'veneto is not italy'

After spending some time in Armenia – the Caucasus, wrapping my brain about the idea of being in Venice for a holiday could be compared to watching molasses pour (that, plus my British English phrasing seems more pronounced these days: note usage of ‘about’ and ‘holiday’). First reactions to this holiday unfortunately reeked of those postcarded sites used as coffee shop decor, t-shirts, or your run of the mill calendar ... but then again the tourist plagued city/nation did make it to the headlines on the coattails of the dreamy Berlusconi and his pardon (...) and thousands of Tripolian migrants. Whoop. Thank you. Plus! just a day in and i got to google what this whole Veneto-not-being-Italy graffiti is (click for the quick wiki informational, there are youtube videos for those really intrigued).

With my ears perked to such waves of a reality beyond a gondola ride, the super-style ads in the airport were ingested a bit differently – any of those models could be caught in a scandalous twist with the prime minister – it is democracy after all. Those dressed outside that ad-degree, in more ‘ethnic’ hues, made for a pride thumping sound from the center of my breast – my people. Heh. Really though, just because you migrate doesn’t mean you know diddly. I caught myself examining crowds into eye-watering gazes when attempting to discern migrant from local. That type of act is what leads many to tormenting the most ‘obviously’ foreign – whatever that means. Pardon me, while I try to climb as far out of my racist pants as possible.

We stayed in a small town outside of Venice which helped with broadening of perspectives. Thank goodness hotels in Venice proper could be cheaper. ‘Solo Italiano,’ rang out from the mouths and hand gestures of the hotel attendants. In any country, these groups can be found that are set at volume 'nostalgia' for a cultural purity that never existed to the extent always hankered for. This sentiment that controlled the hotel atmosphere would have sounded like, “Yes, we know that the possibility of a client being unable to communicate in Italian within our hotel is high, however we reserve the right to chagrin at even the thought of awkward-moment-alleviation by means of acknowledging the advent of ‘international languages.’ Eh, i acknowledge that this an over-chronicled touristic experience, making it more normal than not, and apparently worth a blog spot. ah, vacationing.

But really, these attitudes are either part of a motif, a goal, to make the visitors feel the Difference from home (picked ripe from the How-to book on Hosting the Unwanted), or residue from a Mestre protest that made it to the papers, (this was mentioned to give credit to all the protests that happened before and after which the media no doubt ignored. click for link.) which was about the construction of a settlement for a group of Roma people. Hello people, this is how uncomfortable we have become with all elements foreign. This municipally funded project was set to replace make-shift shelters the Roma had been inhabiting. Mestre is the city directly inland (east) from Venice, though considered part of the Venetian commune, has a population of about 90,000 (around 180,000 in all of Venice) . Essentially, it is the city whose growth is courtesy of Venice being too water and (subsequently) tourist-logged to provide low enough living expenses for those employed there. ‘Spend money on the locals!’ quoted the article. Wouldn’t they be doing this, however indirectly, by this essential beautification project??!

Skip to a return flight airport setting: Just witnessed a person get fatally tangled up while describing links made between today and some old Richard Prior movie – I think we were all let down a bit when the…point… was… lost… They were almost there! I felt the impending fabulousness. To add to the embarrassment, there was a beer sitting in front of them while the audience silently listened with teas on parade. Oops. If only this connection making guru, sans alcohol, could help explain to the ‘Italy for the Italians’ group that it is all part of a beautiful cycle – that the ‘trickle’ effect also runs direction Up.

all this to say that the voices screaming against inevitable change are without a doubt deafening at times. solution - government issued headphones. heh.

viva!

exchanges

There are a couple of things that when found in bulk on the street quickly break a heart. One of those is eggs. There is just absolutely nothing to do with old eggs, especially when you are about 8 months away from Easter. This lack of purpose multiplied by 100+ just makes for a funny SMS from the roommate, 'Any ideas on how to use 200 trash eggs?'

Recently, there has been a little more work than was initially required in the informal exchange that began between myself and a local, who will be referred to as S.Vet. I spent the morning cracking what turned out to be about 100+ old eggs down the sink. This was less about evidence ridding, but rather about safety for animals that might dig into a seemingly innocent mountain of eggs. I remember buying a batch of old eggs at the outside market... not good.

