Screaming Old 97s on a Lovely Day

The picture to the left further evidences why it is I feel at home. Sure, women wear boots often, but it is the cut of leather of the men's shoe that accentuates length, displaying both courage as it leads and bravery as it inevitably crosses any line drawn. Behold, the pointed majesty a good many people on this side of the planet continue to regard with boundless appreciation. No surprise, when She's browsin' in the men's section.

1500 AMD to Artur the taxi driver who had the darndest time finding the apartment block 97. Those expansive apartment city-complexes in Texas must have spawned from Soviet era architects. I myself only recently became less intimidated by the idea of finding friends' places in the midst of carbon-copyville. (Back to taxi) No pedestrian was left undisturbed, but even they took pleasure in dodging what may be a lengthy discussion chock full with block coordinates.

I was straining to see the signs that read the block numbers coming every so often from his mouth. At some point I realized that on the corner of every building near the ground, arm height, a number was tagged (spray paint, canned paint, or scratched into the stone). Between high-rise corners he recounted a tale of unrequited internet love of a women set in Los Angeles.

This was my first official solo encounter with a wallet rapist of the taxi-kind. [Note that the term "rape" is necessary, not so much for the story, but rather to remind me and whom ever else may have forgotten that this happens every second to someone somewhere]. Fear not, I'm sure my hundreds of drams are going to the California Fund of A so that he can see this so-called boyfriend of Ms. City of Angels.

I should have known some fish was cookin' when he asked if I used taxis very often. My "no" was based in the fact that I didn't feel like adding to the mountain of cards (2) that other drivers had given with the hopes that I would be another one of their regulars. I also attribute my lack of focus to details to 1) distracting noise from the air audibly seeping from my brain (a leakage exacerbated by my cush American-student-in Armenia life); and 2) planning what witty and relevant Russian phrase to say next, which kept me from hearing his mental calculator tabulating the appropriate exorbitant rate.

All right, so he told me his price was "normalno" when I pulled away my regular-fair + tip amount. This act was accompanied by a hurt and surprised look on my face (a la Puss 'n' Boots). Had we not built good relations in these 10 minutes? Did I not put a content smile on my face when you turned back TWICE to tell me not to worry? Was my ear not properly tuned to your frustrations of taxi-driver life and your want to just leave?

My fight lasted a shorter amount of time than expected. "For whatever reason, he needs it more than I do," came into my head, a new comeback phrase acquired by exposure to my current roommate, which I believe is based in either hippie love, laziness, defeatism, or something cosmic, (won't ask). For me, at that moment, it was the first three.

It's true, I rarely question the prices at stores, or taxis for that matter. I prefer not to squabble over my slither of pie. AND I, unoriginally and conveniently turn into a western economist upon entering Consumerdom, thinking to myself in so many words, "these market rates are controlled purely by supply and demand and not by the whims of the multi-billion dollar playmates bored with their collections and unlimited power." Work damnit, your break's over! Thank you Social Work.

They know I'm coming from a mile away. Things to do #1957: Remember the pros of open-market environs that require one effectively use a haggling skill or two.

Let it be known, I successfully made it through my first winter-to-spring-transition sickness in a matter of 4 days. She's smilin'.

This lady stands in the shade of the museum to the Fortress Erebuni as pooch bathes.

Viva!