True Beauty

My real mom has a theory that every place is beautiful. Whenever I would tell her that I want to travel to this place or that place because it looked beautiful in photos she would ask me to name a place that’s not beautiful. I definitely think my mom is right (I even find garbage dumps beautiful because of all the different colors present in one place) and Armenia is no exception.

Armenia has breathtaking physical beauty; the mountain towns and stone churches are so striking they seem magical and the capital has a real cosmopolitan feel to it. I only spent about six days in the country but I was able to learn a lot about myself and what makes a trip worthwhile to me.

One thing that I learned was that even if a country can have gorgeous things to see, that does not necessarily make a trip worthwhile.

See, there was something missing from my trip: I only met two Armenians. Sure, the two Armenians I met were wonderful human beings, but getting to know just two locals on a week long trip seems laughable.

In fact, I think it was impossible for me to fully immerse myself into Armenia because I basically only perceived the country through the eyes of tourists; none of the people I was traveling with had much of a connection to anything we saw. Yes Roman our taxi driver-turned-tour guide was great (he even took us to his home in Garni to meet his family and bought me a bouquet of flowers after one of our long chats) but there was just something missing from every sight we looked at.

I would have loved to travel around the country with more Armenians. After being in Georgia for six months I really think that people are what make a country great.

I CouchSurfed with one Armenian guy in Yerevan who told me that the spirit and charisma of the Armenian people are what gives the country such heart. Artak, my host, was by far one of the most hospitable and altruistic beings I’ve ever met. Even though he and his huge family live in a small apartment, they still wholeheartedly gave up three beds for me and my two friends and the entire family just slept in one room together. Artak even insisted on getting us coffee, tea and drinks and paid for every cab we needed to take.

Both the kindness of Artak and Roman seem almost unbelievable. Sometimes it shocks me how above and beyond people go to make strangers feel welcome. I mean, asides from Mamuka in Telavi, who’s ever heard of a cab driver taking clients to his home for coffee and compote?

I plan on doing a lot more traveling while I’m in Georgia. There are still lots of cities and towns right here in Saqartvelo that I want to see, and I’m venturing into Turkey and Azerbaijan before I fly home at the end of June. Despite the many sights I want to see, I’m going to make it a point to meet many people. Tourist attractions and landmarks are great, but meeting people and having stories is what makes a trip memorable.

Addicted to Love

Even the cows stare at us funny.

Just yesterday I was buying a loaf of bread from a bakery in town I’ve never been to before. The bakery was quite crowded and just as I was about to receive my loaf the baker turned to me and said, “kartuli khar? G’khavs accenti” (Are you Georgian? You have an accent).

I took a small breath anticipating the aftermath of saying I was American and replied “Ara… Amerikidan”.

Now, I kid you not- the entire bakery broke out into song and dance. The baker began singing to me about America and beautiful girls; meanwhile all the customers at the shop began to whisper to themselves as if questioning whether or not I was a celebrity. Even as I walked away from the shop many customers yelled, “Goodbye America!”

My problem is that I’m getting used to all this attention and love and don’t know how I’ll cope back in the states when I’m just another human on the street. I’m now used to random strangers breaking out into song when they meet me, to children I’ve never met personally addressing me on the street. I’m used to getting free vegetables at the bazaar simply for having an accent and smiling too much and to getting text messages from Georgians I haven’t seen since September who just want to know how I’m doing and if I’ll visit them soon.

Of course, the most love I get is from the students at my own school. (I’ve even dedicated a drawer in my bedroom to love notes from my students). This semester I’ve taken more of an effort to get to know the students that aren’t in my classes. I’d like to meet every child at my school, regardless of whether or not they’re studying English.

Thus, when the bell rings and school’s over I try to chat with a student I’ve never met before even with my limited Georgian. The conversations never really delves any deeper than, “romeli simraera gikvars?” (which song do you like) but I like meeting more kids, especially when they’re all so excited to have me in their school.

After school today I walked home with two tenth grade girls I’d never met before named Naniko and Khatia. The three of us were headed in the same direction so for fifteen minutes we talked about our siblings, the music we like, who our friends are and our favorite kinds of Georgian food. Granted, none of this is brain stimulating stuff but cut me some slack, that’s fifteen minutes of listening and chatting in Georgian! In New York, if I just walked up to someone I’ve never met before and started asking them if they can play any instruments they’d most likely ignore me thinking I’m trying to sell them something.