It started with an interest in 1) 'downcycling' for different projects (i.e. chipped mirror turned into mosaic pieces) and 2) the 'reusing' process for glass bottles. Noticing that people picked bottles out of the trash called for this house to start separating bottles into another plastic bag from the regular trash. This was to ease the work load - sanitarily so - for the people who took to digging through each unsorted neighborhood trash bin.

A side note on being Green in Armenia: Sure, there's no official recycling program in Armenia, but there is a system. [ oct. 23rd correction - scratch that. approximately a month after this post, i saw two bins in the gentron (downtown) area on the way to who knows where for the collection of plastic bottles !! ] The consumer driven society that is promoted by the powers that be, allows for homeless, jobless people, or those just strapped for cash to find glass gold in trash bins. Bars have a similar system in that they keep empty bottles for the supplying companies to pick up when they make their rounds. As far as i know, coke bottles go for 50 dram ($.13). I had unintentionally made about 350 dram when i decided not to throw out my collected bottles at work and returned them to the cafeteria... So, some things get recycled, achem - 'reused' .

The local that began to receive our bags of empty bottles ($$) was chosen because they usually had a pack of dogs around them and helped trash cats get their food - they had a philanthropic bone, so i connected. just another case of like connected with like. (so the cycle continues...such a product of society! hmm)

And now yes, i often find myself chickling at what has become the resultant home life adjustment to S.Vet "Freegan's" only means of showing gratitude or feeling as though the score is settled. 'Trash' is commonly used as an adjective to distinguish between items in the house. If it is 'trash' something or other, special care is taken if it is used. Also, it has been interesting to watch the acclimation of an Armenian friend to the idea that "not all things trash bound are necessarily bad." For those of you less familiar with this idea please see your way to the following New York Times article that describes 'extreme recycling' by 'Freegans': http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/21/garden/21freegan.html?pagewanted=all

Coincidentally, the intensity of exchange with S.Vet increased just as the new roommate arrived. ha! Yes, come live in the house and here is some quirk to go with your welcoming.

The neighbors have no doubt noticed my interactions with S.Vet. and as a matter of fact, yesterday i had my first verbal warning from an older lady walking with her grandson. 'Asis jan,' (Dear baby) she began with a concerned scowl on her face...

Viva!

the looking glass

From a section entitled Cultural Changes and Rising Xenophobia in Russia
[relevant years 2001-2008]

"One of the problems in dealing with cases of xenophobia and hate crimes is an institutional weakness of the law enforcement bodies. Russia's police had little experience with such types of violence in the past and have no adequate training and expertise in the present. In addition, many such attacks are directed against migrant workers who often lack appropriate registration documents and therefore are reluctant to contact law enforcement agencies. As in many developed countries, some groups in Russian society have become hostile to the migrants from Central Asia and the Caucasus in times of economic difficulty, such as the global financial crisis in 2008-2009, often claiming that migrants take jobs from Russian citizens and do not integrate into Russian society. Some populist politicians call for tougher immigration regulations and significant reduction in working visa permits for 2009. "

Abazov, Rafis (2009). Human development research paper: Current trends in migration in the Commonwealth of Independent States. United Nations Development Program.

Viva!

the way to travel

Today's English session with one of my 'patrons' was an interesting one - they normally are. So interesting in fact that 1) i can't bring myself to call them 'students,' it's like i'm taking an Armenian culture course from them. It would best described as the case of the 'teacher learning much more from the students.' These conversations are my way of observing the culture through the interpretation of the lay/expert Armenian. You see, currently, the sessions are attended by an accountant, micro-finance program assessor, and a history professor - crème de la crème. These people are of my age cohort and older. Let it be stated that when i'm caught up in the learners mode of this and that fascinating detail, i often find myself mouth agape and mentally slapping myself back into correcting-English mode.

