Yesterday was something of a study in indulgence. After a meeting with the deputy mayor, (I must qualify “meeting”: late middle-aged man telling us how glad he was that we were here to meet him, how we had the ability to see Yerevan through outside and observant eyes, how he had so enjoyed meeting the AAA interns last year. Primed with questions and curiosities about the status of Yerevan City we stood. At the end of his speech, he bid us an enjoyable visit to the museum on the second floor and sent us on our way. The moment where he asked if we had any questions, if we had uncovered any fraudulent activity going on in the city, if we had discovered a solution to the small apricot harvest this year, must have been lost in translation), we were a bit deflated.
We found a solution. We used our observing outsider eyes for personal pursuits. Walking down Tumanian St., we observed L’Orange, a “cafeteria and bar” near the famous schwarma eatery. After eyeing the menu, we observed the cornucopia of choice desserts situated behind a big, glass panel. In observance of the hour (5 pm) and our stomachs (empty), I ordered something delicious with apples and whipped cream. There was also tiramisu, magia mocco and black forest cake on the table. In quiet observation, we sat and ate our decadent desserts, proud to have put our observational skills to use.
My eye on you from the ATDA office,
Samantha
Monday, July 16, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Little Armenian Kids Playing with Guns Again
For the second day in a row, I walked by a little boy- no older than 6 or 7- twirling what I can only hope was a very real looking toy gun. Walking around unkempt and unholstered, he strutted around seeing what kind of looks he could get from passersby. Or, rather, that's what I would have hoped his face said as I eyed him- a dangerous endeavor while crossing a busy street- on the corner of Amiryan and Republic Square. The truth is he was just walking along, gun in his right hand, his left tucked deep into Grandma's bear paw, as she pulled him down the street. Gimme a break, I thought, how can this country start them on guns so young!
Walking from lunch yesterday, my co-worker Christina and I were appalled at the sight of two red-shirted boys running with traffic along side the careening taxis and Soviet Lada's. It looked as if they were running with the bulls in Pamplona right here on Nalbandyan. (A side note: the googleBeta translator considers "cow chasing in Pamplona" to be an accurate translation for this Spanish spectacle). As the boys turned around, heading toward the next group of cars who chose (because it is a choice here) to stop at the red light, we were granted understanding. Coca-Cola, it said on their backpacks. The boys were walking (or more accurately running) advertisements. There they were: 15 year old boys hawking their wares up and down the median.
This was my first look at hot summer solicitation. Odds are things will continue. My instinct is to berate anyone and everyone about the dangers of running through traffic and playing with guns. But what kind of example is my country setting? Our guns may be neon instead of silver colored, but we have video games where car theives can drive into a dark alley and have their way with hookers. Sometimes I find "car chasing" a more constructive pasttime. But that's just me.
All the best from the ATDA office,
Samantha
Walking from lunch yesterday, my co-worker Christina and I were appalled at the sight of two red-shirted boys running with traffic along side the careening taxis and Soviet Lada's. It looked as if they were running with the bulls in Pamplona right here on Nalbandyan. (A side note: the googleBeta translator considers "cow chasing in Pamplona" to be an accurate translation for this Spanish spectacle). As the boys turned around, heading toward the next group of cars who chose (because it is a choice here) to stop at the red light, we were granted understanding. Coca-Cola, it said on their backpacks. The boys were walking (or more accurately running) advertisements. There they were: 15 year old boys hawking their wares up and down the median.
This was my first look at hot summer solicitation. Odds are things will continue. My instinct is to berate anyone and everyone about the dangers of running through traffic and playing with guns. But what kind of example is my country setting? Our guns may be neon instead of silver colored, but we have video games where car theives can drive into a dark alley and have their way with hookers. Sometimes I find "car chasing" a more constructive pasttime. But that's just me.
All the best from the ATDA office,
Samantha
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Late Gait Assimilation and the Intercontinental Jig
Sidewalks here are one very large game of Chutes & Ladders. You’re either stuck, broken (and empty) cookie jar, tearful on the kitchen floor or you’re chomping down on Tatik’s (Grandma’s) finest underneath the breakfast nook. No one gives reprieves. No “Get out of jail free” cards in Yerevan, my friend.