My ‘foreigner fame’ has reached a new height recently. Over the past few weeks I’ve practically been rented as entertainment for birthday parties. A whole bunch of Nini’s friends have February birthdays and they all insisted that I absolutely must attend their parties.

Basically, I’m a party clown. I sing songs during dinner, I mispronounce things in Georgian, I dance when no one is dancing (and I accidentally use the juice cup as a wine glass and pour myself three times as much wine as anyone else). At the last party I went to I even brought my entire computer to DJ the event and nearly got yelled at by a group of fourteen-year-olds for not dancing “crazy enough”.

There is a lot of power in my being the clown though. At one party, Salome the birthday girl made another girl stand up and move her seat at the table because she wanted to sit next to me. Oh, and at a different party, I decided I was only going to dance with the boys that no girls wanted to dance with (‘Wedding Singer’ style) and lo and behold my ‘undesirable boys’ ended up dancing it up with cute girls the rest of the night.

This power and fame I have as a foreigner has even stretched into marriage proposals with strangers. A woman I sat next to on the train gave me her address and phone number so that I could come and meet her son and marry him.

I’m sure a lot of this attention has to do with the warm and welcoming nature of Georgians (not just that I’m some goofy girl from the United States) but it’s still going to be a challenge to resort back to being just another American in America come July.  Therefore, I’m going to eat up my fame for the next four months.

I mean, I might as well face it- I’m addicted to love.

Indeportant Acts of Georgianglish (and Other Misunderstandings)

When living in a different country it’s inevitable that you’ll face lots of misunderstandings every day. Words get incorrectly translated, customs get misinterpreted, and the big ‘ol language barrier all contribute to this. (I can only imagine how confused the cast members of “Three’s Company” would be over here).

I admire all my students’ efforts to speak English, but often their blunders make for slightly different sentences. Beso, one of my favorite ninth graders, came up to me in the hall one day surrounded by his friends and asked me if I liked rape. I was a bit surprised by his question and replied by repeating his question to make sure I got it right. After Beso and his friends began nodding and smiling he admitted to me that he loves rape. He went on to say that he loves rape lie Jay-Z and Eminem.

After sighing with relief, I explained to Beso that ‘rape’ and ‘rap’ are very different things that he should be careful not to confuse.  

Our exact conversation went a little like this:

Beso: Do you like rape?

Me: [Jaw drop] Do I like rape?

Beso: Yes, yes! Jay-Z, Eminem…

Me: Ohhhh! RAP! I love rap, I hate rape.

Another one of my sweet kinderlach (shout out to Yiddish) is thirteen-year-old Mari. Mari is a real firecracker who’s too clever for her own good sometimes. While writing vocabulary sentences in class one day Mari shared the following sentence: “She is indeportant to her family”.

I turned to Mari and I asked her, “Do you want to say important or independent?”

Mari looked at me as if I asked her a strange question. “I want indeportant. Independent and important. She is indeportant”.

Well, there you have it; my kids are making up words. Shakespeare made up words and the youth of Georgia are too.

At home with Eka, misunderstandings are a dime a dozen. Eka happens to be obsessed with three English words:

1)      Probably

2)      Sometime

and

3)      Tomorrow

Whenever she hears me say any of these three words she often repeats it like a sweet Georgian parrot and then adds the phrase, “probably sometime tomorrow” just because she thinks the three words sound beautiful when said together.

Well, a few nights ago while watching an American film on television at one in the morning Eka heard someone use the phrase ‘f*** you’ and decided she liked how that sounded too.

She turned to me and promptly said, “Tomorrow f*** you probably sometime”.

Initially shocked, I told Eka that her sentence didn’t really make sense. Eka thought for a minute and then turned to me and said, “F*** you probably sometime tomorrow”.   (Well at least this sentence made sense).

Nini got a huge kick out of Eka abusing the F word and so we didn’t exactly go through the trouble of telling her it’s not exactly a polite thing to say to someone. Granted, I told Eka that the F word is a bad word, but I didn’t go into very many details… 

(Oh, and if you think that’s bad then I’ll spare the story about the time I taught Nini that an “Mmmbop” is just a word for ‘a boy with long hair’).