Where i decided to take the conversation today was to a topic that i had been mulling over for the past several days - transportation. I asked her what she thought would happen in the winter due to the metro price hike? What would happen during this time when marshutkas (the mini buses) are preferred over a longer walk to the metro entrance, as you're likely to break a hip on some hard ice if foot bound for too long. Man, are the marshutkas cozy in the winter - well heated, aka packed with body heat. What initiated this particular mulling was that the new roommate noticed - a price increase sign for one of the larger buses. More price hikes?! eh, reconfigure budget stat!

The conversation then spilled into bus origination. There are a total of four types of buses around here. Reasoning for such variety: They're all cheap hand-me-downs from other countries. The Ministry of Transportation and Communication takes what it can get. I like this method, no doubt. something not surprising for those of you familiar with my lust for treasuring others' trash. Why build a whole new fleet of pollution making vehicles?

So, for instance, this nice big maroonish bus that has only one or two routes is French - as in, it was imported from France. According to my source it was one city's refuse after flooding some years ago. Armenia won whatever bid and now transports its citizens in its renovated interior. The source sarcastically stated, 'We're all just waiting for the radioactive buses from Japan to arrive.' Surely that's a little much, but then i remembered that the U.S. government contracted out an Alaskan company that provided an asbestos ridden fleet of trailers to give to the suffering homeless after Hurricane Katrina... real smooth.

All this just to say -bring on the buses! The metro is not fun in the winter!

This blog post will have a sequel around February 2012. I'll either have a picture of me atop a whizzing marshutka in a winter coat or one which captures me in crutches waiting for the metro.

Viva!

revival for what could have been a winter of discontent

In January a ban on independent fruit and vegetable vendors took hold, these past weekends have been filled with Farmers Market delight. The following is rough timeline.

Jan 2010 : I was randomly exposed to the talk around town that Armenia would be 'cleaning up its act.' The first article i happened upon had been in an AmCham (American Chamber of Commerce in Armenia) Magazine that had been left behind on a coffee table while i waited for a seminar to begin. A little heart broken at the prospect of supermarketizing Armenia, i remembered the good point made by Benathan that focused on wasted resources. Their description of the scenario was made in such a way that made me laugh at the image once considered charming: 10 stands lining a major thoroughfare outside yerevan that not only sold the exact same thing, but also looked completely identical, save the patterns on dresses worn by sweet 65+ women. This scene is similar to the one found in Borat in which he proceeds to ask the supermarket attendant what each item (cheese) was despite them being identical. heh!

Jan-April : Vendors that either didn't get the notice, didn't believe the notice, or spat at the notice received warnings and tickets from local police. Yup, it was heart-wrenching to see an older adult on their foot stool while several standing police officers encircled them with arms on hips. "Really? More than one officer is needed for this?" I tended to justify this silly looking reality with topics related to accountability and witness protection that, could possibly not work out so well for the citizen... as in 3 or 4 words against yours could sit funny in the court o' law. What to do, what to do. some protested.

Around April - July : I'd "viva!" inside myself when when vendors would find spots INSIDE the neighborhoods - off the streets - and do their vending. The vendor family for our neighborhood entry/exit way came around the end of June. They first came with just a couple of items, a box of tomatoes and some potatoes and well now, some days they outdo supermarket variety - a little exaggerated but you get the picture.

5th week of August : The second week of our neighborhood's farmer's market complete with musical and dance entertainment by costumed children! This city initiative to get money flowing back into the areas outside of Yerevan is pretty commendable. The week before i was asked by a coworker if i would be attending the market's first installation. It was impossible for me to miss it as it stood in front of the neighborhood, it looked successful. yip! Though, there were reports of it being unsuccessful because the prices were higher than expected. In response, i gave a quick 101 on American farmers markets, how people don't mind the higher prices because they know it goes straight to the farmer, cutting out over-resourced middlemen, etc.

With the help of a loved one i was able to take my tourist stance with camera in hand, shake a little like only a nonArmenian can to the live Armenian music, and praise the sun gods for such glorrrious food.

viva!

death to Free Riding fleas!

