From Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead:

The Player (lost): There we were-- demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance-- and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. (He rounds on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) Don't you see?! We're actors-- we're the opposite of people!

...if one were given a magical flute with the power to summon help whenever it is played prior to a potentially difficult mission, would one need to play the flute particularly well for adequate help?

If yes, would appropriate flute-lessons be given at the presentation of the flute, or would one need to play the very same flute for said lessons? Moreover, if one simply cannot learn how to play the said flute, would it be possible to play it poorly and claim it as "the trendiest music in only the highest circles"?

If no, would the quality of aid be directly proportional to one's ability with the aforementioned woodwind? And what if one's enemy (the proverbial bad guy) got a hold of such object -- which party would the flute aid then?

I, of course, apologize for testing your patience with such hypothetical tom-foolery, since clearly, magical flutes do not exist.

So what about a magical glockenspiel?

Sovet: Monday, 19 July, 3:00am

Insomnia. I didn’t like reading the Winnie-the-Pooh books, but I liked the titles that A. A. Milne gave his chapters. Moderate-sized problem, good times, laughable problem, good times, serious problem: this has been the story of my life since Monday of last week. But this day ended well, with real drip-brewed coffee and a hot shower in an apartment that could have been one in America, except for that our hot-water heating tanks aren’t generally in the corner of our bathrooms [oh, I can be so easily bribed. Or perhaps not, since the materials aren’t easy to come by].

[moderate problem: Monday, 12 July] I’ve changed host families. In my last host family, about the only person who paid me much attention was my host grandmother, who was a kind and good woman. There had always been tension in the house. The young parents (three and five years older than I am) do not have a good marriage, and a shortage of money didn’t help things. I had enough of it last Monday night at 3:00am when I was asked to take care of the toddler so that some members of the family could go off in search of other members, and then once all of them were assembled, a long loud argument that could be heard up and down the street. It just wasn’t a comfortable home. That, and I was the only volunteer to be complaining of hunger.

[good times: Wednesday, 14 July] My new host family is large and cheerful, though they confused that I could have reached the age of 22 alive and in good hygiene. I don’t remember to wear my /tapetchki/ (slippers) inside; I refuse to wear socks or a jacket outside in 75 degree weather; and I am incompetently slow at washing my clothes [though they did ask me if I brushed my teeth at night or in the morning. “Both,” I said. But I use cold water, not hot, which may not be as effective]. I have a grandfather who tries to teach me how to harness a horse, though I can barely understand him for his mumbled combination of Kazakh and Russian, and a grandmother who works at the bazaar and seems to float around quietly much of the time. Either I have two host mothers, or one host mother and one host aunt. They are sisters, and both are geography teachers at the Sovet school. Unfortunately, there are no fathers, for one lost her husband to a car accident, and the other is divorced. Both are pretty easy to talk with. Medet is my oldest brother, at 16. He’s quite intelligent and very talkative, pretty good with English, extremely interested in computers, and motherly solicitous about my health. Renard and Meruyet are actually his cousins. At 14, Renard is several inches taller than Medet. He’s very shy, but perks up if American movies or boxing and martial arts come up. Meruyet, who often goes by her nickname, Markos, is 9, though I forget that because of how tiny she is. When my own little sister was 10 and I 16, she reached me in height and liked to pick me up in front of her fifth-grade classmates. Markos comes up to a bit above my elbows. She’s spirited but not bossy, always on the go, and generally a terrific little sister to have around.

[laughable problem: Tuesday, 13 July] There’s not much in the way of light in Kazakhstan at night during the time of a new moon and cloudy skies. Flashlights mark you instantly as an outsider, so I carry one but don’t tend to use it. Coming back from Esik with a few friends one night, I didn’t see what lay in front of me and didn’t understand J—‘s calm utterance of “Watch yourself” to mean “hey, there’s a concrete drainage ditch dead ahead.” Later that night when we did pull out the flashlight after we got back to Sovet, I discovered that I’d torn a pretty ugly hole in my knee. Before that, though, as we took a shortcut along the swollen creek with slippery muddy banks thanks to the recent rains... well, I discovered that the creek is nearly shoulder-high. Combine that with the bruises along my arms from playing volleyball with the teenage girls on my street and their flat volleyball, and it’s not a good sight. But in my medical kit, I’ve got some sort of skin disinfectant that’s strong enough to be used in surgical prep.