Well, back to the F word. A few days later Melissa came over to the house for some coffee and cookies (I have a rough life, I know) and Eka deemed it a good time to test out her newly learned phrase. So, with a huge smile on her face she looked at Melissa and said, “Probably f*** you tomorrow!”

Melissa’s eyes nearly popped out of her face.  Before I could even tell Eka that she really shouldn’t be yelling that phrase to every Tom, Dick and Harry- she looked at me with big eyes and said, “f*** you”.

Of course, after this small charade I did explain to Eka just how bad a word the F word really is. And I kid you not; the scream she emitted when she realized what she’d been saying for three days could be heard in Kalamazoo (which is actually a small city in Michigan). Anyhow, Eka gave me quite the scolding for allowing her to say what she said for three days.

Sometimes a simple misunderstanding can be averted by using the Georgianglish principle. The Georgianglish principle is similar to basic Spanglish. See, when speaking Spanglish (a combination of Spanish and English) people tend to add the preposition ‘el’ before any noun and add the letter ‘o’ after any noun. (Case in point: ‘el computero’ sounds like it could actually be a word in Spanish).

Georgianglish is similar; you just add an ‘i’ at the end of a noun and words suddenly sound Georgian. One afternoon I was restlessly trying to explain what ‘cancer’ is in Russian and after describing what one person thought was ‘narcotics addiction causing baldness’ it turned out that simply saying ‘canceri’ actually turned out to mean cancer in Georgian. Just adding one little letter put everyone on the same page.

It even works with celebrities. Eka was watching a movie on television and she was having trouble remembering an actress’s name.

This is the actual conversation we had (except it was in Russian):

Eka: Who is that?

Me: Susan Sarandon

Eka: No, that’s not her name.

Me: Oh, Susani Sarandini?

Eka:  Ah yes, that’s it.

Oh Georgia, your quirkiness never gets old. 

Chilling with Stalin

When I first decided I was going to come to Georgia I was really excited to tell anyone and everyone that I was about to go on an adventure and teach English for the year. The funny thing was that most people didn’t really know anything at all about the country. The responses I got were limited to the following five statements:

a)      Georgia? Where is that?

b)      Georgia? Don’t people in Atlanta already know English?

c)      Georgia? Are you insane?

d)      Georgia? Isn’t that where the winner of Project Runway was from?

But the most common I response I got was the following:

e)      Georgia? You know who comes from there? Stalin.

Yes, that Stalin. Despite the fact that Joseph Stalin was a man of questionable morals (to put it kindly) he’s definitely an iconic leader who had a huge influence on history.  Ever since I got to Georgia I’ve been eager to go the Stalin museum in Gori (the city where Stalin was born) and see how the museum presented him.

See, before I came to Georgia my parents gave me the following advice: “Never bring up Stalin. You never know who loves him and who hates him”. In my five months here so far, I’ve encountered both deep admiration for Stalin and extreme disgust for the man. I was honestly just curious to see how native Goriebi felt about the man.

On Saturday I finally made it to Gori. The girls and I actually got to the museum before it opened so we spent some time walking around the museum grounds and snapping photos. The house Stalin was born in and the train car he used to travel (he was terrified of flying) are actually in the museum courtyard.

Stalin's house!

Love him or hate him...

 In fact, I was so excited to see the train car that I didn’t notice the huge strip of black ice just in front of the train. Of course I slipped and fell flat on my back. Tara watched the whole thing in shock. It was rather painful and I ended up just lying there for a minute screaming some rather crude sayings blaming Stalin and his damn train for my intense back pain. If I wasn’t wearing two shirts, a sweater and a puffy winter jacket, I’d probably still be lying there blaming each individual member of the Bolshevik revolution- but since I was practically wearing padding I rallied from that fall ready to get my Stalin on.

Our admission to the museum included an English speaking tour guide who told us all about Stalin’s background; how he became a leader and how we went on to influence so many people. The tour was very informative, but didn’t touch upon any of the ‘bad things’ that Stalin did. Our tour guide, Tamuna, only casually mentioned that he was responsible for killing 47 million people but nothing in the museum actually noted this fact. Tamuna told us that the purpose of the museum is not to focus on the questionable actions of Stalin, but to show his sense of character and his journey to become such an influential person.