It's my turn. Here's the blog entry that shares some sentiments on the concept of time in Armenia, it's different. This theme appears at least once in every western volunteer or expat's memoirs, usually towards the beginning, as this slowing of affairs (whatever they may be) gives one quite a jolt. Por ejemplo, some months ago in a seminar dedicated to business cultures around the world, every nonArmenian presenter made some irritating reference to this phenomena. Irritating to me, and i'm sure others, because not only was it a pain to transition through, but i also had to sit and listen to approximately 20 minutes of a verbal montage dedicated to its existence. If one fails to deliberately put in the mental effort of adjustment to the new time-space continuum, they will fall and fall hard. Ask the guy tending his crops if this time generalization applies to him - i'm thinkin' yes. That's right, even the Armenian farmer's almanac will make room for the difference in time utilization...i think.

Over the past fourteen months, i've passively attempted a Holmes-ian (tangent: i'm always excited to Armenize word. It makes me feel closer to fluency, despite the lack of an actual connection. For those set in blank-face mode, -ian at the end of a last name, more times than most means the person is Armenian) check into this phenomena. Hypothesis: mountain air plus latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates creates a gap in the ether, causing a defect to a cross between Mayan and Babylonian calendars, which results in lag of at least 15 minutes for most things scheduled in Armenia. TRUE-ish! Either that or the flagrant dismissal of crosswalks and signals by most pedestrians makes traffic that much more delayed as well as arrival times. It's like the hour of back up on your local highway (IH 35!) caused by a guy changing his tire a centimeter over the shoulder line creating a countless amount of rubber-neckers. (pardon the American references - i know some of you are now completely confused)

There ARE exceptions. It must also be said that i feel no less productive because of this. Actually, i feel incredibly fine tuned in that my American self has found a happy and efficient medium between each culture. I am, and will remain, a hybrid.

The entirety of this post, simply to let you in on an image that has been on a loop in my mind that throws me into a muffled chuckle. I saw a twenty-something walking with a freshly opened, chilled and sweaty red bull in his hand on a warm spring day - yesterday. The image: his power drinking of the liquified fast forward button, him zipping cartoon style to his destination, huffing and puffing upon arrival only to sit and wait for at least 15 minutes for others to begin when they do.

All i'm saying is that i would have loved to been witness to the marketing portion of the meeting between Red Bull and Republic of Armenia reps: Why Armenian life needs this product.

Viva!

and this is why i love trolleys

Apologies for the misleading title, to those whose mouths began watering as the San Fransisco Treat leaped into active memory. I actually refer to something less quaint than the small trolleys that invariably overflow with tourists in the California Bay Area.

Yep, the beauties that inspire me to break from an unintended blog-break are as (graceless as) they come. At three times the size of their Californian counterparts, the Armenian passenger toting tanks let out eye-squinting, body-tensing Zaps from where hook meets tattered edges of the 30+ -year-old cable along which they run. These buses are bastions against unforgiving capital smog, well-lubed joints of speedy "yeritasardakan" [youth], and sidewalk trenches ignored by municipal funds.

When leaving the house for this or that is coupled with great timing [not rushed], there is a pep in my step to an over-sized cable car set to run its long length throughout Yerevani main thoroughfares. Giddy is the state by which i enter these peaceful monsters. This is especially so if i happen to be one of the first to arrive.

Earliness awards me with the role of witness to the charming and hiccuped entrances of those cradling in weathered arms seventy years of age or more. 'Youpi' indeed! It is This age bracket that fills up the majority of the seats. Marshutkas are for those confident youth that can cramp up in the tininess that IS a minibus, while wrinkled angels claim their places and stretch aching tendons in luxurious city mammoths.

There are some aging birds that take a sunny-side seat, to bask like cats in tinted sun rays on the way to destination unknown. Others choose a seat in the front, no doubt to play for just a moment in the 6-year-old portion of their brains, pushing about images through worn neural pathways that are labeled "grand cable car conductor," a fantasy complete with prepubescent 'Woots' and 'Dings!'

Maybe my retirement duck-filled pond will actually be an electric urban sloth. Armenian cable cars, THE place for the revered and ever classically dressed survivors of life.

appropriately so, Viva!