A very long post about a very fun trip and the lot of nice people we met on it

Last Saturday Roxy and I decided to visit the shores of Lake Sevan. It looked like it was going to be a hot day in the city, and to be near a body of water all day sounded like a good idea.

Luckily, we managed to get an early start, because it turned out I didn’t quite remember where the buses leave from, and we had to go from one place to another to the third to the fourth looking for them.

(I have to explain for those who are not from around here that back in Soviet times Yerevan had two legitimate bus stations from where most of the intercity buses left. There were tickets sold, schedules to be seen, all nice and organized. Then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, during the years of chaos and fuel shortages, the bus routs dispersed through the city, choosing as their starting point a transportation hub closest to the highway which they have to take out of the city. Each bus line has its own management, therefore there is no one source of information about all of them, except the word of mouth. And you pay cash to the driver.)

Once we finally located the bus, we were instantly immersed into one of the most entertaining dialects of Armenia. The town of Gavar, located on the southern shores of Lake Sevan, and the surrounding villages boast the best potatoes, the strongest heads for drink and the funniest pronunciation in Armenia. So, the entire length of the ride – roughly an hour and 40 min – we had a privilege of hearing the driver complain to one of the passenger about how someone wouldn’t let him sell this old bus and get a new one even though he, the driver, owns it, and what if it dies in the middle of the highway, and he has people to transport, too! All this pronounced in that incredible dialect to my utter enjoyment.

On the outskirts of Gavar, in a small village where we finally got out of the bus, we tried to ask our way around, back to the center of the city. Sure enough, the very first elderly guy we met was somewhat intoxicated and therefore not quite helpful. The conversation sounded something like this:

- Hello, could you please help us find our way to the town center? You know, where the church is?
- A church? There is a church over this way. Varsik’s house is this way, too.
- Thank you! So, if we go this way, we will come to the church?
- There is a church there. Come; let me show you to Varsik’s house.

After some 5 minutes of this, tired of this mysterious Varsik, I let the grandpa go his merry way and turned to a group of women waiting for a bus.

- Hello. Could you tell me which way the big church and the town square is? The grandpa over there seemed intent on sending us to Varsik’s house instead.
- Oh, so you aren’t looking for Varsik’s house?

The mystery was explained later, when we finally hailed a taxi to the town center and the driver told us that this Varsik is a fortune-teller, so famous that the city folk come looking for her all the time. The church “over this way” was explained, too – it turned out to be a small IX century building, charming on the outside and quite ugly on the inside due to a “restoration” done in 1910 by someone who either had no clue or didn’t care about the style.

Here is a view of the village with a pile of cow dung in the middle. This most useful by-product of bovine is used not only as fertilizer but, after being dried - as fuel.

Finally at the town center, we were lucky to quickly catch a bus to the village of Noraduz, the cemetery of which is famous by the largest collection of khachkars (“cross-stones”, usually gravestones or memorial stellae) in Armenia. The road to the village was a story in itself, it was so badly damaged and so full of potholes, that the bus was bouncing up and down and constantly swerving in attempts to avoid yet another hole. Hopefully one day the government will remember that beside the streets in the capital and the main highways (which are still wanting) there are little country roads that people travel everyday…

In Noraduz, our first business was to find something to eat, since neither Roxy nor I had any breakfast, and it was near noon already. We stopped by a small grocery shop and asked for bread and cheese.
- I have bread, - the shop woman said, - but no cheese.
Another woman, who seemed to be visiting the shopkeeper, overheard the conversation.
- How much cheese do you need? – asked she.
- Just a small piece for lunch - said I.
- Wait, I’ll get it for you - she answered and ran home. In five minutes she was back with a large chunk of homemade cheese, which she gave to us for no charge.
- Thanks, - said I., – can I at least take you picture and bring it next time I visit?
Both women fell shy and said thanks, but no, they didn’t look good. So we just thanked them again and left.

On the way to the cemetery we realized that there is a funeral heading the same way. Trying to stay behind, we got to the junction between the new and the old parts of the cemetery, where an enterprising grandma was “regulating traffic”. Having identified us as tourists, she hailed us and directed to the old part of the cemetery.

