learning to watch them go

Migration stats for Armenia claim about 20,000 people leaving for work or .2% of their population moving permanently away - emigrating from this landlocked Caucas state, with both numbers set at annual. For a country claiming a pop of 3.25 million, these numbers are substantial. So there are at least 26,500 families and countless friends saying their goodbyes to someone every year. That's some emotion generating action. From such heart-wrenching numbers one can assume that Armenians are a practiced bunch, experts if you will, at the fine art of bidding adieu. Having now experienced my fourth see-ya-someday to a recently acquired family member/roommate [in my 11 months] in the midst of the aforementioned numbers, i can say that this particular action creates a type of feeling of belonging in Hayastan.

Coming from the States where welcome banners are a plenty [no thanks to any crazed tea party members - capitalization purposefully dismissed], so it at least feels like a rarity to say goodbye, depending on the lifestyle of course. Funerals are also excluded from this conversation. I'm talking about a person moving Outside the United States. To me, this is quite likely the reason people are so astonished with the Fulbright Scholar, Peace Corps Volunteer, and the like. "You're leaving?!" i-n-t-e-r-r-o-b-a-n-g

The "land of immigrants" mantra readjusts itself in the American head when one realizes they are in a country that its people are trying to exeunt stage-West.There are of course many countries that have this characteristic, but there is a different sort of click in the brain when you've spoken to your, i dunno, 20th 20-something that tells you of their plan to head out. For the older adults: You love your country and you watch the youth queue up to leave - mind rattle.

The Armenian Ministry of Diaspora led by the fine Hranush Hakobyan created, in conjunction with the International Labor Organization, a Handbook for Armenians Abroad. This 81-page booklet is a How-to for getting back to the motherland. I'm quite curious as to the methods of distribution as official numbers on emigration are never accurate and coffee shops in Little Armenia, Los Angeles hardly seem like good location candidates - though i'm no marketeer.

The book's appendices include a litany of official holidays, consular institutions hosted in other countries, consulates within Armenia, a copy of the questionnaire for citizenship acquisition, the legal order on what an applicant must complete for the status, a test for interested parties to practice, and so on. They want their people back, thus this helping hand that serves at least English-speaking folk [the version i was given by a friend]. But the trickle out continues at the mentioned rate. Maybe this leak will be fixed in 2 or 3 years [the estimated time given on when the borders will open up by a Turkish friend -no political or social scientist].

Of course, those who have left my small corner never intended on staying - loss nonetheless. As social work Processing isn't as hip as yoga...yet..., there is a type of resin that stays inside after every wrench of the familiar. Fast and intense friendships that come with short international assignments are a necessary type of evil, to help one make it through the change in culture, but what if you're not the one leaving...ever?

I remember having often said that i'm "just tired of traveling", in a sense saying "goodbye," but as it stands now, around every corner there is another loved one to send a packin'. They leave because they must, just as any Armenian seeking work and opportunity elsewhere. It gives great pause to try and imagine this type of goodbye resin on a scale big enough to fit an entire country. Armenian migration numbers indicate that, in essence, the country is in a constant state of "goodbye wave." heavy. Yeah, so logically, dissection of what is forming within me at each farewell toast should give meaning to this outsider on what it is to be a 21st century Armenian Living in Armenia [distinction quite necessary for those who don't know] - let's see if they reference such cultural revelations on the citizenship questionnaire when it's my turn.

Viva!

i hope you do, always

The passing of Armenian time slows with my pulse as the weather grows cooler - will long for Texas weather while here. There are days, even weeks, that pass post September that hold a warmth that, as a friend once put it confuses the clothes - these are great laundry days, as one can have a couple loads dried by 7pm in this mountain air.

There is a small car that passes meticulously through the neighborhood on days that have yet to reveal a pattern, so much for a Salt career. It's fashioned with loud speaker and an Armenian flag that has an additive in the form of a white cross fashioned in its center. The pair within spout their...spouts - You Know You Know Armenian When.... #3 - You can understand the In Your Face Message Car. The men [20-35 yrs] that gather at a larger cross section of side streets in the early evening watch it do its thing in a fashion neither for or against. Why do they gather anyway? The Nancy Drew gear is readying itself as we speak.

Housemates helped me celebrate the birthday of the downstairs summer mechanic - i wonder where that work has gone, surely it hasn't been outsourced. Our house sits on a line of garages similar to, though without temperature control, u-haul storage units. As they're privately owned, my mind wanders into project-writing land that places organization/government provided cots within garages that have the space during winter months. Yerevan has it's share of homeless.

