Almost Home

I put my Christmas tree up the other night. It looks more like something you’d decorate a fish tank with. I used dental floss to attach the five or six ordaments I salvaged from last year. I was going to make some new ones but what the heck. I’m going home soon.

The thing I miss most about America is probably the never ending cup of coffee. When I think about going home I picture sitting at some shiny table drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.

Does anyone know why, generally speaking, doughnuts have holes in the middle? In this case form certainly does not follow function. Probably there is an official myth about it.

We had a PYSK at my site in Comrat last weekend teaching 19 girls and 1 boy the fundementals of business and entreprenuerism. The business plans our wonderful students presented to us on Sunday included an embrodiary shop, a school bus service, a swimming pool, and I can’t remember the last one. This week I’m trying to put together a project to start student run newspapers with some local partners. It gives me something to do besides dream about eating chicken wings.

I really don’t like Charles Dickens. Besides “A Christmas Carol” and “Hard Times,” both of which I was forced to read, I could never get passed the first few pages of any of his novels. I really tried to read “Tale of Two Cities” because I like historical fiction but the guy is more windy than the top floor of the Empire State Building. Did you know that, by the way, the top of the EPS was designed to load and unload zepplins?

Here is the first paragraph of my blog as if Charles Dickens had written it...

Last night he put up a Christmas Tree. It was the smallest tree he ever had, it was the biggest tree he ever had. It was the most beautiful, the most ugly, the most sublime, green, sparkly, peacful home for twinkly lights that ever was, or ever would be, in the dusty, sparse, hollow, mill smelling, commie block that bender Bryan (according to trends by 2011 this will be the most popular spelling) called home before the dark, gortesque, jagged shaped factories blew their foul smelling breath inside poor old Bryan’s window causing him to band together with a small group of mistfits (volunteers) who will, before our story is done, in the unlikely event you're still reading, happlessly attempt to overcome the drivel life of dirty livers down in Tinsel Town.

So about going home. Wish me luck. The long road takes me through Romania, Bulgaria, and Turkey before I ride the steel turkey across the Atlantic, waiting for the shoreline of West Egg to break the ocean and the lights on the ground to imbue me with visions of the cookie dough snow and lamp post hurricanes that are Christmas at home.