On my birthday I woke up to a familiar noise. The snow shovel scraping on the frozen ground made me forget where I was. It wasn’t my dad shoveling out a Pontiac station wagon, but a Mongolian clearing the way for a Russian jeep. It was a strange time to forget that I’m in Mongolia, because only recently, I think, I’ve settled on the idea that I’m home here. With that settling has come a slow downward swing in my mood.
The euphoria of the first few months in country has slowly worn off as my work and daily life has become more routine. This is a common feeling when living abroad. I’ve been told that my mood will vary from religious-experience highs to huddled-up-in-sleeping-bag lows. The problem at the moment is understanding when I’m experiencing a huddled-up-in-sleeping-bag low, and when I’m huddled in my sleeping bag simply because I can’t bear to stand in my freezing apartment. I guess one is a subset of the other.
Of course, I use the word "routine" loosely. I can still count on jarring cultural moments. For instance, the Russian teacher at my school recently interrupted my class to ask if I would write an English composition for his sister who was preparing for an English competition. After several minutes he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t be party to cheating, and why I wouldn’t do two hours worth of cheating on one hour’s notice. Also, when a drunk man steals my mitten from off my hand in the middle of a cold night, I tend to stop putting my life in the context of a "routine". At least I was close to home.


We recently celebrated Thanksgiving. We all invited Mongolians from our work to join us. We were puzzled as, slowly, many of the Mongolians we had invited cancelled on us. Our attendance dwindled from an expected 14 to 11. The six Peace Corps volunteers, two German volunteers, and three Mongolian work counterparts. We were puzzled until we remembered that it was Mongolia’s independence day. Celebrating an American holiday on a Mongolian holiday scores a 3 out of 10 on cultural sensitivity if you are keeping track. A 1 out of 10 is telling a Mongolian that you prefer ancient Rome to the Empire of Genghis Khan, and then adding that you think milk and mutton suck.
Despite the cultural blunder, the meal was nice and enjoyed by all. We had to explain that while we ate the "traditional amount" of food, the "traditional type" of food was difficult to prepare in these parts. We had one box of stuffing my parents sent from America and mashed potatoes, but from there, the menu became somewhat eclectic. A nice chili was present, a meat and potatoes dish, tuna salad, egg casserole, and an unexpected pineapple souffle.
The only turkey in Mongolia was at the U.S. Embassy in Ulaanbaatar, and I wasn’t lucky enough to attend that party, though many volunteers were. I began considering our poultry options. There seemed to be two. Once I heard a chicken in town. I thought about tracking it down, but then remembered that, in Mongolia, if it looks like a chicken, and sounds like a chicken, it’s probably something else. I rested my Thanksgiving dreams on the flapping wings of the nightmare crows that shriek here in great numbers. I planned to crouch on the balcony with my axe until one of them landed on my woodpile, when we would pit, once and for all, axe against talon, for Thanksgiving glory. Then I heard there would be mashed potatoes and decided that would be enough.