It was definitely interesting if not a bit surreal to hear someone talk about Stalin in such a glorified manner. With my western education I can only really compare Stalin with Adolf Hitler and I’ve yet to meet anyone who even marginally praises Hitler for being a great leader and omits the fact that he was also responsible for an entire genocide.

In addition to the museum we also went to Uplistsikhe, an ancient cave city from the third century. Uplistsikhe was just really cool and so beautiful. It’s pretty well preserved and you can see where the ancient apoteka, amphitheatre, winery were. We also had a great English speaking tour guide to tell us about the caves but I couldn’t help but finding his name to be so strange.

So get this- our tour guide’s name was Stalinberia. I was pretty taken aback when I heard this. For one thing, having ‘Stalin’ as part of your first name is pretty crazy, but the weird thing is that his name was Stalinberia. See, Beria is the last name of the man who supposedly poisoned Stalin who’s responsible for his death.

Sometimes I have a huge mouth with no filter and that happened to be the case when Stalinberia introduced himself. I think my exact words were, “Stalinberia? Like Stalin and his supposed murderer? That’s like being named Caesarbrutus!”

I probably should have kept my mouth shut but I couldn’t help it; all that kind of slipped out. His name surprised me so much that my mind started wandering on the tour thinking of other combination names encompassing a killer and his victim. (Other bizarre combo names I thought of include Lincolnbooth, Abelcain and Mufasascar). 

This one is for Barbara.

Right where they're standing is where human sacrifices took place way back in the day.

The whole gang (and Melissa's backpack)

Anyway, right after our tour the girls, Taylor and I actually stumbled upon the slaughtering of a cow. I can honestly that one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard is fellow cows mourning over their slaughtered companion. The “moos” they emitted were so woeful and full of sorrow; even the nearby stray dogs were whimpering over the dead cow that was just lying there spread-eagle.

Ironically enough, my day of Stalin and cow slaughtering was one of the loveliest days I’ve had yet. Granted, it might be due to the fact that the rest of our day was filled with adorableness. We met up with a sweet Fulbright scholar who is teaching English in Gori and already working on her PHD (she’s twenty-two) and later we cooked two huge pans worth of Israeli shakshuka at our hostel. (The easiest way to make friends at a backpacking hostel is to cook dinner and invite people to help you eat it). Then with our new hostel friends, we hit up a few bars in Tbilisi and just had a great, great night.

Meeting up with Fulbright scholars in Gori

Oh and in case you’re wondering, I rode the metro escalators all weekend and I didn’t shed a single tear.

When Big Puddles Attack

Samtredia has a good relationship with puddles.

Back where I’m from in the States, February weather translates into snow-induced school closings and early dismissals. In Samtredia, Georgia- February weather also means school closings but for a slightly different reason.

It rains here. Sometimes it rains so much that school is cancelled.

In general my school has been having a rough couple weeks. A combination of swine flu and pneumonia has somehow made it to School No.11 and bedridden about sixty percent of the elementary school. (Last week, 27 of my 35 third graders were home-sick). The school director thus made the decision to indefinitely cancel all classes for students in fourth grade and below.

School hasn’t been the same without all the cute little rug-rats running around screaming my name and asking me if I like ‘snow, cat or dog’ (hey, it might be a strange grouping of words but it’s English).

Plus, with all the third graders absent my days are much less adorable. They just happen to be my favorite. They shriek like I’m a puppy wearing a dress whenever I enter the classroom and give me love notes and gifts when class is over. It’s almost funny how singing some songs, whipping up a few games, drawing a picture on the board, and correcting some class work- can send eight-year-olds into such hysteria. I guess I just miss the little squirts. Well that, and I’m generally concerned they might all be violently, ferociously ill.

Asides from the dying elementary school, school days are being cut short by one to three hours each day because of bad weather. Most kids walk to school and the school faculty is terrified to have kids walk home in the rain convinced that they’ll get the swine-flu pneumonia bug. 

Thus, every morning my day is pretty unpredictable. I don’t know whether classes will be shortened or whether certain classes will just be cut out of the day. It’s a bit annoying, but the unpredictability makes my day interesting. For my own sanity, I’m trying to love all the little quirks in the Georgian educational system.