There i was in the shop, where it all happens, "shade tree" style. I tapped my shoe on the boards covering the pit asking po Ruski "This is where..." with bulbous eyes and my sentence was finished with an affirmative on it being the place for oil capturing and changing, etc. These car things are just one of the many creature comforts that have fluttered around me over the past 10 months that keep me at the same degree of intrigue as when i first arrived.


I'll continue to wrestle with the washing machine that came with the apartment until it gives out completely. It keeps the house lively anyway. With each dirty load, aka roll of the dice, that is placed within, a prayer [nondenominational] is said to increase the likelihood of completed wash cycle. The kitchen floor, where it sits, has never been cleaner thanks to the necessary water letting per interrupted load. Here's to blogging about dying home appliances.
Viva!

wet cat food for the system

A friend complained about this advertisement for Ms. Irina Allegrova. They explained that the Russian in the sign was over the top. The legislation on language in schools had just surfaced [for those who just joined us], and so he went a ramblin' on. Being a cultural observer, ever on the move to Closer, i noticed something different, the makeup. This was several months ago and now with all the festivities having just occurred all over the states supporting equality i'm on my way to purchase a ticket to see this lovely Irina. Cheers to you and the countless soldiers fallen to unbridled hate. Of course, it is more what the makeup symbolizes, as this style is worn by people in Armenia gender-spectrum wide. loving it.






The street in the mouth of my newly adopted street cat has yet to take its leave, meaning when This happens, i rinse and go for a refill.






Armenia has two closed borders. I'm curious as to whether "secure" in European Council language translates into "closed" or "open" How is this poster interpreted by the locals waiting for the subway - currently, that is information outside my cultural comprehension's reach. Bush era politics taught us that in order to feel secure we must recognize what to fear.



Here's to a stateside move away from such motivational tactics. did i mention i love The Metro?


"i remember searching for the perfect words
i was hoping you might change your mind
i remember a soldier sleeping next to me
riding on the metro"

Viva!

diminutives Never Suited Anyone

It's rude to call a developing country romantic or quaint. This place is what it is -

the mixture of old Russian and Armenian music played by the accordion player just behind the bus stop in the rain;

the woman that moves up to the seat next to the other woman when three boys dressed in army uniforms enter the van;

the men who stoically cross the street despite the absence of the green person cue;

the loud ticking coming from the old engine moving marshutka passengers along;

the thousands of delicate ankles wobbling above stilettos;

the young boys mocking the older man trying to make a living by calling out to potential passengers, those who cannot read, the destinations of each marshutka;

the vendor lady just outside the supermarket shoo-ing away the kitten from her herbs;

the women in the market making a big to-do about the girl who brought her own plastic bag for veggies;

an international volunteer choosing to study Russian over Armenian;

the weightlessness of an elder dancing to the sound of a duduk before a crowd gathered to celebrate his prolonged presence on the planet;

the official football team fan club lighting flares from the stands on the first goal of the game;

and all other minute things that warmly seep into your pores - the reminders that you are here.

more than a feeling

What will come after the attention grabbing police siren that taxis, marshutkas [mini buses], and lay people have installed in their cars? I seem to be hearing more of these nowadays, possibly meaning that just within this past year they've become more popular. It is the sound, inevitably accompanied by red and blue lights in the rear view mirror in many a nation, that wounds the soul and makes the wallet shriek. THIS is what is becoming preferred. It's like choosing bulimia because you like the taste of body processed food. It surely grabs the attention, but i inquire again as to what will come next. To be equally effective it would either have to be a device that actually throws a mannequin at the hood of the other car, or one that envelops the transgressor in a UFO beam. Hopefully, fear inducing tactics will slip out of their prominent place, the siren will be given back to the necessary institutions, and the creation of patient and considerate drivers will ensue.



There are several factors that make the new home situation a bit sick: 1) i have disregarded the agreement made with myself to hold off adoption of a feline until i knew i could communicate effectively in Armenian with the veterinarian, and 2) Lodi, the adoptee, is the Armenian doppelganger to the American Peoter, the grandchild my mother is caring for since i skirted off to the Caucasus. talk about replacement. #2 really is the most disturbing. I can imagine Peoter finding out this information and just turning the other cheek. Just like seeing a picture of a former partner's new mate looking uncannily like yourself. weird.





