Misplacement Knows No Borders

The title of this entry will surely raise the blood pressure of a good few. Many apologies. Though, it does explain the reason this entry lacks the the visual portal into Yerevan that the first two so graciosly provided. In a nook, unbeknownst to myself, sits quietly a berry of a flash drive ripe with juicy pictures that are able to satiate the most profound of thirsts. That or, some local currently has the pleasure of perusing the jpgs of silly Mexikanka, thinking her the owner of a feline mill. I'll shorten this up for the more visually inclined.

Stevie massages the lobes and inner soul every night. For those of you who don't know, I happened upon a 3 album set of Mr. Wonder's '60s magic for just $1 at Savers. With the help of Babone-jan (endearing ending hyper-utilized in Farsi and Armenian meaning 'dear')and his vinyl digitizer, I have been able to listen to the crackling intro offered by the rpms that segway into the higher pitches of Stevie's youth...hence the title of the blog. Chipping away at the ceaseless unknowns.

The past week was my first of the intership, orientation. As one can imagine, the familiarization dance is as physically monotonous as that of any agency's. Easing the strain was what was happening mentally. The mind explosion wasn't only attribuable to the security briefing laden with information about landmines through the use of exotic accents. Nor was it caused by the picture of the gaping bleeding wound. *conformity for the majority warning* It was the uniforms sprinkled throughout the pictures and videos of the DVDs. Light blue hats and prints of the UN symbol on oversized t-shirts worn by those heading to field sites or wading through mobs. "I want one of those...," came through the windpipe, hopefully settling into the ether as it should.

Spanish to English translation was the first project that I was assigned. I had only just told my mother over the phone about the Spanish pop that made up a cool 10%of radio airtime and the interesting fact that a good portion of the Armenian young adults at the hostel with which I had conversed spoke of learning Spanish as their 3rd language. Quien sabia?! The travel books glanced over didn't mention this happy fact. And so I sat at my computer the majority of Wendesday and the first half of Thursday translating 23 slides of Spanish that laughed at the average maximum 30-words-per-screen-rule. Delighted to help I swooned over the me-specific thank you given by the boss in the email forwarded to the office with the transformed presentation attached. She beams...

If anyone asks, I'm out looking for an Armenian tutor and guitar.