Encounters with Octogenarian Athletes

I was reaching the midpoint in my run- the last few stairs until the plateau giving way to a panoramic view of Mt. Ararat and all of Yerevan. I wondered if I would be able to see Ararat clearly today, if her peaks would cut through the morning haze. I pumped my arms, climbing higher, full of anticipation. There she was, sitting close and far just across the Turkish boarder. The summit was delighting, what stood (or rather, girated) beneath it not 20 feet in front of me, however, was an entirely different matter.

To my right stood an elderly early-riser, one foot up on a water fountain, lurching his pelvis back and forth- his version (I finally realized after a few seconds of utter disorientation) of the soaz stretch. I laughed to myself and looked left toward sword-wielding Mother Armenia. This time, another man getting up in years stood with his hands on his waist, thrusting his hips every which way, circular motions that, to me, implied salutary Hawaiian dance.

Not much to report about the background. Ararat sits majestic, the highest mountain in the world in absolute height (Mt. Everest is measured in ft. above sea level, Ararat from the ground up). Mother Armenia’s head is securely fastened (after having replaced the head of Stalin which once looked down on the capital city) and her eyes, ever watchful over her teenaged Yerevan. The more glorious discovery is that I now have proof of everything Efa and Eva taught me during those late night cheerleading sessions; Calisthenics die hard in post-Soviet countries.

Thankful for air conditioning in the ATDA office,

Samantha

p.s. still searching for field hockey