She was adopted on Armenia's independence day, Sept. 21st from an intersection in the center of town not far from the festivities. I treated her like any other furry one i see on the street, "kss kss"-ing at them to get their attention to see if they'll let me love on them. She took the bait, went further to let me hold her, then did the unthinkable - licked the thumb. Next thing i know i make a meager attempt to find an owner, which was asking the nearest restaurant worker if they knew who owned the cat. Yeah, that really made me feel better about nabbing her cute *ss, next second we were off in a taxi home bound. suckered into signing another contract...

Viva!

See Ya Mr. Pink Skirt

Yerevan Chapter 2 - fin. Here's to big Dutch audiences filled with drooling women throwing unmentionables. Thanks for sharing the house and filling it with discussions on spirituality/love, brother.

Pushin' Plastic

I was called "Zelioni" [green po rusk]today whilst trying to explain Again why i could do without the plastic bag the owner wanted my boxed kettle in. He didn't listen, just ignored my request in a condescendingly familial way. I've just allowed them [any vendors desperately trying to make my life easier with plastic]to pack the items and then, once the money is put away, i unpack and place in my own bag or just carry out of the store, bare-handed. I usually feel like explanation in incomplete Russian is too close to preaching and i've only 9 months here.
Supermarkets are starting to carry reusable bags, but why buy when plastic is so free. The argument is everywhere, thank goodness it's such an easy thing to raise a fist against. Finding a shampoo that doesn't have laureth sulfates - another story. I sometimes try to guess the year the Armenian move would be made to charge businesses/vendors for giving customers the easy way out. Am i zelioni if it's more that the cupboard under the kitchen bench is full?

There is feeling of guilt when i pass by the dumpster, food items visible, where there happens to be a tender. It's an almost boastful walk with my items balanced carefully in forearms. Jeez, get a plastic bag, lady... I'm sorry to say that in celebration of the new kettle, i handed the dumpster rummager a refrigerator magnet that was thrown in as a bonus for the purchase. The thought, "Did i just do that," never sounded so God-talking-down-from-the-heavens. Rationalized her "Shat shnorhakalutsiun" [thank you very much] as being given because of the packaging with price tag would allow for an actual sell, or maybe she hates money and will wear it as a brooch, or use it as a chew toy for her mange-ridden hound son. a little desperate to find value in the seemingly worthless hand off.


I was just reunited with shoes that spent several weeks in Marneuli, Georgia. This is the person that held them. And now we are safe and sound.


I was told by the border guard giving me the lesser of fines for having an expired visa that i was a "nice girl" with a passing knuckle to chin like in an old western. Their familiarity with me and my filling passport makes me a little nervous. Must get on the residency card wagon.

This is what you get when birthday announcements get lost in translation, a belated reaction by a grateful guest. I think the number to the fire department is 103, but this type of thinking can get you killed.

On my way to a meeting today I ran into the little old man cabbie that broke my heart back in May. In the cab i had told him he reminded me of my grandfather. At what age is this no longer insulting? Surely, if you're in your late 40's or 50's this is like going through the mouth to remove a lung, but when you're late 60's, do you have the right to charge 5000 for something that is 2000? My more reasonable offering was answered with him calling to a teenager that was with a group of men. Belittlingly, he told the kid to get a load of what this crazy tourist is saying, i was so sad how quickly he turned on me, i mean i showed him the FACE of my blood that fought in WWII! The youngin' cautiously told him i was speaking the truth. I guess it had been a while since he had taken someone to the airport... i dunno. Anyway, today i leaned my head into the passenger side window and recognized him immediately, with a crazy smirk i said, "i'd like to go to the circus, how much will it cost?" That old fox gave it right back saying, "More than likely around 5000 dram." Relaxed smiles from both sides... "Get in," he said with a toss of his head to the back. won over.

Just amazing. This is as common as the uneven sidewalks/streets. Definitely feels like a cool every 5th woman. If it were an Olympic sport, Armenia would surely be gold. I knew there was something lovely under those equally tall winter boots.

eat my cake

I had my Ծննդիան ոՐ, birthday, yesterday, though i don't bring this up for congratulations, rather it's presented as a segue to culture. I have been living in Yerevan since January. During my first job the first office birthday cake was bought by the person celebrating. This continued to happen and i interpreted it as culture specific to the office, as it was made of employees from all over the world. I thought, "What a progressive idea, to give rather than to get on your birthday." So, the phrase, "This is how we do it," lent itself to this picture of idealism that i had painted in my mind of the world renowned international organization. just one more of the many lessons in you-see-what-you-want.