As it turned out, this was a “grandma conspiracy”, because the moment we set foot among ancient cross-stones, a bunch of old women was upon us en mass, persuading us to buy homemade pure wool stockings and gloves they were selling. All the while we talked, they were working on making these same things, one with a spindle, the other – with knitting needles. The source – fat curly sheep – was grazing nearby.

I must confess I couldn’t stand the temptation and bought a pair of gloves – handmade of pure uncolored white and brown wool, only $8. Once the deal was done, one of the many grandchildren that were hanging around watching us approached and offered her services a guide. Apprehensive at first, we followed her only to realize that she is a very good guide indeed. Whether she learned it from others, or read it in the books, but she had a story to tell about many a stone, and even though I have been to Noraduz before, the ancient carvings came alive for me the first time. Here is “the wedding stone” where the bride and the groom sit with the guests at a table, and the musicians stand nearby entertaining them. The Turks came as they were feasting, and killed everyone. Then the neighbor run in and was killed too. All of them are buried here, in this cemetery.

Here is a 7th century khachkar, the oldest one I have ever seen.

These are stones representing the Ararat mountain – both peaks of it. Next to them is a triange-topped one, representing Lake Sevan.

A little way from here a stone is missing - it was taken to France for the permanent exposition of the Louvre.

I asked the girl, who was 14 years old, what she wants to do with her future. Turned out, she dreams of becoming a journalist. I told her she will be a very good one.

After finally leaving this friendly village, we returned to Gavar to take the bus back to Yerevan. After many wanderings both of were in need of – pardon me – the WC. So we stopped by a small café and asked if we could use the facilities. The girl in the empty café was happy to help. Somehow, she recognized Americans in us, because when we came out, she called us over, saying “come, there is someone else here from your country.”

Someone else turned out to be Jenny from South Carolina, a Peace Corps volunteer, who lived in Gavar for the last couple years, teaching at one of the colleges there. She was accompanied by two adorable and very active dogs, which instantly made our acquaintance. Apparently, she picked up two puppies, raised them and loved them and spoiled them, and was now planning to take them back to the States with her. Hey, that’s one way of decreasing the stray dog population. Let’s export them! (JK)

To our amazement, Jenny spoke a very decent Armenian (ours is a difficult language to learn), and the café attendant heartily recommended her as “our girl”, so it looks like she won many hearts in the town of Gavar. We complimented the dogs and her amazing knowledge of Armenian and went away invigorated by the energy of both he dogs and their owner. Roxy’s comment on the meeting was “I feel ashamed, she speaks better Armenian than I do”.

The minibus to Yerevan was about to leave from the main square. But, as soon as I mentioned I will be getting off in a nearby village, I was told I can’t take it. The misunderstanding was cleared up as soon as I realized they want us to pay full fare to Yerevan, regardless of where we get off. This was still cheaper than a taxi and the day was getting old, so we paid up and embarked on yet another minibus.

Our next stop was this picturesque monastery right by the lake. Also 9th century, it was recently renovated and the domes that had fallen in were reconstructed. The bright rusty-red color of the moss on the stones makes everything look festive against the backdrop of dark blue water (the dept of the lake here is over 280 ft, which is why the water is darker). And no matter how much I write, I can’t convey the fragrance of the sun-infused alpine flowers and herbs that was all around us.

Here we finally got a chance to partake of our bread ad cheese, sitting on a windy cliff behind the church. Then, having looked around, we set on foot to yet another landmark – ruins of a fortress that was once a proud guardian of the lake. On the way we were hailed by the shepherds, who were lounging around, looking after the grazing calves and desperate for some entertainment. To make us sound more at home, I named a few people from the village, whom I used to know, and, after chatting a bit and receiving their approval for observing local landmarks, we left followed by the comment: “What business she had in these parts 18 years ago?”

The shortest way from the monastery to the fortress lay through a farmyard, where a somewhat surprised owner told us it’s okay to pass. Instead, I stopped short in the middle of his yard and, after looking around, told him I have been here before and even had taken a picture of him and his family. “Where is the picture, then?” asked he. I promised him to find it (and sure enough, upon return to the city I looked through the archives and found it!)