Anyhow, today was an especially odd day at school. We had no electricity or heat (which is pretty normal) but all classes were cut to half-hour sessions which really isn’t that much time at all. You go over homework, you read something, you play a game- boom, class is over. At around 10:45 though, the faculty decided to cancel all classes because there was a giant puddle outside the school and they were worried it would only get bigger throughout the day.

I thought the same thing you did- a school cancellation because of a puddle?

Well, turns out that ‘big puddle’ was more like a lake. My students were even joking around and asking me if I knew how to swim since I’d practically need to swim home. As I left school today, the entire school even led me in a chant of “Swimming! Swimming! Swimming!” (Again, a bit of a bizarre chant, but it’s English).

This is the 'big puddle' aka lake outside my school.

Normally, on the left of that concrete barrier is a small creek and on the right is a road

Hydroplaning at its finest.

Random lonely ferris wheel cart

 

The new church they're building in town- and its lake.

Everything just looks prettier after the rain.

Isn't Samtredia pretty?

I love a good tree reflection photo

Woof

Advice from Eka

Sometimes she may not realize it but my host-mom Eka is always giving me advice. At times she is oddly profound while other times I think the American medical world might disagree. Either way, she is only trying to help and inspire me to get the most out of life.
 

Read books instead of cleaning the house.

It’s much easier to pay a house-cleaner to clean for you than to pay someone to teach you about literature and the world.

A marriage without love is not a marriage

(Though according to Eka, the cast members of ‘Step Up 3D’ felt true, everlasting love so this one might be up for debate).

Understand that all people are good people

Eka has taught me that even though sometimes it might not seem like it, every person you meet is eminently good and divine. Teaching yourself to like everyone you meet will only help you become a happier person and enable you to learn from everyone (even if it’s learning what not  to do in life).

If you don’t feel good you must either drink coffee, eat chocolate or drink brandy.

Migraines, stomach pain, sore throat- it does not matter. Drink and be merry.

Unless you want dog poop on the carpet, take off your shoes before entering the house.

Honestly, wearing shoes in the house is practically a misdemeanor in Georgia. House slippers are as necessary as a toothbrush.

A bus ride in a foreign place can teach you more than a month’s learning in the classroom.

This is Eka’s way of saying that yes, definitely, you should travel as often as you can. Money or no money, if there’s a will there’s a way.

Don’t ever be sad about your life.

Wallowing in your own false perception of misery is the most useless thing you can do. A billion people have it worse than you and would kill for your life.

Fall in love every couple of months.

‘It makes your life more interesting and proves you’re not a robot’ (that’s an exact translation of Eka’s words).

If a boy makes you cry just remember- his murder can be arranged.

No boy has made me cry but if I look even a bit sad then Eka often reminds me of this fact.

If an orphan singing on TV does not make you cry than you are a robot

I mean this one is just true. An orphan singing? You better watch the TV with a tissue in your hand.

If you’re cold, learn to sew and make yourself a sweater.

I’m still not sure if this is Eka saying I need to learn to sew or her way of saying that you need to be proactive about solving your problems. Either way, both interpretations can be seen as good advice.

A man who likes fat women can be easily persuaded.

It is what it is. A man who likes plump ladies will give you a discount at the bazaar way before a chauvinist pig will.

Every now and then, get drunk in the afternoon

Eka likes the idea of “escaping from your life”. We all need escapes from our everyday lives; it’s just not healthy to live life so seriously.

Save less and spend more.

Advice that would make my finance professors cringe, Eka thinks that since you only live once- indulge often. Your bank account won’t judge you if it’s not as big as it can be.

Drinking cold water after you work will get you sick.

All I’m going to say is that if you don’t want to get yelled at after working out than don’t drink cold water after working out. Apparently it’ll either get you sick or kill your ovaries.

A washing machine is a women’s best friend.

The only reason people think diamonds are a women’s best friend is because selling your diamonds can help you buy a washing machine.

Eating mandarins aggravates ulcers.

Oranges are fine. But mandarins are not on good terms with ulcers.

Don’t eat black bread in Georgia.

Much to my dismay, I am banned from eating black bread in Georgia. The bread is black because ‘black paint is added to the bread’. Yes, I know this sounds preposterous but I’ll follow a bit of cracked-out advice in exchange for some good life-altering stuff.