[good times: Saturday, 17 July] Halfway through training, the Peace Corps hosts a Culture Day. Trainees bring their host families, host families bring Thanksgiving meals of traditional foods [horse tastes like good roast beef], and many people take turns performing songs and dances in front of everyone else. The program announced that we Kazakh language students would sing two traditional Kazakh songs -- a fun fast folk song, and a love song by the national poet, Abai -- with one of our guys playing the dombra (two-stringed guitar). It did not announce that “Blister in the Sun” had been silently added. That made a great surprise for the Americans, and for their host families, who didnТt expect that all the trainees in the audience would suddenly sing along to something. Otherwise, I think the festival was fairly much along the lines of standard Kazakhstani parties. There’s lots of food, and if someone starts singing a song that’s good to dance to, all kinds of people jump from their tables to do just that. SomeoneТs Turkish grandmother often led the rush to the dance floor, followed closely someone else’s Uighur dad. I danced to fast Russian songs with my host mother; I bent my legs like the squat-kicking thistles from Fantasia to dance to American music with my host sister; I swing danced to “We will survive” with another trainee. I hope to go to many weddings while I’m here, because I can only imagine the amount of dancing at a Kazakhstani wedding reception.

[serious problem: Sunday, 18 July] It ends, once again, with real coffee and a real shower. Between moving and the water to our house being broken so there was no chance of a banya until tomorrow, I hadn’t had a shower since Monday of last week. This is not so much a problem as it is a fact of life here. Anyway...

Coming back home to Sovet from Issyk [Ecik] today, there were no autobuses, so I had to take a taxi. A taxi here is any car that agrees to take you from point A to point B, and some tend to congregate in certain pull-offs. Some fares are well known and invisibly set: 30 tenge per person between Sovet and Issyk during daytime hours (unless you get a free ride for speaking Kazakh). It was 4:00pm: bright day. There were two young men at the taxi stand, drinking Alma-Ata and Tien-shan, who said they were going to a far-out village, Turgen. I didn’t get in a taxi at the stand because they wanted to ride with me; I told the drivers it was because I didn’t like beer, though actually, those two had chosen two of my favorite local brews. Instead I stood next to a babushka who said she was also trying to go to my area, and we both made for a new car that had pulled up. They pushed her out of the way, got in with me, and the car drove off.

I thought about having the taxi stop, but I thought they might get out with me and wait until I chose a new one. Still, I was a block from the hub site where several volunteers were. Had they followed me to the hub site, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Instead, I figured that the two would just be annoyingly talkative on the ride home, which they were. I kept repeating “I donТt know”, “I don’t understand”, and “Don’t bother me”, which is about all the Kazakh I know with which to blow people off. They’d lean over on the seat towards me, I’d elbow them away, and this repeated. When the taxi dropped me off at the mosque at the end of my street, a common stopping point, I didn’t go up it , but backtracked to the next street, on the gut feeling that I might be followed. I didn’t want them to know where I live, plus three very useful people live on that street. My language teacher is there, and directly across the street from there is the house where T-- lives with his host family. T-- played college and semi-pro football. T—‘s host father, Y--, is one of the taller men in Sovet, and broad with muscles in an area where more men look like distance runners (albeit with cigarettes) than boxers. They’re both fun gentlemen, and guys you’d put money on in a fight.

As I got to the bottom of T—‘s street, I saw that the taxi had doubled around to drop the two drunk guys off rather than taking them on to Turgen. They caught up with me quickly, shouting “devushka” [girl] and wanting me to stop, asking me why I didn’t. One grabbed my arm, but when I struggled for it back, he released me. The walk to T—Т’s house is about one city block, and the entire time they were talking to me, falling back sometimes because they couldn’t speed walk well, and then running to catch up. When they reached me, one would throw his arm around my waist and slap me on the rear. Telling them to go away and not bother me didn’t work. Slapping them with a backhand to the chest didn’t work [I told T-- I didn’t do it with full strength because I didn’t want to get them mad. T-- oh-so-kindly pointed out that full strength wouldn’t have bothered them.]

When I finally stopped at T—‘s house, I asked the two small boys if he were home. No, they said, he’s across the street. I thought he might have been over for tutoring at our teacher’s house, and turned to head there. When one touched me again, I shouted “Mazalama!” [don’t bother me, conjugated for pesky children and dogs]. T—‘s father, Y--, came tearing out of the gate in front of the yard that my teacher shares with her neighbor. He saw me, shaking and afraid, and asked what was going on. “They’re drunk,” was all I needed to say.

A repeated part of all our safety and security lectures has been this: For God’s sake, if you’re an American man, do not hit on Kazakh girls at the discoteks. They have friends, boyfriends, cousins, brothers, uncles, and fathers. Those posses of men do not appreciate it, and quite possibly will beat you up. On the other hand, I am living as a daughter in a Kazakh host family, and as a welcome guest in a small Kazakh village.