Currently, I'm working in another office. On my birthday, a day i wasn't preparing people for, a lady came in with cake. In offices that i have been a part of in the States, they are either birthday-crazed, meaning everyone chips in the for each employee's birthday, buying a cake or a small present, when it comes around; or it is hush-hush. I was startled to see the piece of homemade cake. When I was handed my portion, my coworker said nonchalantly, "She just had a grandson." Smiles ensued, and guilt set in.

On my birthday, i ate the cake of another. I did not provide my own. To punish myself i let the work of a grandmother for her hour-old grandchild sit on my desk for sometime [3 hours to be exact, it was homemade after all]. The excuse of not being able to produce such a fine cake with my own hands is not one at all. You can purchase a lovely flour sculpture in any of the Many supermarkets in Yerevan. While i type, i can't help but mortifyingly re-experience in my head the obnoxious sheeping-away i did from the when's-your-birthday-question. absolutely no E for effort in sight.

In the States people help you celebrate your birthday. Self-cake buying would be considered a bit presumptuous. A bold move that would seem to proclaim a high degree of self-importance, possibly moving some to gag. So, it seems as though some people just opt out of caring all together, to selflessly save others the trouble or just in case there is truly no one who cares enough to rally the troops in their favor. A lot of people in America actually dread a day that means heaps, due to the way it has essentially turned into a popularity contest, causing many to have horrible flashbacks of their years in adolescence.

So, when people ask you when your birthday is in Armenia, it's not something to shy away from. They are asking you when you're bringing cake for Them to eat. If you keep it a secret, you will more than likely be considered selfish and stingy, causing some wave of ancient Pagan negative voodoo to come splashing your way. With this in mind, i will be reworking my impression and bringing a store-bought masterpiece to share with all tomorrow. In rudimentary Armenian, i may scribble in some icing, "Thank you for your patience, I'm learning."

viva!

you are as intense as istanbul

It may be the fact that i sit to write after nearly 2 full days of traveling back to Yerevan from Mrs. Istanbul. Freakin' borders. Given its specific geography, there is no way you can forget that it's the "5th largest city proper" in the world. Twelve, seventeen, and twenty million were the populations reported, sometimes gratuitous, sometimes not. So, yesh, the idea of a bloglette at this point to capture the trip makes me chickle not only because it would be days long, but also because i know there are people who have the capacity to gab on... and their readers would just skip through to get to pictures, kudos. Obviously, i need some time to process, but i choose share a tad-ish first.

The city made a window approximately five days long [halfway through], for me to enjoy, to get comfortable, basically long enough for me to be completely mind-blown when things that would make my mother cringe happened. So for the sake of her sanity, i will stick with the pleasant, but let it be known that i now know from experience that i can jump out of a moving car to get away from an aggressive cabi and, thanks to a separate event, that police does Not equal police report [of course, these two things can apply to any city]. No wonder i spent two days at a lovely quiet island beach.


This cat, with joker mouth captures the craziness of the city. He was one of many cats that entertained my camera's lens. i would no doubt already have 5 cats living with me, cat-ladying me up.



Leave it to the locals to give you a place to stay for free, eat one of the best fish dinners for under 5 USD, take you to a cover-chargeless modern jazz show [as the city is teaming with musikaners], and accompany you to the beach because of the fact that they had not been once since living for over 10 years in the magnificence that is. I was granted experiencing as a fat-cat tourist and a subdued cash-strapped locAl [as close as i could get anyway]. The place, as anyone has been knows, is expensive, very expensive. I won't even tell you the amount i had set in my head for spending money, it's just embarrassing.

Cosmopolitan vacationers. Thankful for my brownness - it steers the curious away to avoid confrontation. Is it cowardly and uninspiring? Yes. Did i care at the time? No. Why? Because i just wanted to stare into the sea and relax. Yeah, I was so grateful, i had already said "Mexico," when i heard the man who had just kindly forced tea upon me while ferrying my way to the beach say "Iraq." Acknowledgment: What an interesting conversation that would have been... had things gone well.
Really though, i didn't feel like dealing with awkward, or words for that matter - cue Leslie to speak with a Spanish accent. My few sputtered words had him asking if I spoke any other languages. Russian slowed us both down and kept the conversation to niceties. phew-skis. So now, this Mexican girl is in several vacation videos of this nice Iraqi man, smiling and waving, nothing more.

I was only in Istanbul. I know you think, "But what about the rest of the mammoth nation?" I leave this for when the border opens, to experience with family, a celebratory event, if you will. I plan on walking through the open Armenian border to Eastern Turkey, peace flags in tow.

