First Day of School at Terjola's Second School.

“Life is better in Qatar.”


This was the epiphany that simultaneously struck Martha and I this weekend. What caused our synapses to simultaneously fire in such a fashion, and interrupt our not-so-secret eavesdropping of inane conversations at an expat bar in Tbilisi was the most gorgeous television advertisement I have ever seen. Ever. Simply by the quality of the lighting, this ad made the best Nike or Target production look no more professional than the regular late-night used-car dealer hawking his wares. (We’re thinking of you; Dealin’ Doug!)
What made this ad especially poignant was its subject: a school. But not just any school. This here was the cream of the crop (if the “crop” were already of the super-creamy variety.) Here, sons and daughters of the world’s elite came together to work towards excellence in the noblest and most critical of professions: Athletics. Yessir, “Aspire; a school for reaaaaly wealthy jocks.” Aside from the 4 minutes of sumptuous slow motion with fleeting shots of 6 year olds boxing, helicopters lifting off or teenagers playing underwater tennis with golden weights on their arms, what makes “Aspire” so fantastic? They have a guy named Pele as the soccer coach, combined with the fact that this ad hit these weary eyes 48 hours before the first day of school in our lovely Terjola.
Well, that auspicious day has come and gone, and I can say that “Aspire’s” got nothing on Second School.


What we lack in stylish high speed transport, Olympic-quality gymnastic equipment or sports-med staff, we make up in our overabundance of grit, charm, and determination. Mind you, much of what was said during today’s opening ceremony (over our more-than-adequately-loud PA system) was in kartuli, so some of the staff -really, just myself and some of the older auditory impaired faculty- did not fully grasp all of the points made in the half-dozen speeches that rang in the new school year. However, I can report that there was a palpable sense of excitement, universally understood to mean that the children are ready to stop the fun of summer, by turning in those bathing suits and soccer cleats for the good ole’ paper and pencil.
Parents turned up to escort their young scholars, and warmly greeted me in a seemingly never-ending stream of handshakes and cheek kisses. I must, however, pause here to make an important point: in this blog and other sources of information about the Republic of Georgia, there has been much discussion about the undeniable macho-manliness which pervades Georgia’s man-culture. Countless times, we (and others) have (and will) discussed the incredible testosterone-filled feats that dominate the daily birja-scape in Georgia.
This might lead one to believe that Georgian men would be too busy “one-upping” each other by lifting heavy objects, wearing pointier shoes, or developing more aggressive squints to bother themselves with the tedium of child-raising. This would be a grossly false assumption. No, in the land of St. George, the only thing manlier than opening a bottle cap with your teeth or re-wiring your house using a kitchen knife, phone wire and scotch tape is being a great dad and this country’s full of them. So, macho culture notwithstanding, I got more than my fair share of virile hand shakes, followed by rather prickly cheek kisses.
I also was pleasantly surprised, during a lull in the day’s activities, with the opportunity to speak in front of the entire school, in Georgian! Was I expecting this? Nooo! Was my English-speaking counterpart nearby to aide in the translation? Nooo! I was on my own and flying under my own power, which resulted in a pedestrian bunny hop of “Hello. Congratulations on the first day of class everybody!” Unfortunately, I am still limited in my language abilities, and would really have been able to take off in linguistic elegance if only the subject of my impromptu speech had been my likes/dislikes, directions to the post office, or how many siblings I have.
All in all, today resulted in a quick and painless exposure to the students and staff of the Second School. One can only hope that I haven’t permanently tarnished the reputation of the Peace Corps, the Katchinoff-Wawro family, or convinced some of those little baoshwebi to take a look at that school in the desert instead.