Y-- tore over and started yelling at the two guys and slapping them around. Pouring out of the gate close behind him who seemed to figure that whatever Y-- was doing was probably the right thing to do. With them was T--, who paused just long enough for me to tell him that those guys had been harassing me. A few weeks ago, my language teacher’s neighbors became godparents to Y—‘s oldest son in a giant ceremony for which the son was circumcised and the rest of us enjoyed a freshly-slaughtered sheep. All Y--’s family and extended family was over at the neighbors in honor of a feast thanking them for becoming godparents. [Much of this I learned about later] Together, the men chased the two drunks down the street, with T-- running with them out of angry adrenaline and a fear that his host father might go too far in dispensing justice. They were about to leave the drunks chased out of town, but as the drunks climbed into a taxi, they shouted that they were going to return and cursed out Y--. Y—‘s brother from Almaty ran back to the house for his car, and together they (and possibly some others) chased those guys to Turgen, found them in a bar, hauled them out, and brought them back to the house to apologize to me.

By this time, I think the seriousness of what they’d done was beginning to sink in. When they messed with me, they weren’t just messing with an American, or even an American attached to some bureaucratic do-good organization, but an American with more local familial ties than they’d paused to imagine. They apologized over and over. T—‘s host mother tore them apart with her words, as did the language teacher, and then my host mother, when we called her to tell her I’d be late coming home. It took a long hour, but Nina, director of training for the Peace Corps, came as soon as she could get there, as did the Issyk police. All the time, the two drunks stood in the yard, knowing they were surrounded.

At the police station, Nina repeated my story and translated questions over and over. Some were tailored to the incident itself, and some were general procedural paperwork. Where was I born, for one. I don’t know how to spell “Los Angeles” in Cyrillic, and I don’t what county I was born in, so I couldn’t provide any counterpoint to the regional breakdowns of an oblast (like a state, only without federalism). Also, where did I go to university, and in what did I specialize. And if I were married, but I don’t think that was on the form. Nina did not know why that question was on the form. I have to go back tomorrow morning again, with two witnesses, one of whom I know will be Y--. The two men probably won’t face criminal punishment, but they will be deported. Both are ethnic Kazakhs, but citizens of Uzbekistan have violated the terms of their visas. After seeing some immigration law cases argued in the Chicago federal court, I tend to think of deportation as one of the crueler punishments possible; after they said they were going to come back and find me, I like the thought of a border patrol keeping them away.

Afterwards, back to Nina’s apartment for much-mentioned shower and coffee, then back to my host family’s house, where they were anxiously awaiting me. This time, I was traveling with a Peace Corps driver, who’s also a host father in the village Turgen. Soon after I got home, my teacher and all the volunteers in Sovet came by to make sure I was doing ok [which I am, no harm done] and to cheer me up. They’d all heard quickly about what happened through the efficient village gossip network. Not rumors were true. Th—‘s family quite clearly told her that I was in a taxi with two men who “narcos” and gave the gesture of someone shooting heroin. So it goes...

I’ve gotten somewhat used to being thought as the token example of America, with whatever I do being what Americans do (we drink our tea and coffee black, for one). As an American in the midst of a village full of Kazakhs, though, I didn’t expect for them to be embarrassed by these two drunks on behalf of all Kazakhs and Kazakhstanis. I tried to explain that this kind of thing happens in America, but we tend not to have families around to form posses on our behalfs, so we just go home complaining to our friends. The Kazakhstani resolution is far more satisfying, and perhaps more likely to deter others.

1: Miss Manners discusses blogs today ("Yes, children, we did used to have blogs. ..."). She limits herself to blogs of the online-diary-of-my-day type rather than the political type, but her comments are generally pretty astute: bloggers may well say things they regret, have them read by people they'd rather didn't, and should be careful when gossipping about people they know. (A lesson this fellow comes close to ignoring, although he limits himself to bitching about Heidi's blog rather than gossipping about it her).

2: Al Sharpton and The New York Times, on having it all:

NYT: But as a society, aren't we already overly obsessed with personal fulfillment?

Sharpton: No. I think we are under-obsessed with personal fulfillment. ...

NYT: You can't have everything you want.

Sharpton: That's true. But you can have a lot of what you want.

Some birthday festivities yesterday led me and some others to The Melting Pot last night, a fondue restaurant.

I have tried to come up with some way to turn the joke about those who represent themselves in court having fools for clients into a comment about the quality of the cooking at a restaurant where you pay top dollar to stew your own food while sweating over a burner at the table. But the truth is, given the slapdash service of our waiter, and the mediocre quality of what little food was prepared by the "kitchen", things probably would have gone worse if our waiter or chef had been more involved in the process.

[Before I go further I feel compelled to note that I in fact had a very lovely time-- the meal was interesting and edible, and the company was extremely enjoyable. Nonetheless, those seeking a fun fondue time could probably do just as well by making a dubious investment in a fondue pot (which seems to be something like the fruitcake of wedding gifts).]