It's good to be back in 1 - 1.5 million Yerevan, it's closer to SA's size/speed, and at the same time it's sad knowing that more time could not have been spent working on reaching over-saturation. If i had a choice, wouldn't mind eating myself to death in Istanbul.

But these words are just as overplayed as the photos that fill my digital library - it's all been done before - insert tourist here.

Viva!

everywhere

I looked up the word for spicy before leaving the neighborhood. Was on the way to our very conveniently placed food market at the foot of the neighborhood with Armenian/English dictionary in tow. Bar-ka-han was bookmarked and everything. Mission: cilantro and Armenian version of the jalepeno for my salsa roja. This had been on my mind for some time, but I only later remembered why i'd yet to go through with the B.Crockerness of it all. Chips are not readily available.

I stopped at the first peppers spotted. $.03 per. When answering the vendor's question with "Mexico" I was wrapped in warmth at her knowledge-dropping rhetorical question, "You all like spicy things, right?" Yes. The substitute called in for the chips was buckwheat. I love that stuff, truly, but i, as one might guess, was let down.



These ducks are famous, they live in a duckhouse that is just to the right of the picture, in the middle of the structure. It's a pretty cool zodiac fountain in front of the Moskovian movie theater near the opera house. I was late on the click, missing the lighter duck stretch its neck down for a drink of its swimming/waste water...



To celebrate the 4th i read Eej's hijacked Black Garden, nationalism's nationalism ya know? Then the next day saw Shrek 3 in Russian. If only Eddie Murphy could speak Russian, then audiences around the world could truly embrace the character. Luckily, Puss in Boots uses more visual cues. friggin' Shrek... Lots of details expounded just to convey that it was a little bit of home to see the Familiar.


Any time i read about the struggle between Armenia and Azerbaijan, knowing that the Dark Years were only about 18 years ago, i can't help but stare longer at the aged. A lifetime compressed into a shrinking body so tightly the gray and wrinkled blooms begin outnumbering memories; and then the connection is made that this cohort had kids to worry about and protect back when - i wonder what their version looked like. Armenian language needed stat.

Armenia came in 2nd to Moldova for the C Division of Women's European Championship tournament. So, they're movin' on up.
Interesting telemarketing practices in these parts. 1) Call to sell internet service, 2) Ask if resident is using internet service, 3) Ask which provider resident is using, 4) Hang up abruptly after retrieving info that informs no sale can be made. ta-dah! Why US telemarketers didn't start off with this tactic, who knows, i mean their unregulated days were always numbered right?

i am in ARMENIA

My interpretation of the Armenian cuisine is that it makes more room for the sweet than the salty. So, when I reclaim my ways of yore [tejas], how dramatic, by making a special trip to the 24-hour mart just outside the neighborhood to pick up a bag of chips, it is not so surprising that my fingertips move into exhilaration mode, landing me here in blog-ville.

I'm giddy. I found a bag of frito-esque chips flavored "Sabor Barbacoa." What? That's right, Mexican bbq. To my benefit,there's a tex-mex fiend nestled in this city. So, my greedy self can't help but try to now predict when Mets Karmir [Big Red] will grace Hayastan with its presence. Its main rival Fanta is also here so, like in the states, i may have to settle with the strawberry F-word substitute. bah. Also, for those who don't know, I'm just tolerating the bbq for now and eagerly awaiting "Sabor Sal con Limon."

It's now July and noticeably hot, not because it's hotter than in Tejas, but because i'm needing to keep the house windows shut. When opened, my appendages become covered in welts that indicate i am of foreign blood. I am the current heroine to the bugs in these parts. The same thing happened in Kazakhstan, for several weeks in the summer my legs resembled post medieval feast tables complete with scattered pig carcasses, wine-stained wood at the mouth of a toppled goblet, etc. My toothpicks are a mess and will grow worse as the scratching continues to send me into blissful states. I'm the person wearing a turtleneck in the summer covering the hickeys the inconsiderate other decided to leave behind. calamine please!

What were once my legs are immediately forgotten when my neighbor passes me the jar of Rose Jam. I seriously need to be given some type of break by this lovely woman. With every jar of this or that that she places in my hands i am reminded of how horribly i'll do during any future Mad Max eras. At this rate i'll be the last person with the necessary Tina Turner chain mail covered shoulder mounds. rose jam... i'm such a city mouse.


The Armenian Woman's Basketball team successfully made it to what i guess could be called the semifinals after playing against Scotland. It's been great watching the last several games against Moldova and Gibraltar, this is the European tournament. I wikipedia-ed Gibraltar after that first match, yup, that feels good to type out loud. It's wonderful to catch the NBA feel in Yerevan's 3rd District gymnasium whose windows remain 80% shut, which makes the spectator wish they were either naked or in swimsuit to fully experience that which is sauna while ladies dribble away on the court.