An example: I was walking to a café yesterday after work with grand plans: study Armenian and complain about the noxious fumes of indoor smoking. Passing the small French restaurant that hides hazelnuts in their chocolate mousse, I was pushed back by a cloud of smoke as Pedestrian #1 turned black to blow his nicotine buzz into my face. If I knew how, I would have thanked him, but I’m still figuring out if, in fact, sarcasm exists in Armenia. My toes started to tingle with the need for speed and I walked faster only to be blindsided by Pedestrians #2 and #3 as they turned backward and strolled into me head on. A block from the café, I was ready to make turtle soup of “slow and steady” #4 and #5. New York feet move faster. Hell, in Ohio, France, everywhere, anywhere, feet are on the go. I am a late assimilator to the Armenian gait.
This morning, however, I got the foot fire I was so desperate for the day before. I met a native Breton- full on Celtic French fellow. After learning I’d studied in Brittany, he picked up my pinky and started dancing through the Tourism Office. Pour rire, he said, just for fun. As our toes tapped around the front office, it came me: Armenians do their fair share of the quick foot shuffle. For that matter, so do the Irish and the Greek. Ah-ha, divine realization, Armenians don’t use their “moves” downtown but on the dance floor. So, in the future, I’ll lay off the pedestrians but you can be sure I’ll be walking just as fast while I do it.
Toe tappin' at the ATDA office,
Samantha
An example: I was walking to a café yesterday after work with grand plans: study Armenian and complain about the noxious fumes of indoor smoking. Passing the small French restaurant that hides hazelnuts in their chocolate mousse, I was pushed back by a cloud of smoke as Pedestrian #1 turned black to blow his nicotine buzz into my face. If I knew how, I would have thanked him, but I’m still figuring out if, in fact, sarcasm exists in Armenia. My toes started to tingle with the need for speed and I walked faster only to be blindsided by Pedestrians #2 and #3 as they turned backward and strolled into me head on. A block from the café, I was ready to make turtle soup of “slow and steady” #4 and #5. New York feet move faster. Hell, in Ohio, France, everywhere, anywhere, feet are on the go. I am a late assimilator to the Armenian gait.
This morning, however, I got the foot fire I was so desperate for the day before. I met a native Breton- full on Celtic French fellow. After learning I’d studied in Brittany, he picked up my pinky and started dancing through the Tourism Office. Pour rire, he said, just for fun. As our toes tapped around the front office, it came me: Armenians do their fair share of the quick foot shuffle. For that matter, so do the Irish and the Greek. Ah-ha, divine realization, Armenians don’t use their “moves” downtown but on the dance floor. So, in the future, I’ll lay off the pedestrians but you can be sure I’ll be walking just as fast while I do it.
Toe tappin' at the ATDA office,
Samantha
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Ani, Tea Toils and My Row in the Shower
Our weekend excursion led to some recalibrating of my idea of the road trip. The roads to the ruins of Ani are poshi (dust). Not dusty or dry, we’re talking straight-up, out of the dust bowl dust. After hours in the hot sun, a jaunt through the buffer zone between Turkey and Armenia, even madzoon (Armenian yogurt) couldn’t cure what ailed. My honest truth is this: as we lined up at the Turkish border, struck by the distance between us and this historical Armenian beacon, scanning with binoculars the land that once was ours, in crept this fear of whether or not we would get home before water hours ended at 9 p.m. It was clear to me that the shedding of my bus dust was the first step forward toward creating a freer, more democratic Armenia. Global recognition of the Genocide? Just pass the loofa, a little soap and it'll be done. I was taking my diasporan position of agency seriously- I had taken Ani to heart. We were jostled home in minibus, tour bus, and it was 8:45 - 15 minutes left until we had to rely on our tank for water. My roommate showered, it was 3 minutes until 9 p.m.
I peeled off my bus apparel, pulled my fingers through straw-hair in one last ditch effort to detangle. I shrugged off this failure, figuring the conditioner would work its magic shortly- how wrong I was! As I stepped into the shower, I was hit by a cold (not so bad, considering the heat), trickle (egads, trickle?!) that dripped slowly, but surely, to the speed of a running nose. I was desperate, stark naked in the shower with the sniffling showerhead suffering from post-nasal drip above me. I stood, begging for water like a street dog following a khatchapuri- toting pedestrian. Just a crumb, a drop, I’ll roll over if you’ll just oblige (you damn, unholy excuse of a shower). Alas, the music died. I managed a paultry wash & rinse with the shampoo, a first layer of dirt descended. I gave into the poshi reality.
Tea, Yanina suggested. Yes, tea! We had our own store-bought Costco-size water jugs. We would drink our tea, get our bearings, create an effective solution for the hair-raising traffic situation in Yerevan, and change the face of Armenia as we knew it! After tea. Dressed, sinking swift and fast from a day of sun, marinating in dreams of great benevolence, we put the kettle on (more accurately, it was a pot with water) and zoned out in from of Armenia Music Television. Here’s the trouble- if there’s no kettle to call the pot black, there’s also no whistle to call out the tea hour. And the water boiled on to dry. So, for the second time that night, we ran out of water. Tomorrow, Ani, we’ll be clean and tomorrow we’ll look back toward you as we march on forward.
