So, as I have mentioned before, Kyrgyzstan is a very guest oriented culture. With close friends and family, it can be just like America: hang out, join the family for dinner, chew the fat, you know, visit.

Now, when “guests” or “конок” (konok) come over, all bets are off.

I walked into the dining room yesterday afternoon to find a Renaissance era still-life sitting on the table. There were giant, cut-glass chalices of fruit: apples on the bottom, with grapes of two colors on top and hanging over the sides. There were smaller chalices of homemade jams, in apricot, cherry, currant and apple. We had brought out the purple and gold trimmed China and good silver. Near each place setting were ornate salads, and in the center of the table were mountains of bread – from the loafed Frisbee bread, to the little fried dough nuggets they call “borsok,” which were truthfully sprinkled everywhere.

Now, my father was not going to be home until around midnight, so my mother invited me into the feast (a first, for me) and told me I was in charge of pushing the vodka.

Our friends for the evening were one couple that works with my father, and some friends of theirs who were working in Moscow. The friends and my Mom were all dressed in a similar uniform: nice top and sweat pants. My Mom had make-up on, fancy hair, a pretty blouse and tunic, paired with bright pink, velour sweat pants. The gentleman sitting next to me was in a nice button-down shirt tucked into blue warm up pants. My one-year-old brother, however, stole the show with his up/down contrast suite. He was sporting an Oxford cloth shirt, leather vest and bow-tie on top, with lace up shoes and knee socks down below.

You might wonder, now, how did I know those socks went all the way up past his knees? Was he wearing shorts on this chilly September evening? Thank you but no. For this party, besides his cute shoes and socks, below the belt, my brother was totally naked.

Now, my Dad’s coworker wanted to know all about me, and America. He peppered conversation with a smattering of standard questions, and got me with some new ones

Q: Kids in American move out at 18, right?

A: Sure, either right after high school, or after college, that’s normal.

Q: Your president slapped a fly in midair while in an interview, right?

A: He sure did.

Q: Was that a shameful thing for him to do?

A: Not really.

Q: So, you speak American, right?

A: Well, I speak English.

Q: Wait, are you from England?

A: No, America.

Q: So, there is there no language, “American?”

A: Not really.

That was pretty fun. Now his friend, the one who had been working in Russia, his questions were more pointed, geared mostly at proving I was a spy.

Q: Do you speak Russian?

A: Not a word.

R: Ha! You must be a spy! Who would learn Kyrgyz if they weren’t a spy!

Q: How much do you get paid?

A: Very little.

Q: If you were working in American, how much would you get paid?

A: A lot more.

R: Ha! See! Who else would give up that kind of money beside a spy!

Conversation was much more fluid, however, once we had a few shots in us. My job was, at every lull in the conversation, fill our shot glasses and insist on toasts.

Now, toasting with shots requires a strategy, which everybody here seems to have, generally involving not drinking much of the contents of your glass. I decided to pick one of the other men, and follow what he was doing. Unfortunately, the only man in a clear line of sight from me was the guy who’d been in Russia, and he, I noticed later, was the only one draining his glass with each toast.

For a long time, we just sat and talked, toasting. Everyone had eaten salads early, and was just nibbling. Everyone but me. See, a volunteer once warned, “you will be pressured heavily to drink, but God help you if you ever appear drunk.” So as much as I try to do what everyone else does, it was either eat or get silly. With food that good, my choice was easy. Though, to be perfectly honest, the pace was rather tempered, and I was able to take little drinking breaks, like while I was running the store to buy another bottle…

All this turned out well, however, as 11 o’clock came and went, with no more food having come out. Given my permanent haze of poor language and cultural ignorance and general shyness, I had no idea if a main course was ever going to come. So, 8 shots deep, past my bedtime, and stuffed full of salad and bread, I snuck off into my room. Luckily, by that point, my Dad was just coming home, and could fill my void.

The later attempts to rouse me (though, I must assume involved the arrival of dinner) were, thankfully, half-hearted at best, and I slept soundly through the night.

That’s all folks, from this big, extra-long Bonus Letter. For those of you from the mailing list who caught this, congrats, you are the few and the proud. For you folks who are reading this last paragraph and asking what on earth this mad blogger is talking about, drop me a line, and I’ll give you the skinny.

Originally Written September 10th, 2009