Cover your eyes when watching the game because the FIBA logo hurts the soul. Fascinating that a friend is convinced that it's the horrible work of Russian graphic designers, because only "such crap could come from them..." [translation subject to interpretation] To me, it's more obvious that either a worldwide group of misogynists bought their appointment to the FIBA PR team, Stacey's Sports Bar's influence is just that extensive, or the makers of the iconic mudflaps own the FIBA bball league. These guesses are due simply to the fact that the logo could easily be the signage for a place that hosts exotic dance technicians. Serious apsos (pity) that young girls and boys are barraged with this imagery every time they innocently/patriotically attend a game. A hired version of myself, one able to support a vandalism fine at this stage of the game, would gravely consider a late night sneak-in to the gymnasium for a splattering of red paint all over the over sized court logo. arghness.
It's great to watch the crowd go so wild they refuse to quiet down while the home team is concentrating on a free throw. Admittedly, i was initially Ameri-centrically appalled at the fan mannerisms, but was shaken quickly out of such a state when the baskets kept on comin'. JACK-SON! HAI-YA-STAN!



Said a couple of encouraging words at the one year anniversary conference/celebration of the online school that i'm taking my beginners Armenian language courses from. I was happy to help, but disappointed that i was part of the way-too-many student testimonials also given via skype and oovoo, which ultimately made me miss out on the post-event cake. Second irritation came from the lady cheerleading online education by referencing the ever increasing profits of private institutions like Devry, Phoenix, etc. She was the only English speaking speaker apart from myself and a Fulbright scholar. In response to her cult like love for online education, i could only recount the words within a Harper's article that gave poor scores on quality within these school's administrations, reporting that they care less about student learning and more about increasing enrollment numbers. In time I suppose we will see if this article is one of many other ploys by the privileged who are irked by the fact that the working poor have found yet another way into what they thought to be their exclusive game.

There's a bit of civil discord concerning the bill that just recently passed through parliament that gives private entities [relegated to only 2 specific cities, mind you] the permission to be foreign language specific, meaning they do not have to teach school children Armenian. Naturally, there are groups that are against what they interpret as stifling of the Armenian culture in such an open way. Just one article on the issue. It's interesting to observe a familiar culture war being fought in another country. Every cause needs its radicals. All the while plays are being performed in Russian by Armenian youth as their parents clap on.

Viva!

after singing

I was ready to reach into my purse when i heard the upbeat vocal melody coming from the other side of the subway car. When i peered into the center, to my right i saw her over-sunned small face accented with oil-laden bangs. Her nightgown hung on her body like a table drape for her active mouth on display.

Her hand wasn't extended in the way that asked for compensation for her cool work. When she noticed i wasn't looking away like others she became nervous and began singing to the wagon window, to herself. One of the ladies sitting facing me maintained her reaction that could either be described as disgust or dismay to the "unfortunate" situation of the oblivious.

How everyday people in this area think of mental health issues is not something i've looked into. There is this singer; the lady that travels from trash bin to trash bin with her two, sometimes three, dogs; the man in maybe his late 60s whose eyes are peculiarly close together that often jovially chats with those at the moment who care to have the patience; the lady in the blue shirt with shoulder-length black hair on the street that often talks angrily to the invisible someone there, and all the others that i haven't noticed. The details that i have chosen to type to you are, of course, based on stereotypes about people without homes or people with mental health issues.

One could think, if reading the descriptions out of context, that i'm writing of random people on the street, as they are actually less descriptive than our ignorantly bliss selves would like to admit. We'd much rather settle with the reasoning that it's just not "normal" to be picking through trash bins [unless you are of course part of the group that CHOOSES to dumpster dive for political/environmental reasons]. This scenario of course is mirrored on streets America over. I am unfortunately, without background knowledge of the Armenian fight for Rights for those with mental health/housing issues. As such, advocacy, aka understanding what Armenian "normal" is, will remain a bit stunted. No metro vigilantism for me, especially not until i've the language down, or residency secured - ugh, straps just got tighter.


And maybe the straps are black leather?... If they are it's because they were picked up from Highland Metalfest 2010 at the Puppet Theater. There were 8 bands: Aprigon, Divahar, Ayas, Psychometria [very impressed], Blood Inheritance, Azhirock, dismorial, Horse the Band. The bands were from Georgia, Armenia, Russia, Iran, and America [Horse the Band, the headliner]. Lovely to see the different styles. Eyes rolled a bit when i was told by a friend that she was told, "It's just as weird as any other place," by a Horse the Band member when she was asking what brought them to Armenia. yeah, thanks for the information.