Earthquakes, nakedness and khachapuri

Living in a town surrounded by two mountain ranges has its advantages. Whether I look north or south I can see some beautiful snow-capped mountains and the air happens to be much warmer than it is in cities just a half hour away. Of course, there are also a few disadvantages. Take for example the various earthquakes we’ve been having lately. The Earth’s plates are shifting, the mountains are growing, and the good- china is shaking in the cabinet.

None of the earthquakes have really been anything to worry about. I slept through most of them (though I could sleep through an apocalypse) but I got to experience the biggest earthquake we had!

As bizarre as the earthquake was, my whole day had already been kind of crazy. I’d woken up that morning and got ready for church, ready to watch Nini become a Godmother to some adorable child. After a marshutka ride, a cab ride, and a bit of hitchhiking- Nini and I finally made it to a church that was literally in the middle of nowhere.

Almost as soon as we walked into the church though, Nini was asked to leave. She was wearing pants and the nuns and Mama (priest) who worked at the church found her outfit inappropriate. The main problem in this was that Nini was supposed to be a part of the baptism service- she was, after all, the designated Godmother.  

Several of the women attending the baptism thought that the only solution would be for Nini and me to switch outfits. For oh, maybe fifteen minutes or so, I had to explain to strangers why this was in fact a terrible idea. For starters, Nini is like 90 pounds. I am not. Sure, Nini could wear my dress, but I can’t just put on Nini’s double zero slacks and extra-small sequin tunic. No one seemed to understand this concept though. The rebuttal to this argument was that I could just hide behind the church in my jacket and wait for the service to finish so no one would see me not wearing clothes. (Yes. This was actually a suggestion…)

After I vetoed these ideas, it was suggested that I could pretend to be Nini during the service, something like a church stunt-double. After quickly throwing it out there that I’m Jewish, can’t speak Georgian and have no idea what baptism-participation entails- a new church stunt-double was found. (One who was both Georgian Orthodox and spoke Georgian).

The actual baptism service was pretty weird for me. It was kind of barbaric to watch babies get thrown in a pit of water surrounded by candles (but hey, us Jews cut the tips of boys’ penises off so who’s judging). Plus, I literally knew no one in the entire church except for the crazy woman who tried to get me to stand outside the church naked

So many babies getting baptized!

The creepy-cute church in the middle of nowhere.

 Well anyways, after the service Nini and I went to Crazy Woman’s house to prepare for a big supra celebrating the baptism. We got to Crazy’s house at 12 but the supra wasn’t until four. I get bored easily so I decided it might be fun to just help the caterers prepare dishes for the supra.

Okay, now let me tell you- getting old Georgian caterers to agree to let you help cook is harder than converting to Judaism. I had to get turned down maybe five times before a nice little bebia said I could make khachapuri with her. Each time I asked one of the caterers to let me help, they’d say, “you can help by sitting and eating”.

Once I got started making khachapuri though those grannies really put me to work. After making maybe thirty pies it was decided by the caterers that I was now ready to become a Georgian wife. I guess once someone can make a good khachapuri cheese pie they’re ready to pop out a few babies.

Right around here though is where the earthquake happened. All of a sudden the house started shaking and Nini latched on to me like I was the last Tickle-Me-Elmo on the shelf during Christmas time circa 1996. It didn’t really feel like an earthquake, it kind of just felt like an elephant was running around upstairs causing a ruckus. (Though in retrospect, finding an elephant running around upstairs would be a much bigger problem).

As the earthquake continued, everyone in the house ran outside to wait it out in case the house collapsed. Well not everyone. One of the old bebia caterers ran back into the house and came out with a few pies of khachapuri. (She was worried we might get hungry).

Later that evening, Eka showed up for the supra and we were exchanging stories about what we were doing when the earthquake hit. Eka’s story definitely topped the namts’khvari  (cake).

While Eka was getting ready for the supra she thought it might be a good time to try out the Dead Sea mud I got her in Israel. She stripped down to her underwear and began to slather her whole body with mud. Just as she was letting the mud sink in (it needs to stay on the skin for about twenty minutes) the earthquake hit. Covered in mud, Eka hid under the table in the dining room waiting out the earthquake to end. She told me how she was completely terrified not just because of the earthquake, but because she thought someone was going to burst into the house to check on her and find her naked, covered in mud, hiding under the table.

I can’t decide what would be worse, to be found behind a church wearing just tights and a winter coat, or to be found at home wearing just underwear and mud!