The cheese fondue course was quite yummy-- indeed, I think it is difficult for melted cheese and alcohol with copious quantities of garlic and (slightly stale) dipping bread to fail. Granted, the same thing could be accomplished at a kitchen stove on a late weekday night (c.f. Waddling Thunder's discussion of Welsh Rarebit, a bachelor's treat of which I frequently partake), but sometimes simplicity is deliciousness.

The intermediate salad course was unnecessary (but it was impossible to order an entree without being equipped with one of the dubious salads, and equally impossible to substitute them for anything more desirable), and the mandarin-orange-almond-raspberry-vinaigrette-salad annoyingly sweet, although my dining companions seemed to greatly enjoy it, even though none of them finished their mandarin oranges-- the salad's lone high point. I am something of a freak, though, preferring a vinaigrette of 3 parts vinegar and one part oil and the bitterest available greens healthily bathed in salt, so my judgment here is even less universalizable than usual.

Then came the more dubious meat-fondue course. I, like Waddling Thunder, am merrily and informedly cavalier about a number of health risks, but there is no getting around the unappetizingness of a heaping platter of raw poultry inches from your dining plate, just daring you to be careless with a fork and begin slathering salmonella everywhere. That said, the food did somewhat improve upon cooking--

The oil fondue was generally a failure, since the "batters" that we were supposed to use quickly dripped off the meat and vegetables during cooking leaving you with a badly-fried hunk of meat with a ball of semi-fried substance attached. The wine-broth (mysteriously misnamed "Coq au Vin") was more of a success, although neither it nor the meat had a great deal of flavor, a lack which we were supposed to supplement via various condiments: a "green goddess" sauce that tasted only of sour cream, a horseradish sauce that taste like the green goddess sauce, a curry sauce that tasted a great deal like the "horseradish" sauce, a sweet and sour sauce to rival that from the best cheap chinese food buffet, a cocktail sauce that at least managed to retain a bit of the horseradish that had been lost gone AWOL horseradish sauce, and a few other sauces of similar consistency and flavor if different color.

Our server was clearly annoyed with us, and with good reason-- we were quite resistant to his efforts to push overpriced alcohol and more fondue than we were prepared for upon us, and after he only managed three glasses of wine and a diet coke on a table for five over 2.5 hours, he no doubt was thinking of returning to used-car sales. Of course, pushing drinks was his only hope of making more money off of our table, since our party of five guaranteed him an automatic 18% gratuity, and he had no intention of working hard enough to earn it. [Though I am a chronic and contentend overtipper, I may adopt a new policy of avoiding, whenever possible, restaurant parties large enough to qualify for the "automatic" gratuity. I probably would not shortchange lousy service, but the resulting moral hazard problem often proves quite intolerable.]

Perhaps the cheese he splashed into the Diet Coke when flipping the cheese-goo, the garlic he dropped into my water glass, and his long disappearances (leaving the empty pot blazing for thirty minutes after we were done to give us all a healthy blush) were a campaign of vengeance for our low-ish tab; perhaps the gentleman was simply having a harried Saturday night and allocated his attention elsewhere.

[A trouble with a restaurant that displays flaws like these is that one then begins viewing even possibly innocent behavior in a skeptical light. Was all of the wine-by-the-glass brought in small caraffes to standardize serving size, or to hide some unsavory substitutions?]

Now again, my own experience at The Melting Pot was a fun time with lively conversation and some interesting friends and newly-made acquaintances, and I enjoyed it. The restaurant knows that people who come to a fondue restaurant are not fussy (myself excluded) and are ready to entertain themselves, and it tries hard to take their money without ruining their evenings, and it generally succeeds.

But looking back, I enjoyed the ice cream we had sitting outside of Ben and Jerry's across the street (having wisely skipped out on seeing what would happen when the chocolate rolled out) just as much as the earlier part of the meal, for less than 10% of the price, and with service at least twice as competent. (This is not to say I am a skinflint-- a medium dish of my Mint Chocolate Chunk would have cost as much as a whole pint of the same stuff from a grocery store, but I do not begrudge Ben and Jerry's the extra charge for immediacy, variety, paper dish, plastic spoon, and table space.)

More and more these days I try to avoid eating at restaurants unless they do something that I can't do in my own kitchen (this summer that list of things I can't do includes many things-- brew coffee, bake cake, make agreeable tex-mex food, or remember to make myself lunch beforehand) because I am inevitably irritated if they don't do things as I would have. I have no idea if my simple saucepan and I could turn out the fare that the Melting Pot does, but I have no intention of attempting to replicate it.

Something called a "blogarama"-- a party for sundry D.C. bloggers-- will take place Thursday July 29th (7:30) at the Rendezvous Lounge at 18th and Kalorama.

Come say hi. Via Julian Sanchez.