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!