When we finally climbed up to the fortress, it was nearing 7 pm. I was a little worried about getting back to the city, but hoped for the best and spent more than an hour on high cliffs, climbing, resting, gathering herbs for tea and just absorbing the beauty around us.

Frankly, I didn’t want to leave, but had to, and around 8 we got back to the highway to catch a bus.

The buses were not to be caught. Looked like they have all had gone, and after chatting a bit with the guys at the gas station and getting pestered by them a little, we started walking toward the nearby sailboat camp, where I hoped to meet someone I knew and maybe get a phone number for a taxi, a ride to the city or – as a last reserve - two sleeping bags. Fortunately, right then a car stopped and the driver pulled down the window. “Aren’t these the girls that were in our yard today?” It was the “picture” guy, and he offered us a ride – not to the capital, but to a small city not too far from it. He was on his way to pick up his wife and kids from there and assured us it will be no trouble.

Well, to wrap up, we had a nice and quick ride back to that city and took a taxi home from there, arriving around 10 pm “with no hind legs” as the Russians call it (means dead tired). Overall, it was just one of those really nice days, and I am glad God gives us days like that every now and then.

A study in pink

What do you normally expect from a hairdresser? If you use one at all, you would probably expect to go there, tell them what you want and get it done more or less closely, depending on the stylist's experience. Perhaps you would want to get some advice, agree on a certain style and then go ahead with it. Either way, your hairdresser would try to make you look as close to what you want, as possible. Right?



So I went to the beauty salon on Saturday to freshen up my highlights. The one that is located in our building and where the old hairstylist of my mother's still works.

I told her I want highlight slightly lighter than my natural hair color, and only on top.

And you know what I ended up? With lots and lots of WHITE highlights all through my hair!!!

And when I told her I don't want to look like a zebra, she gave me a color rinse and I ended up with PINK highlights.

I am never going back there again. And don't recommend anyone to go to "Boheme" beauty salon, either. Unless you are getting a short cut. And even then, you might end up with something you didn't ask for, because madam hairdresser thinks she knows best and never listens to the clients.

GRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

I HATE PINK!!!

Roxy's birthday

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you....

On the day she turned 15, Roxy was out of town on a corporate retreat with my coworkers and me. It was the last day of the retreat, and during the farewell lunch she got a small ice cream cake with a candle and everybody sang Happy Birthday to her.

The cake was good! (I tried some)

The next day, I took a cake to Roxy's school...

...and in the evening, we had a nice litle party at her favorite Mexican restaurant.

The Armenian Alphabet carved in stone

Disappointments and other musings

Have you ever met an old friend or acquaintance after a long period of separation? They seem the same at first, just like old times, until you start noticing how different they, in fact, are from your memory of them. You suddenly realize this is not at all that nice guy or kind and understanding girl you thought they were, and you start wondering if maybe they always were like this and you just didn't notice because you were young and stupid? Or is it both - you have grown and they have changed?

So what, you may ask? Nothing, except it happened to me several times recently, and I must say it is very sad and disappointing. That's all.

Yet another topic for musings - our Armenian youth . There was a post on "Armo Life" blog recently (I have a link to it here somewhere) about how one can be harassed in Armenia if they look different or speak a foreign language. Guys (!) were complaining about being hailed, meeting smirks and snickers from the local youth. Okay, maybe it just takes time - after the doors of our country were opened to the world after years of seclusion - to accept the rest of the world as they are. In this case, it might take quite a bit of time, since the society is extremely conservative to start with. Even the guys who go to college, study languages, meet foreigners regularly and travel abroad can suddenly reveal deep, dark pits of prejudice and narrow-mindedness. What about the first generation country folks, who come to the city to study or play and look at everything through the prism of "this is not how it's done in our village"?

I was talking to an old acquaintance the other day in the street when a group of foreigners passed by - jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, backpacks. "Nice and comfy looking," remarked I with longing - I was coming from work and was wearing heels. "Come on, those Western women have no clue how to dress - they just wear these rags all day," said the acquaintance. "Maybe there is a richer content in that simple package, than in a nicely wrapped shiny feather-brained parcel walking down the street," said I. And what do you think popped out of this nice guy? "Women are women, what do they need content for?"

I told him I'll punch him if he ever says something like that again. You could read it on his face: "Those darn Americans!"