Favorite parts of the fest: #1 - at the end when the main organizer, maybe 25 yrs old, screamed into the mic after giving his thanks to all who helped make it possible, "Support the SCEEEENE!" yes, brother, yes. #2 - metal backup singers. Though none had in-unison routines, i was appreciative. Note: they were all women, which kept with traditional gender roles found in the States as well. One of the two sets read from music sheets their opera-esque parts [it was awkward to watch them wait for 15 minutes on stage until the band leader finally decided to play a song that required their participation. heh.]

Saw Sameba Cathedral this time around in Tbilisi. This thing is so huge, no wonder it took almost 10 years to get it looking this way. When inside it's more sparse than i would have imagined. This possibly means that another $100,000 later it will be "complete."

My answer to the Armenian border [Georgian border] guard's question "You're going to tour around Armenian for four months?" was, "Well, i'm also working/volunteering at two organizations. I've got to go to the Ovir," to which he approvingly nodded and said, "Welcome, have a good time." "Ovir" i learned yesterday is actually a Russian abbreviation о.в.и.р. [pronounced Ov-eer in Armenian/English] standing for the office of registration something or other...

I just received a letter from one of the organizations that i can present to the Ovir for a temporary residents card [1 year] ! ! ! ! So, i will soon become an official resident until June 2011. dust, settle.

I had no idea Storkville really existed - that this, is where all the babies come from. Did i mention, for those of you who have never lived in America that these 200 lb looking nests would be destroyed for 'public health' reasons [against safety codes]. There are an average of 3 to 4 storks PER nest, achem, twig mansions. And in some parts they are on EVERY telephone post. heh. !

Also, I may have bed bugs. The new temporary German roommate will help me figure it out tonight with a plate and hot water...

Viva!

Metrobe

42 isn't the most interesting of numbers, but when its cameo takes place within foot conversations, disbelief is a natural reaction if it is a female speaking of themselves. I don't want to type "awe," as this word brings to mind admiration -damn connotations/words - but there seems to be such a high degree of something similar in the looks of the faces of those listening to me that indeed aweness comes to mind...either that or the looks hint at, "now please name the planet from which you come." Dramatic, yes, but as a friend put it, "they want to sell shoes," though this phrase was in response to me questioning whether or not the salesman was correct in saying that there wasn't a 41 or 42 in the house. It of course made me laugh because it was also relevant to the fact that, yes, stores in Armenia want to sell shoes, so the likelihood of them stocking up on giantware is, to keep with the theme, short.

I do however have faith in the world of Metrobe. Having never lived in a city with a metro system, i'm fascinated with our stop that has an extensive array of shops to get whatever it is done. At the moment, for me it's summer shoe ware, part and parcel of what is now known to me - and others if they care to adopt - Metrobe. It's a uncomplicated line, about 11 stops, rather than the effective and more common circle, but give Yerevan some time, it'll complete the project, despite some local doubt. So, i've seen about 5 other stops and ours - in terms of supply - only has one true competitor [aka my second option].

By the time i was making my way home only 3 of the shops that carried shoes were open and i was able to find a 41, which equals light-at-end-of-tunnel.

Viva la Metrobe!

Over the Mulberry

This year, if i had been the type to purchase the cellophane [or sheet as you will see later] and rig it in the required cradle-like fashion beneath the branches of this tree before the ripeness of each berry began plotting the desecration of our front porch, entry way, kitchen, and who knows where else, this bloglette would not exist. There was enough small talk concerning the ensuing bloom to adequately prepare my brain and joints for that harvesting task. Instead, I sit here witnessing the meeting between each matured creation with its concrete maker - the walkway to the house - just after the sweep of all sweeps. The experience helps me add to the list of things formerly unknown.




There was a phase of denial that bore the bed of droppings you see here- a mahchakal [bed in Armenian - bare with me while i prepare for the final exam that i was able to get an extension on] that more than likely hosted thousands of fly larva in the weeks it took to form. Don't doubt though that now all realities have set in concerning what it means to have a mulberry tree as a centerpiece of a concrete patio area. Cleaning up tracked-in berries for the 50th time takes a toll on the soul.



