each other in the lines. This is the point when my blood pressure is at its highest. Type A people should be advised that waiting in line and being cut in said line is a health hazard.
Baggage claim is at the only carousel in the airport and takes an absurd amount of time. And once you have all of your belongings, a random airport employee will invariably ask to see your baggage receipts, which of course, are always shoved down into some obscure pocket. Once the tags are found, the employee will add the tags to his large stack and never even give a courtesy glance to make sure that the tags match up.
And finally, all luggage passes through an x-ray machine to clear customs, even though no one is actually monitoring the screen. We have been pleasantly surprised our past 2 times entering Baku, as the official has asked us which country we are coming from and when we have replied the USA, we have been allowed to walk right through. I think it's the only time being an American has paid off here.
Appliances
A very dear friend suggested that I write in this blog more often. She encouraged me to tell about the little things that make up life here in Baku, Azerbaijan. I trust her opinion more than just about anyone else, so, here goes. I'll start with the appliances in our apartment.
Both the dishwasher and refrigerator are brand new, stainless steel, top grade quality (for Baku). Both are slightly miniaturized version of what you might find elsewhere and are of the Turkish brand "Arcelik". I'm not making that up. It says so right there on the refrigerator door. The convenience of ice and water in the door are not an option on this model. But, it's all for the better as you cannot drink the water here anyways. Like deja vu from my childhood, we are always dumping and refilling the ice trays.
The dishwasher has a digital display on the front. I suppose it is so that you know when it is running and which cycle it is on. All I know is that when it says "Yikiyor" in Turkish, do not open the door, or you will have to start a new cycle.
I've mentioned before the combo washer/dryer. It is conveniently located right underneath the kitchen cabinet, next to our Turkish speaking dishwasher. The dial is thankfully in English but that's about where my gratitude stops. It is so small that only 2 bath towels can fit in at a time and I rarely dry anything other than underwear and socks, as it just takes too long. Plus, I feel that the lack of running the dryer makes up for the hundreds of water bottles that I use and am not able to recycle.
And although they are not necessarily appliances, I should mention that we have bidets in each of the 3 bathrooms. Even after much discussion with our European friends, we are still not sure on the proper way to use them. But, they come in real handy for dog bathing time. I just stretch the hose over to the tub. Nice.
Both the dishwasher and refrigerator are brand new, stainless steel, top grade quality (for Baku). Both are slightly miniaturized version of what you might find elsewhere and are of the Turkish brand "Arcelik". I'm not making that up. It says so right there on the refrigerator door. The convenience of ice and water in the door are not an option on this model. But, it's all for the better as you cannot drink the water here anyways. Like deja vu from my childhood, we are always dumping and refilling the ice trays.
The dishwasher has a digital display on the front. I suppose it is so that you know when it is running and which cycle it is on. All I know is that when it says "Yikiyor" in Turkish, do not open the door, or you will have to start a new cycle.
I've mentioned before the combo washer/dryer. It is conveniently located right underneath the kitchen cabinet, next to our Turkish speaking dishwasher. The dial is thankfully in English but that's about where my gratitude stops. It is so small that only 2 bath towels can fit in at a time and I rarely dry anything other than underwear and socks, as it just takes too long. Plus, I feel that the lack of running the dryer makes up for the hundreds of water bottles that I use and am not able to recycle.
And although they are not necessarily appliances, I should mention that we have bidets in each of the 3 bathrooms. Even after much discussion with our European friends, we are still not sure on the proper way to use them. But, they come in real handy for dog bathing time. I just stretch the hose over to the tub. Nice.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Back to Baku
The jet stream takes pity on ex-pats by giving us a 27 hour travel time back to Baku (as opposed to the 31 hours to get to the USA). As our airplane ascended out of Chicago and Sugarland's/Bon Jovi's "Who Says You Can't Go Home" coincidentally played on my ipod, tears began to fill my eyes, and yet I was still thankful for the cosmos's little peace offering of shortening the trip by 4 hours. I'll take whatever help I can get.