Still Poshi from 12 Amiryan Apt.54,
Samantha
I peeled off my bus apparel, pulled my fingers through straw-hair in one last ditch effort to detangle. I shrugged off this failure, figuring the conditioner would work its magic shortly- how wrong I was! As I stepped into the shower, I was hit by a cold (not so bad, considering the heat), trickle (egads, trickle?!) that dripped slowly, but surely, to the speed of a running nose. I was desperate, stark naked in the shower with the sniffling showerhead suffering from post-nasal drip above me. I stood, begging for water like a street dog following a khatchapuri- toting pedestrian. Just a crumb, a drop, I’ll roll over if you’ll just oblige (you damn, unholy excuse of a shower). Alas, the music died. I managed a paultry wash & rinse with the shampoo, a first layer of dirt descended. I gave into the poshi reality.
Tea, Yanina suggested. Yes, tea! We had our own store-bought Costco-size water jugs. We would drink our tea, get our bearings, create an effective solution for the hair-raising traffic situation in Yerevan, and change the face of Armenia as we knew it! After tea. Dressed, sinking swift and fast from a day of sun, marinating in dreams of great benevolence, we put the kettle on (more accurately, it was a pot with water) and zoned out in from of Armenia Music Television. Here’s the trouble- if there’s no kettle to call the pot black, there’s also no whistle to call out the tea hour. And the water boiled on to dry. So, for the second time that night, we ran out of water. Tomorrow, Ani, we’ll be clean and tomorrow we’ll look back toward you as we march on forward.
Still Poshi from 12 Amiryan Apt.54,
Samantha
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Perfecting the Parasol at 105 in the shade
I brought my umbrella to work this morning. There is no chance of rain because three news channels this morning (the Armenians, the Russians and the CNNs) assured sunny skies and could-fry-an-egg-on-it noontime heat. I hear there are websites were I can type in 39°C and find out what I already know: that because Yerevan is in the valley, surrounded by peaks on all sides, the heat smacks down on us like warm towels straight from the dryer, producing heat that produces heat that leaves me eyeing my umbrella longingly.
I brought it to the beach (do I dare not qualify? the beach= Lake Sevan, Armenia’s waterfront paradise of sorts) yesterday, too. I tell people that I’m bringing it along to ward off the rain. If I don’t bring it, it will rain. If I leave it home, along comes a downpour. This is sounder logic than it should be. But I lie; I’m not tempting the rain gods. I’m simply waiting from the right moment. I could eat ice cream every day until the cows come home but true hayastansi status cannot be realized until I open up my umbrella. The parasol: ultimate expression of summer assimilation. I watch young and old women walking down the street, parasols poised and elegant on their shoulders. To be one of them would be like joining the ranks of the ladies who lunch, those gloriously lock-jawed, blue-haired denizens of tact, style and femininity (a l’Armenienne, of course). The temperature is rising; my thumb worries the umbrella’s button and I wish I were walking 105° in the shade.
Wishing Happy Independence from the ATDA office,
Samantha
I brought it to the beach (do I dare not qualify? the beach= Lake Sevan, Armenia’s waterfront paradise of sorts) yesterday, too. I tell people that I’m bringing it along to ward off the rain. If I don’t bring it, it will rain. If I leave it home, along comes a downpour. This is sounder logic than it should be. But I lie; I’m not tempting the rain gods. I’m simply waiting from the right moment. I could eat ice cream every day until the cows come home but true hayastansi status cannot be realized until I open up my umbrella. The parasol: ultimate expression of summer assimilation. I watch young and old women walking down the street, parasols poised and elegant on their shoulders. To be one of them would be like joining the ranks of the ladies who lunch, those gloriously lock-jawed, blue-haired denizens of tact, style and femininity (a l’Armenienne, of course). The temperature is rising; my thumb worries the umbrella’s button and I wish I were walking 105° in the shade.
Wishing Happy Independence from the ATDA office,
Samantha
Monday, July 2, 2007
Some Pictures
Click on the link below to see a smattering of pictures from my past two weeks in Armenia:
http://oberlin.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2021567&l=375b4&id=4300033
Happy Tuesday!
http://oberlin.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2021567&l=375b4&id=4300033
Happy Tuesday!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