Part of me is hoping that the occasional torrents of cool summer weather Armenia experiences, something reported by the Dutch roommate, will undo the negligence of which i am guilty through Permanent-rest-o'-fly. Sure the berry is tasty, but as you can see, their death - like most - takes some concerted energy to clean up. They're continuously everywhere, like that person named Jesus or Francesca Schiaveno - kudos.

Next year, one of my subtitles will be Mulberry Harvester/Liquor Distiller. Eej and I had the pleasure of tasting this type of vodka at a farewell gathering in February. Hamayak indicated that it takes 10 kilos of these suckers to make a liter of vodka. Coincidentally, during our urge to pluck from the overly pregnant tree [wishing it was a bush referenced in the children's song] he and Elen his German speaking daughter came over to help with the harvesting.



Note the hard way to do this - small pot in hand versus the smart way - big sheet in multiple hands with a person willing to monkey up the tree and shake the branches like a primate lacking human words, though fully capable of the physical equivalent.






Feeling a little closer to understanding the process of development. Here's to a somewhat welcomed "i feel ya."


















At the base of this statue on Saturday was a gathering of about 6 people holding pictures of a person who had been arrested some weeks ago in the same square, apparently because he was part of the opposition. This surface information was gathered by a friend from one of the six, which was then translated on to me. One can see people enjoying their time on roller blades around the small to-do. Really, it was just only several people with enlarged photo graphs. You can't see the people holding the pictures as they're sitting at the base - a position they decided to take when more police and about 6 men in soldier uniforms showed up. Most interesting was when they began to chant, which means in unison they said loudly the name of the arrested approximately 5 times. The megaphone in the middle of the crowd was used at just about point blank range [ouch!] of the faces of the chanters while the phrase, "Don't disturb public order," and something else, which missed translation, made it to the lobes of people expressing their opinion. interesting. As the picture hopefully accurately portrays, the majority, let's say 90% of the people, gathered are the Reaction to the picture holders. Had there not been any police/soldiers/photographers, unfortunately, i doubt hardly a Saturday-er would have noticed. Curious to know what the sports car toting dude in the foreground makes of it all.

Just about through the 3rd season of The Office. Life is funny, because i'm only now (and appropriately so) falling in love with the cast/storyline.

Glory Po Ruski Znachet Slava

It was more so in the way she, Olya, said it, "You will grow older quicker if you don't have children," [for those of you who know about my centenarian obsession of sorts, my ears perked a bit]. It came up three times, actually the only topic of conversation, over chai breaks on the train ride to Petropavlovsk. She sang the praises of motherhood and the independence [possibly recognizing the hint of Western musk in the audience] a woman gains after using the man's donation of seed, heh, feminism rears a beautiful head. Surely, it was no coincidence that directions on childbearing made their way into the train cabin just as they had in 2005 when we were instructed to keep our waist properly protected with warm clothes so as steer clear of barren-osity that bitter winters bring.

Asia, a Chechen beauty, caught a glimpse of the emotional goodbyes in Almaty and decided to keep me close company on the way to North Kazakhstan. Her laughs, accompanied by the slap on the arm or leg and/or lean-into, were as familiar as interactions with all loved ones back home. As a newcomer in Armenia, proximity to others remains substantially distant - I could see Nik wilting like an unkempt floral arrangement in such circumstances that lack the tackle-bear-hug every now and again. It is comforting to see men in Armenia kissing on the lips when parting or standing with arms linked.
Not better or worse intimacy, just different. ... Asia had that type of loving-purity about her, the type that takes some to politics or some to work at the pound, a place where they can freely splash their charisma all over the audiences. I sat and listened to the Russian conversations - absorbing new words/concepts where I could, but also relishing in the memories of a engaged younger me that her mannerisms ceaselessly stirred. In observer moments such as these I remembered the point of connection with a classmate when I realized the language barrier she faced was like that of mine when living in another country...words...









Someone asked why I wasn't flying to my destination, a question that they themselves answered immediately with, "The train is romantic isn't it?" I did leave most of the steppe of Kazakhstan for my gazing eyes and less for the lens that loves to share with you. simply a taste.


For those who've seen Eastern Promises, there was a passerby on the train who caught my attention by the nagolka [tattooed - nagolka is the Russian name for the homemade skin art done in prison] story written in depth on his arms and the clean-cut nubs of his right ring and pinky fingers. An image ran through my head of his reaction to the removal of him from his body pieces, void of the vocal, sweat screaming out each pore, and lips wringing - a tough one.

Four days on a Kazakhstani train can get the mind lancing into stories untold by guidebooks... the reason I may have started from a middle squeezed between the sweetest of reunions








viva!