It was a excellent Christmas and New Year's by any account, but prolong build-up and a desperate need for home just heightened everything. Panera Bread with my niece! Multiple visits to Sonic happy hour! Penn Square Mall Christmas shopping with my sister! Nancy's homemade breakfast! NYE with college friends! Everything was in overdrive and minus a few naps to get over jet lag, not a moment was wasted. Even being home for a month couldn't quell the sense of urgency. Like I had to juice every fantastic second out of everyone and everything.
And so it was wonderful. Every last ounce of home was just what I needed to refill my tank. I returned to Baku on "F" and each time I open a dresser drawer, the smell of my mother-in-law's softener comes wafting out and I'm heart sick for a second, but like a wave, it rolls out. And I'm left to reminisce.
(Kyle, Brooke & Pete on Christmas morning)
It was a excellent Christmas and New Year's by any account, but prolong build-up and a desperate need for home just heightened everything. Panera Bread with my niece! Multiple visits to Sonic happy hour! Penn Square Mall Christmas shopping with my sister! Nancy's homemade breakfast! NYE with college friends! Everything was in overdrive and minus a few naps to get over jet lag, not a moment was wasted. Even being home for a month couldn't quell the sense of urgency. Like I had to juice every fantastic second out of everyone and everything.
And so it was wonderful. Every last ounce of home was just what I needed to refill my tank. I returned to Baku on "F" and each time I open a dresser drawer, the smell of my mother-in-law's softener comes wafting out and I'm heart sick for a second, but like a wave, it rolls out. And I'm left to reminisce.
(Kyle, Brooke & Pete on Christmas morning)
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Home
After 31 hours of travel time, I held up relatively well until the plane touched down in Oklahoma City. "If you're from Oklahoma, welcome home!" the flight attendant announced. I was sentimentally struck by the remark. My eyes watered up and my heart filled with happiness. These are my people. I know my rights. I speak the language. I understand the cultural nuances. I was home.
My parents met me at the airport at midnight. There was dad in a sweatshirt from 1990 and mom was as cute as ever. Hugs and kisses all around. My luggage was the first off of the carousel. It doesn't get any better than that.
Jet lag set in, prompting me to wake up at 4:30 a.m. Perfect time to walk the dogs (seems to be the story of my life; somewhere, there are always dogs that need to be walked). Crisp, almost-winter air filled my lungs. No car horns, no smog. I think I could even smell cow manure, and I'm certain that I heard a rooster crow.
Luckily, driving a car is like riding a bike, you never forget. Oh, the sweet taste of freedom. To drive a car (a sweet PT Cruiser rental in my case) all by myself, felt fantastic. I cranked the radio to Christmas music, turned up the heat and blew bubbles with my gum. First stop was to pick up my 13-year-old niece who was playing hooky from school so that she could hang out with Aunt B. Next stop was Sonic for a diet Dr. Pepper with vanilla and then Victoria's Secret for proper pjs and undies.
I just can't get enough of this stuff. I love the USA.
My parents met me at the airport at midnight. There was dad in a sweatshirt from 1990 and mom was as cute as ever. Hugs and kisses all around. My luggage was the first off of the carousel. It doesn't get any better than that.
Jet lag set in, prompting me to wake up at 4:30 a.m. Perfect time to walk the dogs (seems to be the story of my life; somewhere, there are always dogs that need to be walked). Crisp, almost-winter air filled my lungs. No car horns, no smog. I think I could even smell cow manure, and I'm certain that I heard a rooster crow.
Luckily, driving a car is like riding a bike, you never forget. Oh, the sweet taste of freedom. To drive a car (a sweet PT Cruiser rental in my case) all by myself, felt fantastic. I cranked the radio to Christmas music, turned up the heat and blew bubbles with my gum. First stop was to pick up my 13-year-old niece who was playing hooky from school so that she could hang out with Aunt B. Next stop was Sonic for a diet Dr. Pepper with vanilla and then Victoria's Secret for proper pjs and undies.
I just can't get enough of this stuff. I love the USA.
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