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.